by Ted Bell
“Yes, of course I remember!” the ambassador said. “We met at that dance out in the country. Your club. Forgot the name. How have you been, Winnie? Aside from spending time in the company of that reprobate Commander Hawke, I mean?”
She laughed politely. “You never called me, you naughty boy. I might as well have slipped my private number to one of those cute parking attendants.”
“You needn’t have bothered, my dear girl. I’d already slipped it to one of them. Chap who brought round my lovely lemon yellow Rolls-Royce when I left the club, to be honest. The head valet parker at the club. Rather attractive chap named Chuckie as I remember . . . I’m sure you’ll be hearing from him any day now. . . .”
“If I do hear from this Chuckie character or whatever he is, Tiger, you will live to regret it. . . .”
CHAPTER 19
Cosmos Club, Washington, D.C.
January 1942
Please tell me you’re joking about the parking attendant,” she said.
“Don’t be absurd. Of course I’m joking.”
“So, just out of idle curiosity, why didn’t you call me?”
“I was actually trying to be the well-behaved gentleman. His lordship has become quite a good personal friend. And I tend to honor my friendships. Dreadfully old-fashioned notions of loyalty around here, I’m sure.”
“I see. You’re probably unaware of that old expression about love and war. . . .”
“All’s fair in love and war, et cetera?”
“Hmm. Apparently not in your case. But all is fair in love and war! It is. Get down on your knees and praise the Lord!”
A smile crinkled his eyes as he replied, “Is Alex aware of this? Perhaps I’ll tell him you said so.”
“Don’t even try to be funny. You won’t say a word.”
“True. I won’t.”
“Whatever have you been up to, Mr. Ambassador? Aside from your well-chronicled romantic adventures in the social pages of the Post? Rumor has it you and President Roosevelt spend your every waking moment together. Weekends at Hyde Park, private dinners at the White House . . . joined at the hip, so they say.”
‘‘Hardly, my dear Miss Woolworth. As a matter of fact, I’ve acquired a little country place of my own for the weekends.”
“So I hear.”
He tried to blink back his shock. “So you hear? Is that what you said?”
“Yes.”
“And may I ask, from whom did you hear this idle gossip?”
“Why so upset, silly? Is it such a deep, dark secret?”
“Of course not! A bit curious, that’s all. I’m a private person, as you may or may not know.”
“Quite innocent, all of it, I assure you. Mummy and Daddy have been looking for a country place in Virginia. Last weekend, a Realtor showed us a place they loved. A house called Southlands. We were walking the grounds when I noticed a rather massive affair on the hillside, looming above us. I pointed it out and the Realtor said, ‘Oh, yes, a lovely old plantation called Sevenoaks. Dates to the early nineteenth century. Rumor has it the new Chinese ambassador is the buyer.’ So anyhoo, that’s how I know. Don’t worry. I won’t spill your precious beans to any reporters, Mr. International Man of Mystery.”
Before he could reply, a waiter appeared at her side. He was bearing a silver tray upon which lay a crisp white envelope with the Cosmos Club seal embossed in gold. Winnie whispered, “Thank you” and ripped open the sealed flap.
“Oh, gosh,” she said.
“Bad news?”
“Rather.”
“Do tell.”
“My parents.”
“What about them? Lost at sea? Killed ascending Everest? Kidnapped by pirates? Mauled by tigers in the Bengal? Down with the grippe?”
“I wish. No. Nothing so dramatic. They’re downstairs having lunch in the grille. They saw me come in, apparently. I’ve been ordered by Daddy to put in an appearance at their table posthaste. It’s their anniversary, apparently. No one bothered to tell me.”
“Do you think your mother’s going to like me?”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Tiger. You are not invited.”
“So. The country. Did your parents buy the house?”
“Of course. Daddy collects houses the way the president collects stamps.”
“Hmm. So. Do you plan to spend any time out there?”
“Are you kidding? Oodles! I love the country. I’m whip of the Virginia Hunt, you see.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Foxhunting, silly. I’ve a lovely pair of Arabian jumpers, you see, a gift from the shah of Persia, don’t you know? Lovely mares for hunting. You must come out. Do you ride?”
