by Ted Bell
* * *
—
The chief of MI6 had recently had his suite of offices redone. Gone were the walnut paneling, the serious collection of eighteenth-century British marine art, the heavy mahogany furnishings, the Persian rugs, the bust of Admiral Lord Nelson.
Hawke followed Trulove into the white work space on the sixteenth floor, the walls and carpets all in matte white. In the center was a discussion area consisting of six lightly padded white leather chairs arrayed around a table with an etched glass top that served as a screen upon which appeared television, satellite imagery, and all the myriad media images generated by the mainframe computer banks in the basement.
Of the six chairs, only one would swivel: Sir David’s. The others were set rigidly into the floor and were designed to provide minimal comfort. This area was for work, for quick, alert discussion—not for small talk and social fencing office gossip, that sort of tommy rot.
Sir David’s own desk was conspicuously modest, with its white glass surface only fifty centimeters by sixty-five. It had no drawers or shelves, nowhere to lose or overlook material, no way to delay one matter by pushing it aside on the excuse of attending to something else.
He’d devised a priority system ordered by a complicated set of strict criteria that brought each problem to his desk only when there was sufficient research available for decisions, which were made quickly, and matters were disposed of. It went without saying, Hawke knew, that Sir David despised both physical and emotional clutter.
He crossed to his desk chair, designed and constructed by an orthopedic specialist to reduce fatigue without providing narcotizing comfort. “Have a seat,” he said, waving at one of the chairs facing him.
Alex Hawke smiled and sat down.
He’d donned his old cloak and dagger once more.
He was back in the game.
And, as Dr. Watson would have it, the game was most definitely afoot!
CHAPTER 17
Dragonfire Club, the Bahamas
Present Day
Alex Hawke’s dark blue Gulfstream G650 jet touched down at Lynden Pindling International, the Nassau airport, just after dawn. The flight had been uneventful, and he’d gotten a good eight hours of sleep in his owner’s cabin located at the aft end of the plane. Anjelica, one of the two flight stewards, had served him huevos rancheros for breakfast. He ate with gusto while watching the BBC international news on the plane’s visual system. A special treat. His rapid recovery from the abdominal surgery continued to astound him as well as his MI6 physician and physical trainer in London.
Alex had, in fact, rarely felt better or stronger. It was a good thing, too. He had much to do, and his Queen was counting on him to get it done in a hurry. Her Majesty’s grandson, his own dear godson, Prince Henry, could well be in danger. Given the threats to Alex’s own life by Putin’s paid assassins around the globe, there was a chance, as he’d pointed out to both Congreve and Sir David, that the prince was merely a pawn here, meant to lure Hawke to his certain death.
He’d shrugged that off, of course. It was hardly the first time such a plot had unfolded. And it would most certainly not be the last.
Alex’s pilots grabbed his suite of brown leather Goyard luggage from the aft stowage compartment and arrayed them on the tarmac. With the midnight-blue Gulfstream G650 in the background, the scene could have been mistaken for a luggage ad in one of the glossies. He looked up to see a gleaming black Bentley Flying Spur, the new four-door sedan, racing across the tarmac in his direction. Sent by the hotel? If indeed one must work for one’s living, it helped to do so under pleasant circumstances.
The big car braked to a halt just forward of the portside wing of his airplane. Hawke went back aboard and had a final word with his captain and copilot. He’d booked two rooms for them at one of the Dragonfire Club’s private seaside cottages. He said they should just take it easy, have a little fun, and get some sun, but be ready to take off at any moment. He wanted the plane’s fuel tanks topped off, and his aircraft ready to fly at the drop of a hat.
“Are you by any chance Lord Alexander Hawke?” a woman’s silky voice behind him said.
He turned and smiled, saying, “Just Alex will do. Never use the title. Who are you?”
She was stunning, was who she was.
Dressed entirely in chauffeur’s livery, pale blue with dark blue piping and black riding boots, polished within an inch of their lives, to the knees. He’d been in love with a Chinese woman once, long ago. The daughter of a rogue Chinese general of the Army whom he’d ultimately had to kill. Her name was China Moon, and for a long time she’d been a wonder at keeping him happy . . . Ah, well, she had worked her magic for a time . . .
