by Ted Bell
“Just you wait. Alone, a force of nature. Left to their own devices, together, an existential geostorm.”
“When do they return? I look forward to meeting them.”
“I would guess ten days, maybe two or three weeks. Depends entirely on how much they get accomplished. They have to be back by the first because we’re having our annual corporate retreat that week. They always host that themselves.”
“Good. That’s about how long I planned to stay before returning to England. So, yes, I’d love the use of a motorcycle whilst here. And if possible, a small speedboat, preferably fast, of course. I’ve friends over in Nassau with homes on the water. It would make dinner parties or visiting with them ever so much simpler. And a great way for me to explore the club from the water.”
“Just so. I’ll make it happen. You know what? My brother Tommy has a lovely little Wally boat he uses as a tender for the yacht sometimes. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you borrowed it in his absence.”
“Hmm. Maybe. What’s his yacht called, by the way?”
“Chop-Chop. You’ve heard of her?”
Hawke laughed. The pidgin English word for “quickly” was one of his favorite yacht names. Until now, he’d never been able to determine who her owner was.
“Are you quite sure he wouldn’t mind? I’m quite keen on the Wally tenders. I have a pair aboard my own boat, Blackhawke. . . .”
“Done and done,” she said, squeezing his hand and turning on those emerald-colored high beams. “Anything else?”
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll think of something,” Hawke managed to say with a semistraight face, all the while letting his eyes wander down below her chin to her Promethean bosom, a physical marvel that could well be described as the “curvature of the earth” without fear of overstatement!
He was suddenly reminded of something an American chum of his, who’d been a Visiting Scholar at Cambridge while he as there, had said about his girlfriend’s considerable assets:
“My God, Hawke! I’d crawl over a mile of broken glass just to drink her bathwater!”
CHAPTER 21
Hotel di Qing, the Bahamas
Present Day
Hawke’s two-bedroom penthouse suite was located just one floor down from the pinnacle of the rather epic Hotel di Qing. In the suite’s foyer, Hawke discovered a private elevator up to the pool and sports club on the rooftop. The elevator, all glass including the floor, was mounted on the outside of the building. So the view, especially the one between your shoes, was exciting enough.
He pushed UP.
Up there, Hawke knew he’d have a good three sixty of the entire Dragonfire complex, encompassing all eight islands. A view that might well come in handy, should things get a little spicy at some point during this little vacay of his. He smiled at the notion of offering himself up as a sacrifice to the Sun Gods. Pictured himself gladly marinating in the tropical salt and sun, saving his explorations and investigations for the midnight hours.
When he emerged from the elevator, he was surprised to see that the free-form aquamarine pool boasted a high diving board. You never saw those back home in England anymore—insurance premiums had been the death of them—but as a youth, he’d loved doing full gainers off the high dives no end. He welcomed the opportunity to hone his skills once more. He did a circumnavigation of the rooftop, including the sports club and the Dragonfire Bay Restaurant (which reminded him of his old haunt, Trader Vic’s). At the bar, he ordered his old favorite cocktail, the infamous Suffering Bastard. Delicious rum concoction at the Plaza Hotel, New York.
When a lissome mermaid, topless and with flowing golden locks, swam behind the bartender, he thought perhaps he’d better stop at just one rum. The wall behind the bar was thick glass, and one could peer into the deep end of the pool above from his barstool. He saw a second and then a third topless mermaid swim right up to the glass, point at him, and then swim up to kiss the glass in front of him. It was entertaining, but, still, he felt a bit Peeping Tom–ish looking at all the bathing beauties. . . . He paid his tab and beat a hasty retreat to his elevator.
Back in his suite, he smiled at his prudishness after all these years. He sighed, forgiving himself, and went to the little mahogany bar in the living room. He wasn’t surprised to see a silver bucket filled with ice and an unopened bottle of Mr. Gosling’s famous 151 Black Seal Rum. These people did their homework.
He poured a short glass, neat, and carried it out to the terrace off his bedroom.