“A bit.”
“Hunting, Mr. Ambassador? Is that a Chinese sport?”
“No, nothing much to speak of. I’ve ridden, of course, in England. Dressage mostly. A bit of polo and show jumping while I was still at Oxford. My team was called Dr. Odd. Prince of Wales formed us up at Balliol.”
“I see,” she said, taking his hand and batting her lashes. “You must bring the prince out for a day with me sometime. He’s divine. All the girls say so.”
“I’d like nothing better, Winnie, but I can’t promise I can deliver the Prince of Wales.”
“My God, I’m kidding! Better be careful, Tiger. Don’t stand me up this time. I might just show up at your door some dark and stormy night and borrow a cup of sugar. . . . Well . . . gotta run. Daddy beckons.”
“Say, here comes your handsome beau now. . . .”
She smiled at Tiger, winked, and giggled. “To be continued, buster . . . so, keep your strength up!” she said to Tiger.
She stopped Hawke midstream, pecked him on the cheek, whispered that she’d be right back, and vanished into the mob at the bar on her way out the door. Hawke took her place at the bar and said:
“Sorry. Had to take another private call from Number Ten Downing. My new nanny, Winston. It appears I’m headed right back there, for God’s sake. I just got here! Winnie will bloody kill me when she gets wind of this development. . . . I’m dead nuts on that gal, you know.”
“Yeah. I know.”
Tiger, deciding it best to remain mum on the subject of Miss Woolworth’s decidedly flirtatious behavior toward him, said, “There’s a war on, flyboy. Your country is calling. Or hadn’t you heard?”
“Yes, yes. You know what strikes me, Tiger? Winston treats me precisely the way Franklin treats you. Like his bloody puppy dog, Fala. Come, Tiger! Sit! Fetch! Good boy!”
“Tell me about it, brother,” Tang said. “What’s up back in Blighty? Anything you can talk about without compromise?”
“Hmm. Maybe. Got a lot on my mind. Things could get pretty spicy for me in the next few weeks. I’d like your input. Let’s go get a quiet table in the corner.”
They sat down, ordered a pair of matching Rob Roys and club sandwiches, and got right down to business. Hawke collected his thoughts before he spoke. It was completely unlike him to talk about the kind of hush-hush things he did for the Department of Naval Intelligence. On the other hand, after all, this wasn’t some admiral of the Swiss Navy he was buying a drink for. This was the bloody Chinese ambassador to the United States! He was one of his closest friends. And certainly one of Britain’s and America’s most powerful allies in the two-front wars against raging tyranny.
“Ready?” Hawke asked.
“Fire away,” Tiger said, enjoying all the new American wartime slang he was picking up around town.
“Here’s the skinny, Mr. Ambassador. Whitehall Naval Intelligence has put me in charge of a secret squad of six highly battle-hardened commandos. Blinker Godfrey, our supreme leader, calls us Hawke’s Headbangers. My remit, our remit, is to come up with new and even more ingenious ways to torture Herr Hitler and his bullyboys behind the lines, where it hur
ts most. It seems my latest scheme, long on the shelf, has suddenly won the endorsement of my boss, Rear Admiral Blinker Godfrey. Winston has just blessed it as well, so I guess it’s game on.”
“Can you give me some broad strokes without your loose lips sinking any ships?”
“You’re closer to the truth than you know. You do know, of course, about Germany’s Enigma code machine?”
“Of course.”
“Well. Here’s the thing. The beautiful minds out at Bletchley Park cracked the code on that one. But no one has been able to lay a hand on the other one, the three-rotor encoding machine that all the Kriegsmarine (War Navy) ships and subs at sea use in lieu of the Enigma. Until I figured out how we might actually acquire one of these damn things. As well as the companion codebooks. We’d be sitting pretty then, in terms of intelligence . . . for the balance of the war, actually. It would give us a huge leg up on the German Navy. Save thousands of our boys’ lives . . . that sort of thing.”