“I’m Zhang Tang, m’lord. Beautiful airplane, sir, stunning. My bosses, the Tang brothers, will be extremely jealous. It is my pleasure to meet you and to welcome you to Dragonfire Club. The Bentley and I will be at your disposal for a few days or weeks, at least until the owners return from Beijing.”
“How kind. But please, call me Alex. I don’t use my title unless I’m dining with the Queen, who insists on using it. Just curious. Who are the owners, by the way? I’m not at all sure I’ve ever met them,” Hawke said innocently, having been extensively briefed by both Trulove and Chief Inspector Congreve and knowing full well who they were, having memorized both of their bios backward and forward.
“Tommy Tang and Jackie Tang,” she said, “Twins, actually. Identical, in fact.”
“No relation?”
“On the contrary. They are my big brothers. They’ve made me a sort of unofficial hostess here at the resort. When we have a guest of your magnitude, someone of such international importance as yourself, I get assigned to ensure that everything that is required for an enjoyable stay is provided. I will provide you with a mobile dedicated to me. I’m on call every day from five A.M. to midnight.”
“You’re assigned to me?”
She smiled and the sun came out. “I am at your command, Your Lordship. In a manner of speaking, of course. I don’t mean that literally.”
“Of course.”
She smiled again, and so did Hawke.
Game on, he thought. A stroke of luck. A beautiful girl to show him around. And one who could grant him unfettered access to the infamous Tang brothers. He’d watched a recent documentary about their extraordinary lives of crime on the plane from Bermuda. It was called High Crimes and Misdemeanors, and it was chilling to say the least. Drugs, human trafficking, gambling, extortion, torture . . . with a recurring tendency toward murder most foul.
The Tang Empire, derived from the centuries-old Tang Dynasty, had extended its reach around the world. On the surface, it was a vast and amazingly successful holding company with dozens of legitimate corporate entities. Casinos, high-end resorts such as the Jewel in the Crown, the famous Dragonfire Club, and many others throughout the world. They were in legit businesses, too, oil and gas production and feature Hollywood films, and they owned many national power companies, controlling the power grids of entire nations throughout Latin America, East Asia, and Eastern Europe.
Once she had her passenger well situated in the rear of the cavernous Bentley, Zhang climbed behind the wheel, and off they went. She’d suggested a tour of the resort, and Hawke had eagerly agreed. He needed to get his bearings.
They sped past a building with a fire-spewing black dragon emblazoned on the doors.
“That’s just the shore station, where I have one of my two offices,” she said. “From there, I facilitate club departures and arrivals by air and sea. There’s another one over on Paradise Island, where both Atlantis and the Ocean Club are located. Are you familiar with the Ocean Club over on Paradise Island, Mr. Hawke? Sorry. I mean, Alex?”
“Indeed, I am. One of my very favorite spots in the Caribbean.”
She thought about that one for a second and said, “So, y
ou know about our ferry service from there out to Black Dragon Island?”
“Never took the ferry. Only way to get out there, right? Other than if you dock your yacht at your marina. Sadly, I seem to have forgotten mine.”
“Helicopter service as well. That traffic light up ahead is for the bridge over to Paradise Island. We’ll park at the Ocean Club and catch the next chopper flying out to the Dragofire Club.”
“Marvelous.”
“As you’ll soon see, the resort consists of seven man-made islands surrounding one very large natural island at the center. Hilly for the Bahamas and parts of it are still dense tropic jungle. An infamous pirate of the Caribbean dubbed it “Fire of the Dragon Isle” back in the early seventeenth century. Sixteen thirteen, I think, or thereabouts. There were rumors of a large fire-breathing dragon prowling about the island in those days, and even sketches of such a creature done by sailors and natural philosophers on shipboard along with various whalebone scrimshaw carvings depicting such a fiery dragon.”
“Fascinating,” Hawke said, going along with the tale. “Giving rise to the name ‘Dragonfire Club,’ no doubt.”