The lambent sun was loitering about the horizon, turning the whole wide world pink and gold. It was lovely. Mr. Gosling’s potion was working its magic, and Hawke was beginning to relax. He even considered ringing the beauteous Miss Zhang and inviting her to join him for a quiet dinner at the rooftop club restaurant . . . and quickly reconsidered. Best to remain a bit distant and a tad aloof. Let her do the chasing.
His grandfather Admiral Hawke, a man famous for his daring sabotage exploits against the Nazis in World War Two, who had adopted him after the murder of his parents when he was seven years old, had once imparted the following wisdom: “Alex, never, ever chase a girl who doesn’t want to get caught!”
Hawke stood at the railing, savoring the fire of deep dark rum in his belly and waiting patiently for the full tropic moon to bounce up and get everyone’s attention. He took a deep breath of the cooling northern breezes. He’d been an extraordinarily lucky fellow. He’d almost died at the hands of a psychopathic madman. So had his dear old Pelham. But, but, but . . . hadn’t they’d beaten the devil? Hadn’t they both lived to fight another day?
Here he was about to take on his first Chinese adversaries since General Moon had come to a fitting end in yet another messy affair that was nearly the end of him . . . a stormy love affair with the general’s daughter. The unforgettable and exquisite China Moon. Long ago and far away now . . .
He saw a rather large and powerful-looking craft hove into view, steaming around the coast from the other side of the island. She was doing about ten knots, maybe half a mile from shore. . . . Hmm. He ducked back into his room and grabbed the small Leica binos from his leather briefcase.
Patrol boat?
Back at the rail, his suspicions were confirmed. He recognized her immediately. Big deck guns fore, aft, and amidships. A chopper pad on the stern, complete with a missile-attack chopper. No doubt. She was nothing if not a Type 056 Jiangdao Class Corvette. A guided-missile light frigate. Also known by the Chinese Navy as the guided-missile frigate “Bengbu.”
What the hell was a Chinese Navy vessel doing on this side of the planet? Half a world away? News flash, note to self: nothing good.
His thoughts were interrupted by the soft ring of his encrypted mobile phone resting in its cradle on the bedside table in his bedroom. He stepped inside.
“Hullo?” he said, expecting a call from the front desk asking him if all and sundry were satisfactory.
“Alex?” It was Ambrose Congreve.
“Ambrose?”
“The one and only. Have I reached you at an inconvenient moment? Sir David gave me your whereabouts. How’s your health?”
“Depends. Who wants to know?”
“Her Royal Majesty the Queen of England, basically.”
“Ah. Well. Pain is pretty much gone. Doctors on Bermuda are still a bit worried about abdominal infection. But, apparently, there’s a first-rate hospital right here on this island. I’ll pop round in the morning and have them take a look at things . . . blood work. You know the drill.”
“Good, good. Do that. Now, listen. I’ve some new information for you. I asked the two Yard detectives who went out to the Bahamas to Black Dragon Island—Operation Dragonbreath they called it—to come out to our country house for a daylong debrief and—”
“Well, good on you, old sod. Hard to believe Sir David didn’t do that himself before he sent me packing.”
“I’ll not speak ill of your boss behind his back. Maybe he assumed I’d already done it. But needless to say, I wholeheartedly agree. At any rate, I did it. Pumped them dry or at least until I thought they’d strangle me. I came away with some bits and bobs I thought might help you.”
“God bless you. Fire away.”
“All right, then. Number one: Before they left the resort, Detective Sergeants William and Morris furtively interviewed club staff on property. Waiters, bartenders, gardeners, caddies at the golf course, et cetera, anyone who may have had chance encounters with our missing Royal, yes?”
“Yes.”
“It seems our young prince somehow managed to get on the nerves of the Tang brothers whilst out there. He was indifferent to all the rules and regs of the place. Seduced half the female population of the waitstaff and most of the housekeepers. Paid caddies hundreds of pounds to look the other way while he surreptitiously kicked his golf ball out of hazards in the middle of a money match with other members who thereupon, of course, complained to the caddy master, who complained to a Miss Tang, who apparently is a very big cheese down there. That sort of thing. Poor chap had to be carried out of the casinos at dawn. You know how he is.”
“That’s my boy, all right.”
