by Ted Bell
“I think not. I’ve heard of it, of course, but not a clue as to what’s really in it.”
“State secret. But it’s sheep’s liver minced with spices, salt, oatmeal, suet, and onion inside the lining of the animal’s stomach. . . .”
“I realized something just now, sir. I have not ever managed to properly thank you for what you’ve done for my grandmama and myself. I shall never be able to repay you, for I shall forever be in your debt, sir.”
“It was your grandmother who saved you, Henry. Never forget that. And with that, I shall take my leave. I’m sure you both have a great deal to talk about. And I’ve got my son waiting for me at my house in Belgrave Square. I’m taking him to Queen Mary’s Rose Garden this morning. With his new puppy, an English springer named Captain.”
Hawke bowed again, backed away from the Queen, and left the reunited alone. He hurried back down to have his old Bentley fetched and rushed home to his son.
Alexei had grown a lot in Madrid with the Duke of Alba. He was growing up too fast, and Hawke decided that they needed vastly more time together.
To that end he’d bounced an idea off Sir David.
He was going to build another yacht, this time a sailing yacht. A big one. A two hundred twenty footer, a gleaming white yawl. She would be yar, sleek, and fast. She would be comfortable belowdecks, and seaworthy, and have a certain grace about her under sail.
She would also be, appearances to the contrary, a state-of-the-art warship.
He and his precious ten-year-old son, Alexei, would sail her around the world, across the seven seas to the far-flung ends of the earth. He would teach the boy how to hand, reef, and steer. Teach him about the tides and the currents, celestial navigation, steering by the stars, heeling over, riding hard on the wind. Two adventurous souls bound by blood and love, seeking peace and solace from the sea and all who lived there in her beautiful, bountiful aquatic universe.
And if ever they should perchance encounter a knave or two in Port Royal, Jamaica, or any dastardly pirates out there on the sun-splashed Spanish Main, or any of those fiendish blackguards at Dragonfire Club who’d almost killed poor Henry, they would deal with them, too, and smartly at that. And if fate should turn her back on them, or turn away from them, leaving them to their own devices, and should they find themselves be sore afraid, then they would simply sail away to the other side of the world. They would ride like the wind. They would sail once more into the breach and damn the torpedos!
God save the Queen!
And the devil take the hindmost!
EPILOGUE
Lord Hawke would never see China Moon again. Her instincts about her bitter rival for Hawke’s affections, the treacherous Zhang Tang, had been spot-on. When Zhang’s twin brothers, fresh out of a Chinese white-collar crime lockdown, arrived at last back at Dragonfire Club, she’d instantly given them a full account of the goings-on in their absence.
The glamorous British lord and his exotic inamorata, China Moon, both of whom had disappeared, had caused no end of trouble for the Tang family. Both had arrived at Dragonfire Club sailing under a false flag. China had claimed she was merely vacationing once more at her beautiful home here on the island. But Zhang had told Tommy and Jackie Tang that China was on a mission, secretly looking for dirt on the brothers’ Bahamian operations for the plethora of Tang enemies back in Beijing.
And Lord Hawke, who had claimed to be a wealthy British businessman, had in fact been sent to Dragonfire Club by Scotland Yard. The Queen of England had demanded he continue to search for the missing prince while undercover at the resort.
They had both been very successful.
Hawke had discovered the top secret Chinese submarine base. Not to mention their vast drug operations. Both now destroyed, as her brothers well knew from new reports, by the U.S. Navy.
China, hiding out in Paris at the Ritz for some months, had been walking home on a rainy night from the Place de l’Opéra to the Place Vendôme when she’d realized she was being followed by two men wearing black fedoras and black trench coats.
She was a little worried. The pit of her stomach felt like a cage full of blind mice. She tried to remain calm. After all, she was a senior officer in the Chinese Secret Police; she was no novice at even the cleverest forms of escape and evasion. To her dismay, she tried every trick in her book and was unable to shake the tail.
She started running, believing that if she could only reach the entrance to the Ritz and dash inside, she’d be safe. Hotel security forces would get rid of them for her.
She darted into an alley behind the hotel proper, the very same one Princess Diana and her erstwhile lover, Dodi Fayed, had used to escape the press waiting for her at the main entrance before she climbed into the Mercedes W140 with her death-crash driver, M. Henri Paul, behind the wheel after he had imbibed a snootful of wine down in the Hemingway Bar that afternoon.
China’s Chinese assailants were closing in. She heard the footsteps splashing through the puddles and gaining ground on her. Her stiletto heels weren’t helping matters much. She wasn’t going to make it. Her only hope was to turn and confront them. She did so out of sheer desperation, and it was a fatal mistake.