“Brilliant. Go on. . . .”
“Well, at Naval Intelligence, if you come up with a juicy idea within your own section, you project-manage it yourself, and your reputation sinks or swims accordingly. So. Here goes nothing, right?”
“And your idea for staying afloat long enough to fight another day?”
Hawke lowered his voice and said, “Okay, I suggested we might get our hands on the loot by the following means. One, we obtain from the air ministry an airworthy German bomber. Preferably a Heinkel.”
“Really? Easier said than done, one would imagine. And then what?”
“We crash-dive our bomber into the English Channel.”
“Brilliant. There will be survivors, one would hope?”
“Hmm.”
“I’m serious, Blackie. That’s the plan? Good God.”
“It’s as much as I’m comfortable with revealing, Mr. Ambassador. Safe to say, there’s a lot more to my scheme than ditching a German bomber in the drink.”
“Dangerous as heck, but to hell with it. Do what you’ve got to do.”
“Why is it dangerous?” Hawke asked. It was a notion he’d not considered.
“Oh, I don’t know. What if you sink? How long does a long-range German bomber typically stay afloat?”
Hawke, irritated, said, “All airplanes will sink eventually, Tiger. But there are air pockets throughout the fuselage. The area between the outside skin of the fuselage and the interior is a space that is insulated and has air that needs to be displaced by the sea. Also, the petrol tanks in the wings help. Since water is heavier than fuel, the fuel inside the wings helps offset some of the weight of the plane . . . not a lot, but some.”
“Well, you’ve clearly thought this through.”
“Yeah, it’s what I do for a living. The prime minister of my country likes it that way.”
“There is that, I suppose.”
“All right, then. Are you going to wish me Godspeed? Wish me luck at least?”
“No, Commander Hawke. I’m going to wish you a long and happy life full of cheap wine, expensive women, to a soaring overture of songs fit for angels.”
“More’s the better. I’m off. I’ve not even packed a valise. One last thing. I want you to keep an eye on little Miss Five ’n’ Dime whilst I’m away. Will you?”
“Why? She needs watching, does she?”
“She’s . . . complicated. As you know, headstrong and impulsive. Sometimes she doesn’t think straight. Living in a world of her own half the time. I’m just asking you to see that she doesn’t get herself into any trouble while I’m gone. Will you do it?”
“Of course I’ll do it, old chap. I’d do anything in my power for you. You know that. We’re comrades-in-arms, right? You know that.”
“Can you keep a secret, old fellow? Should a handsome swain step in, say?”
“Certainly.”
“Last weekend, Winnie and I drove out to Annapolis and got secretly engaged. No one knows. I gave her my mother’s engagement ring, but she’s never worn it in public. . . .”
“I see. Well, congratulations, old man! That’s marvelous news!”
“Yes, I suppose so. I do fear she’s going to prove a handful. But what can I do? I’m crazy about that girl! Cheerio, old fellow. See you soon, I hope.”
“Not if I see you first.” Hawke grinned at him.
And he was gone.
Tiger took a swig of his cocktail and watched his friend disappear into the crowd.
So, they were secretly engaged now, were they? This would require a steady hand on the tiller. And his ability to keep Winnie at arm’s length no matter what webs the little vixen purported to use to seduce him.
CHAPTER 20
The Bahamas
Present Day
To say that Lord Alexander Hawke was somewhat shocked at the aerial view of the sprawling Dragonfire Club complex from the circling chopper would have been the epitome of British understatement. First, it was far larger and vastly more grandiose than anything he could have imagined. He leaned over and peered through the Plexiglas beneath his feet at the wonders arrayed below. It would only have been a slight exaggeration to say that what he beheld was “another world” altogether.
One central island, called Black Dragon Isle, was very large, possibly a few thousand acres or more. In a swath of cleared jungle, situated high atop the highest hilltop, was an imposing residence of soaring, cutting-edge architecture worthy of note. Think Bill Gates meets Elon Musk meets I. M. Pei. A sleek and gleaming silver elevated monorail connected the sprawling Tang family homestead with other locations scattered about the main island. One expansive complex by the sea boasted a hotel of at least fifty stories, and with a lavish rooftop pool, tennis courts, and a nine-hole golf course, it was obviously the resort’s primary hotel.