“Indeed. Did you happen to notice my gold charm bracelet?”
“Sorry, no. Should I have?”
“Yes. See the scrimshaw dragon? Very old. My brothers gave it to me when I came from China to join them here. I love it.”
As predicted, Zhang entered the grounds of the Ocean Club and drove straight through the jungle green to the main entrance. A doorman or bellman rushed out to open the rear door for Hawke. He emerged and shook the man’s hand. “What’s your name?” He smiled at the fellow as the man began to arrange Hawke’s luggage on a trolley.
“Benoit, sir. Jenson Benoit.”
“Lovely to see you again, Jenson. Remember you well. I played you in the Casino Royale picture . . . yes? Borrowed that very jacket of yours to do the shot. . . .”
“Hawke? Why, yes, it is you! The man everybody in the Paradise Island cast thought was Errol Flynn himself! How do you do, sir? Been a while, sir. Sorry. Right this way if you’ll follow me.”
Zhang key-fob-beeped the locks on the Flying Spur and joined Hawke and Jensen, who said:
“Hello, Miss Tang. Nice to see you again.”
“And you, Jenson. Thanks for your help. You’ve met Lord Hawke, of course.”
Hawke put his hand on Jenson’s shoulder and said, “I’m headed out to Dragonfire Club. Have you been?”
“Many times, sir. We have guests who stay here at the Ocean Club who sometimes venture out there to the islands for lunch or dinner, the casino, or a Vegas show. Or even stay out there for a night or two. It’s quite something, don’t you know? I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. Down here for business or pleasure this time, sir?”
“Strictly pleasure, believe me. I’ve been in hospital on Bermuda for a while. I’m here to marinate in sea and salty air for as long as it takes to get my strength back. May try my hand at chemin de fer if the mood strikes.”
“Sorry to hear you were ill.”
“Nothing serious. Bit of a tummy ache, that’s all. Had my bowels in an uproar for quite a while, however. Comes and goes. You know how it is. One gives fate the evil eye and moves on.”
CHAPTER 18
Washington, D.C.
January 1942
Tiger cracked an eye, regarding the silver-plated phone by his bed with some annoyance. It had jangled shortly after seven that morning. With a slight grimace, Ambassador Tang reached over and picked up the receiver. He said, “Who are you, and what do you want?” not mincing any words in his husky, whiskied, late-night-last-night voice. Whereupon Kimberly Li, his private secretary, informed him that the White House social secretary had just called to leave a message for the ambassador. An invitation, to be clear. It seemed that President Roosevelt wanted to invite him to go fishing. A cruise up the New England coast was mentioned aboard the presidential yacht, Potomac.
“Fishing?” Tiger said, plumping the pillow beneath his head. “I’ll say this once: I don’t fish.”
“Shall I ring them back and tell them no, Mr. Ambassador?”
“Of course not. You shall ring them back and say I’m honored. I’d be delighted. When is this grand adventure to commence?”
“Next Saturday morning, departing at ten. You’ll be joining the presidential party aboard the Potomac.”
“Pray tell, how long shall I be lost at sea? You’ll have to clear my calendar.”
“Five days, the White House social secretary said. Give or take.”
“Mother of God. A lifetime.”
“Yes, sir. You’ll need to be at the Gangplank Marina in Southwest Washington at nine sharp so that your luggage can be brought aboard and stowed on the Potomac. Shall I arrange for your driver here at the embassy at, say, eight-thirty?”
“Please do. Any idea at all what one wears whilst fishing? Those heavy rubber trousers one sees on men all over the north of Scotland, one suspects.”
“Waders.”
“Precisely. Waders.”
“You’ll be fishing from aboard the presidential yacht, so I rather doubt waders will be called for unless the Potomac strikes an iceberg and starts to go down. However, I’ll find out and get back to you with proper wardrobe suggestions.”
“Thank you. One more thing. Who are my fellow travelers?”
“I have the passenger manifest right here, sir. In addition to his two sons, Franklin Jr. and Elliott, the president has invited a small group of his most senior military commanders. Their number includes Generals George Marshall and Henry ‘Hap’ Arnold and Admirals Ernest King and Harold Stark. You’re the sole nongovernment invitee.”