“Yes. I know. But he finally did something that really raised the ire of the twins.”
“I’m all ears.”
“One of the young boys working on the petrol dock at the marina told my men that the prince had rented a small runabout for a—as he rather grandly called it—‘complete circumnavigation of the island.’ Apparently, during this epic voyage, he stuck his nose into some dark places where it didn’t belong. Saw things he wasn’t supposed to see. . . . You know how that goes, too. . . .”
“And?”
“And the next day, he and all his belongings vanished into the thinnest of air.”
“Interesting. I’ll take that all into consideration. By the way, what are you up to these days? Pruning peonies? Waltzing Matilda? Counting your blessings? Listening to Benny Goodman swing music on Auntie Beeb in the evenings?”
“I must say, Alex, despite your recent duel with death, you’ve lost none of your irritating gift for sarcasm. As a matter of fact, I’m writing a book, if you must know. A novel, to be perfectly honest.”
“A book? About what, pray tell.”
“Sherlock Holmes. The untold story. A mystery novel, of course, in which the ghost of Professor Moriarty returns to haunt Sherlock and Dr. Watson whilst on a golfing holiday in Barbados. Diana has read the opening chapters. It’s called The Banshee of Barbados. My wife’s already comparing me to Le Carré and Ian Fleming, for all love! To say that the word ‘masterpiece’ left her lips on numerous occasions would not be stretching the truth.”
“How marvelous. And as we all know, Diana is nothing if not a stickler for top-notch literary endeavors.”
“Don’t you dare patronize me, boy!”
“I’m not! You’ve been a lifelong Sherlockian, Ambrose. Not to mention the fact that the whole world knows you as the brainiest chap ever to grace Scotland Yard, as celebrated a criminalist mastermind as ever there was in England. If ever anyone could be the one to pen such an epic tome, it would be you. Love the title, by the by.”
“Well, thanks for that. Now, what’s your take on the scene out there so far?”
“The twins are not here for a week or so. I can roam about a bit without raising any alarms. Unlike my dear godson, Henry, I’m going to be the perfect guest by day, a stealthy spy by night. And to make things interesting, there is already a woman. There’s always a woman, isn’t there, Ambrose?”
“Always, dear boy. Always.”
CHAPTER 22
RAF Archbury, Oxfordshire, England
January 1942
The shimmering blood orange sun was barely peeking over the horizon when Hawke rolled the snarling Norton motorcycle to a stop outside the HQ at RAF Archbury, 18th Bomber Group, Oxfordshire. He dismounted and went round to the entrance to the rusting World War One Quonset hut building. The small gardens to either side of the walkway looked to have been there since the long, silent roar of Sopwith Camels taking off in World War One.
The name of the small village nearby was spelled out with rather quaint arrangements of white stones on the twin green oblongs of lawn inside the beds of roses and peonies: ARCHBURY.
Hawke lit a cigarette and reflected on the path that had led to this place in time. Cigarettes were the latest addition to his doctor’s all-clear list, now allowing both alcohol and tobacco. He saw an immediate boost in his moods. When asked by his Harley Street physician, “And how’s the drinking these days, Blackie?” He had promptly replied, “Fabulous, thank you. Never better, to be honest.”
He looked up into the warring storm clouds high above and took a deep breath. No time like the present, he said to himself. Yes. It was finally time to execute Operation Skyhook.
After a long liquid supper at Number 10 Downing Street last evening, he’d laid the entire scheme, Operation Skyhook, out for Winston in very succinct, simple terms. Primary objective: obtain the Kriegsmarine’s 3-rotor code machine, and the germane codebooks, by the following means:
1. Obtain from the Air Ministry an airworthy German bomber. Preferably a Heinkel 111, warhorse of the Luftwaffe.
2. Recruit a tough crew of six that includes myself as pilot. Also including a W/T (wireless/telegraph) operator and a word-perfect German speaker. Dress them all in well-worn German Luftwaffe uniforms; add blood and bandages to suit.
3. Crash the bomber in the English Channel off France after making SOS call to Rescue Service in P/L (plain language) and within visual range of a German Minensuchboot (a large minesweeper) on patrol in mid-Channel.