The two men kept coming at her, raised their guns, and emptied two 9mm magazines into her spasmic body, which they left twitching on the wet pavement. She wasn’t found till next morning when early kitchen staff members were throwing out the previous evening’s garbage. She was not a pretty sight. The neighborhood rats had been at her all night.
Since she made it a habit never to carry identification while on the run, no one was ever able to find out who she was. She was buried without ceremony in a paupers’ cemetery in the Ninth Arrondissement.
* * *
—
And as for Ambassador Tiger Tang, of whom much has been said here, four long years of world war elapsed after his attempted assassination of the American president. In those bitter days gone by, the ambassador would never have predicted that, on this early spring day filled with sunshine, he would have found himself standing next to Eleanor Roosevelt in the rose garden at Hyde Park, waiting for the president to arrive.
About a grueling month after the near tragic episode up on Pine Mountain in Warm Springs, he’d finally been exonerated, cleared of any wrongdoing by a presidential panel of the most senior military psychiatrists. It was demonstrably proven in a secret military tribunal that the Chinese ambassador had never intended to bring harm to the president. At the time of the attempted murder, he had been a victim himself, acting mindlessly under the control of ancient Chinese mind-control techniques. As the president had written in a letter to the tribunal, he firmly believed that in that moment, Ambassador Tang had not even been aware of any of his actions at the time.
Tiger returned to the embassy and carried out his duties with a vengeance. Because of the near tragedy his father had instigated, he redoubled his efforts to help Roosevelt get critical Chinese support in the war against Japan. And because of his loathing for his father and those in his Beijing crime family, he began a diet of steady political disinformation to his father that continued to the end of the war in the Pacific.
And so, the two men continued their very unique friendship for those years. Afternoons up in the president’s study overlooking the Hudson River, Franklin with his stamps and Tiger reading aloud to him, perhaps the latest Hemingway novel. And, of course, the fishing expeditions on the salmon rivers of Montana, the Christmases at the White House, the state dinners. It would all come to a sad end, of course, when Roosevelt, age sixty-three, finally met the Reaper while having his portrait painted by a Russian artist named Madame Shoumatoff at the Little White House, the refuge he had so dearly loved in his lifetime.
He did not live to see the victory he and Churchill had envisaged and enabled. Few had been aware how terribly Roosevelt’s health had been deterioriating due to the demands placed o
n him by the two-front war.
Now Tang was amid the sorrowful weeping of the many gathered at the Hyde Park grave site, including not only heads of state, but also countless victims of polio who had benefitted so greatly from his leadership.
Ambassador Tang, unable to hold back the flood of tears, stood in silence as the procession bearing the casket of the magnificent figure drew nigh: this giant of the twentieth century, a man who had steered the nation through the depths of the Depression, through the grim years of war when no one could have been certain of the outcome.
As the president’s casket was about to be lowered into the freshly turned earth in the rose garden of his estate at Hyde Park, there was a prolonged silence. Tiger had to force himself to even watch these events unfolding.
And then he heard these four fateful words that signaled the end and knew he was not dreaming. It was really all over now. His friend was no longer. A handsome young Marine, splendid in his red, white, and blue uniform, saluted and said loudly enough for all to hear. . . .
“Bugler, sound the taps.”
POSTSCRIPT
For his part, Commander Hawke had exacted a last-minute measure of revenge on the supremely evil Tang twins. Arriving on Chop-Chop at the airport marina with the ailing prince, he saw that an ambulance had been duly summoned out to the main dock by his pilots. There was also a van crammed with all the weapons and unused ammo that was to be ferried across the field to his airplane.
Once it was all stowed in the plane, he asked Stokely Jones to remain on the Wally tender with his RPG weapon a few minutes after everyone else had departed.
“Sure thing, boss,” Stoke said. “What’s up?”
“Just curious,” Hawke said. “We got any of those rocket grenades left? Or did you expend them all in the firefight on the island?”
“Lemme check,” he said, digging into his canvas rucksack. “Yeah, we got one. But only one.”
“One’s all we need.”
“Really, boss? What you got in mind? I don’t like that evil smile on your face.”
“Had an idea, that’s all. Think you might find it rather amusing. . . .”
“Talk to me.”
“Right, then. So, jump up on the dock and cleat off the bow and stern lines, right?”
“Got ya,” Stoke said, and hopped up onto the concrete dock with both lines in his left hand and the M79 grenade launcher in his right.
Hawke smiled up at him. “Okay, so, now, we cleat the lines off. But, I want you to use a whole lot of extra line at both stern and bow. Okay? Like twenty, maybe thirty feet.”