The Hotel di Qing, it was called. The Star God of War, in Chinese mythology. Odd choice for a hotel name, Hawke thought.
Situated on the opposite side of the island, where it was largely undeveloped, all thick tropical jungle, was a strange monolithic white structure, large, and of poured concrete. The monstrosity was a city-block-sized rectangular building, one that was built into the hillside but stretched far out over the water. No windows and no visible entry points, at least from above. Some kind of marine research facility, Hawke imagined. Bio-agriculture maybe. He’d heard they had irons in every fire, these Tangs. Chinese bio-warfare maybe. He’d seen a top secret M16 dossier that said the Chinese were experimenting with militarizing a virus.
But his spy brain kicked in almost immediately. Something familiar or other about the dull architecture. The location . . . size . . . It would come to him. He’d have a midnight recon one of these nights; that much was a given.
He counted seven other satellite islands of varying sizes and features, all connected by the gleaming silver monorail, plus a system of hyperpostmodern pedestrian and single-lane auto bridges. There was, too, a traditional British Colonial–style yacht club, bustling and colorful and overlooking the vast marina. The slips were jam-packed with the world’s most expensive megayachts and futuristic Wally speedboats.
And all of this magnificence and architectural grandeur was hidden away in some Bahamian backwater, not unlike the endless miles of mangrove swamps and no-name keys south of Key West.
A thought about Prince Henry, his young godson, struck him like an exploding lightbulb in a pitch-black room. A young Royal—an adventurous bachelor of considerable wealth, charm, and exceeding beauty—might well think this place was a highly desirable vacation destination. And with his high profile on social media, and the wall-to-wall coverage in the celebrity press, it was scant wonder that the missing Prince Henry had petitioned, as Ambrose had discovered, the coveted invitation from Tommy and Jackie, also known internationally as the Tang Twins.
In other words, he had not been lured here. He had wanted
to come. It was his idea. Here he had met his fate, whatever it would prove to be, and done so at his own hands. This was, at the very least, Hawke thought, a starting place . . . a wormhole into the mystery, and, hopefully, out of it.
The beauteous Miss Zhang Tang, seated across the narrow aisle, suddenly placed a delicate warm hand on Hawke’s deepwater-tanned forearm. On her naked brown arms, she wore lovely gold Van Cleef cuff bracelets, which clinked softly as she moved her hands. Around her neck, a gold choker studded with diamonds set off her magnificent bosom, rather frankly on display in her low-cut blouse.
“You like it?” She smiled, catching his reaction to the affectionate overture. “Our little island, I mean.”
“My God,” he said. “I had no idea.”
“No one ever does. It’s one of the reasons I love my job. Seeing the expressions of my clients when they first set eyes on Black Dragon from the skies above. Now, before we land, is there anything else you might require during your stay, beyond the typical amenities? A car perhaps? A small boat?”
Hawke thought about it, gazing out at the earth below, or at least pretended to do so. “Let’s see. A mint under my pillow?”
She laughed and said, “Be serious, please. I’m here to help. It’s my job. Name your poison.”
“Yes, now that you mention it: not a car, but a motorcycle, if that’s possible. My favorite mode of transportation. I want to have a good look round. I assume each island has its own style of restaurants and cuisine and nightclubs, casinos?”
“Good assumption. Whatever your heart desires. Michelin chefs at each restaurant. Monte Carlo dealers and stewards at every casino table. You enjoy chemin de fer, no doubt, Lord Hawke.”
“I do. But, please, call me Alex, won’t you? I don’t use my title. I’m descended from pirate stock, you see, not fat little pink lords who wear silk stockings to Parliament and raise fat little pigs in the country.”
“Of course, Alex. I’ll call you anything you like, except late for dinner.”
He laughed at the old joke. “Good Lord, your brothers don’t tred lightly, do they?”