4. Once crew is safely aboard the German rescue boat, seize control, neutralize the German crew, and sail the vessel and the encoder forthwith to Portsmouth Harbour on the southern tip of England.
The HQ doors suddenly swung wide and Colonel Peter Mainwaring came strolling down the brick paved walk with a broad smile. They were old friends, having gone to the Naval College at Dartmouth together. Peter was wearing his leather combat flight jacket, as was Hawke.
“Commander Hawke, you old bounder, welcome to RAF Archbury. How’s life in the colonies treating you? Word has it you’re the toast of all Washington, celebrated by high-society debutantes and their grande dame mothers, all with an eye toward a titled military officer for little Susie. We’ve been expecting you to come over for an inspection, ever since the request for the German bomber came through from on high,” Colonel Mainwaring said as Hawke climbed off his motorcycle.
Hawke had made short work of the run out from London, having left his small flat in Chelsea at dark thirty that morning. He looked at his ancient Rolex steel dive watch. Well, how about that? Seems, despite the rain showers, he’d arrived right on time.
“Glad to be here, Peter. Why do you look tan and healthy whilst I’m a mere shadow of my former self? Stealing afternoons out on the local links, old fellow?”
Mainwaring smiled. “Honeymoon, old chap. Two sunny weeks in Barbados with my bride. Sandy Lane Hotel. Lovely spot. I think you’re the one who originally reco’d it to me at our engagement binge at Claridge’s, no?”
“I love it out there, yes. I used to go whenever I got the chance. A lot of romance in the air, in the islands.”
“Yes, I quite agree. Do you remember a chappie named Bajun by any chance? A waiter at Sandy Lane. He remembers you.”
“Yes, I do remember him quite well. He’s still around?”
“Indeed. Only now he’s the club’s general manager.”
“So, apparently, there’s a groundswell of RAF enthusiasm for my mission? The one the boys at DNI Whitehall have taken to calling ‘Hawke and His Suicide Six.’”
“To be sure. Everyone’s convinced
a successful Operation Skyhook mission could well change the whole course of the war in Britain’s favor. Those Nazi wolf packs lurking about out in the Channel will get a well-seasoned taste of their own bloody medicine, I’ll warrant. Your crew, the new Skyhook lads here at Archbury, are all quite keen about the previous exploits of you and your commandos this past year. The men are thrilled to be under your command for such an important go. Especially this new Kriegsmarine scheme of yours. It’s only brilliant!”
“They’re all here this morning?” Hawke said. “Been looking forward to saying hello.”
“Affirmative. Been here for a month, training in the actual bomber seven days a week. Just a heads-up if you don’t mind. They’ve organized a bit of a surprise for you . . . by way of a welcome to RAF ARCHBURY this morning.”
“Much appreciated. Good on you, mate. I’d no idea you lads were this far along. I’ve been buried in Washington red tape these last few weeks, dealing with Winston’s demands and President Roosevelt’s keenly anticipated lend-lease program. But I’m glad the lads are all so enthusiastic. We’re going to need that, I imagine. Once the gravity of what we’re doing starts to sink in . . .”
“Well, the sheer simplicity of your idea is stunning, Blackie. I think it was Flight Lieutenant Alastair Stauffenberg, your new number two and copilot, who said, just the other day, ‘It’s so bloody obvious, sir, this idea. It’s a wonder no one’s had the notion before!’ Everyone in your crew wants to throw in their two cents on how to properly ditch that bomber in the Channel. Tricky bit of business, they say, a risky bit of flying to be sure.”
“Understatement. Problem is, I can’t follow any of the bloody water-landing protocols. I’ve got to make the damn thing look totally realistic when I deep-six her in plain sight of a German minesweeper. A horrific crash dive into the Channel. And then I’ve got to get the crew out in one piece. A matter of minutes and seconds. Since I can’t put her down on the water properly, we’ll have a very short time afloat, I’m afraid. I will have an audience, you know. Aboard that Nazi minesweeper, every sailor who sees the smoke streaming from my portside engines will come to the rail to watch us go down.”