“Lucky me.”
“Indeed.”
“Hmm. Something bothers me, Kimberly.”
“What, precisely, sir?”
“I don’t know. But something smells fishy.”
“Fishy, did you say?” She giggled and said, “Oh, and one more thing. Your new friend, Commander Hawke, rang about fifteen minutes ago. He’s headed right back to England tonight and would like you to join him for a farewell luncheon today at twelve thirty. The Cosmos Club. He said you knew the location. Is that a yes or a no, Mr. Ambassador?”
“Definite yes. I haven’t seen that scoundrel Hawke in weeks. He’s been in London, as you know, out at Bletchley Park with Churchill. And up to some kind of nefarious business or other, chasing the Nazis all over the map, I’m sure. Good-bye. . . .” Click.
She’d hung up.
Miss Li sighed, sad to lose the brief connection to him on the line. She sat back in her leather chair, held up her compact, and pursed her Estée Lauder red lips. She loved her job. Oh, hell, let’s at least be honest with yourself, Kimberly.
She loved her boss. But then again, what girl did not?
* * *
—
After a brisk walk over to Massachusetts Avenue, Ambassador Tang was a good ten minutes early to the Cosmos Club, a rambling Victorian affair in Georgetown. Instead of taking a chair in the small but cozy visitors’ lounge on the main floor, he bounded up the large, curving mahogany staircase to the men’s grille. The bar in the grille was the best in Washington in terms of the things he cherished when it came to bars.
His taste in bars had been honed to a razor’s edge in the various gentlemen’s clubs of London. White’s. Boodle’s. The Carlton Club. Here, huge atmosphere dominated: low lighting, comfortable dark red leather banquettes, and deep, worn club chairs scattered hither and thither across the wine red carpeting.
In such rarefied air, there, too, could be found the deliciously intermingled scents of ancient Persian rugs marinating in decades of spilled whiskey, centuries-old leather books, English Leather shaving lotion, and, of course, Cuban cigars. The haze of pipe and cigar smoke found shape in the great shafts of sunlight slanting downwar
d from the imperious leaded windows and skylights.
At the far end of the long, curving mahogany bar, beyond the rowdy American officers gathered nearby, were the British Foreign Service chaps, celebrating something or other. All resplendent in terms of attire and demeanor. Suits by Huntsman. Shirts by Turnbull & Asser. Shoes by Lobb and hats by Lock. In an homage to Churchill, many of the UK lads sported the familiar navy blue polka-dot bow tie. College ties from Cambridge and Oxford were there, too.
Tiger ordered a Rob Roy and relaxed, absorbing the many moods of this sanctum sanctorum for these powerful men at war while he sipped at his cocktail, his keen black eyes roving and appraising all he saw.
“I knew you’d beat me here, you competitive bastard,” he heard a hearty voice say behind him. It could have only belonged to Blackie Hawke. “Didn’t I tell you, Winnie? This guy kicks life into an entirely new gear.”
Tiger spun round at the mere mention of the name Winnie and regarded his friend. “Hullo, Commander.” He smiled.
Hawke grinned and said, “Hullo, yourself! You remember old Winnie, of course, Tiger? Winnie Woolworth? Now that I’ve delivered the goods, you’ll both have to excuse me. I need to duck into the head,” he said, and disappeared into the pulsing throng of young manhood. Pausing, he looked back over his shoulder and said, “Don’t you two do anything I wouldn’t do!”
“As if,” an unsmiling Winnie said, rather cool and distant, looking into her gold pocket mirror as if nonchalantly powdering her pretty nose.
“Hello, Winnie,” Tiger said, getting to his feet.
“Tiger!” she said. “What an unexpected pleasure!”
He extended his well-manicured hand to the goddess. She smiled sweetly with an extremely discreet wink only he could see. Her honey blond hair was done up in a splendid chignon pinned with a dark blue velvet ribbon. She was wearing a red Mainbocher sweater with pearl buttons and a tight navy skirt of silk. A massive alligator handbag hung from her shoulder.