“No shit? What if that cold front comes in tonight. This million dollar boy toy’ll be blowing all over the place you leave that much slack in the lines. Boat could hit a piling or something, spring a damn leak . . .”
“Not necessarily.”
“Really? Why’s that?”
Hawke said, “I’ll show you. Go ahead and affix the grenade to the muzzle of the launcher.”
“Okay . . . done. Now what?”
Hawke reached over and shut down the burbling outboards. “Lemme get off the damn boat and I’ll tell you.”
“You’re acting weird, boss. You ain’t going to do anything crazy, are you?”
“Well, I’m not sure. It’s either crazy or it’s brilliant. It’s either sheer insanity or it’s pure genius. You be the judge.”
“You don’t tell me right now, I’m liable to throw you in the water!”
“Fine, fine. See that stainless steel screw cap set into the teak deck in the center of the cockpit?”
“Hard to miss it.”
“Good. That’s your target.”
“What? You mean with the RPG?”
“Precisely. I want you to fire the grenade at the screw cap. Then we run like hell for the plane. . . .”
“Boss, get serious man. I do that? I’ll blow a hole a foot in diameter in the bottom of the hull! This million dollar baby’ll go to the bottom in about twenty seconds!”
“I know. You think the Tang Brothers will be pissed off?”
“Pissed off doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
“Yeah. I think so, too. But how pissed will they be when they find their big fat Bentley rusting away on the bottom, right beneath their beloved Chop-Chop?”
“Oh man, boss, that’s just cruelty. But I love it.”
“So, let’s do this and get the hell out of the bloody Bahamas. I’ve had enough. Ready?”
“If you say so.”
“Aim . . . fire!”
The powerful grenade exploded out of the muzzle with a loud bang and a whoosh and blew a huge hole in the deck. Seawater started spouting upward into the cockpit almost instantly. It was a gusher, all right, a bona fide geyser.
“Good shot, brother! Now let’s get the hell out of here before the Nassau Constabulary arrives on the scene!”
They ran like hell.
Hawke looked over at Stoke and was startled by his own burst of laughter. He had been right, after all. The sinking of the good ship Chop-Chop, or the Lollipop, as Stoke had come to call it, with a rocket-powered grenade bore no trace of tragedy. It wasn’t tragic at all. It was the pure bliss of unapologetic schadenfreude. It was funny of an order of magnitude that brought forth torrents of explosive laughter and reduced two grown men to tears of joy.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A few kind words, dear readers, about my new editor and good friend, Tom Colgan.
Tom is legendary in this publishing business, justifiably so, for his peerless editorial skills, which are considerably beyond considerable; his many kindnesses, which are lavished upon his colleagues and authors alike, all and sundry; his cheery disposition; his keen wit; and his cherished James Thurber–esque sense of humor. After reading another of his daily “Plague Journal” essays, I called him and said, “Tom, you’re too funny. I think you’re a cross between Mark Twain and Will Rogers.”
“Good cross to be in,” he replied. I’d also like to express my gratitude to Team Colgan/Bell at Penguin Random House.
Therefore, a big shout-out to those folks whose fingerprints are all over this book: Loren Jaggers, Fareeda Bullert, and Sareer Khader. Thank you one and all!
And then there is Mr. John Talbot. My new agent, confidante, coconspirator, and oftentimes psychiatrist. John is a singular man. Incredibly wise about this book business, with vast experience as an editor before the career switch, and an uncanny ability to answer any vague and querulous literary or business questions of mine, always succinct, elegant, and articulate. Much like John himself. Thank you, John. I owe you a big fat lunch at 21 Club!
And next, the great Jon Adler. Jon is my business partner in the new film/TV production company we started late last year. It’s called El Dorado Entertainment. We already have a signed movie deal with one major Hollywood studio, and an A-list screenwriter who is attached to bringing my young adult/historical/time travel books, The Time Pirate/Nick of Time series, to the big screen or streaming. Jon is my number one fan and has been a huge help to us in bringing this new project to life!
Ryan Steck. A name known by any and all who labor in the vineyards of the thriller novel. Besides his encyclopedic knowledge of the genre, Ryan is a book doctor extraordinaire, an editor, and a huge promoter of us pencil pushers. More importantly, I will acknowledge his huge contribution to all of us. When I came of age in this thriller game, there was a pervasive air of competition between all of us writers. A given. But Ryan changed all that single-handedly. He took it upon himself to turn us into a community. A group of people who became friends, not competitors, people who supported the work of their fellow authors and cheered their successes. This is no small thing. It has made our profession much more satisfying and rewarding.
Friends I have made during these years include many people I care about and respect. Daniel Silva, B
rad Taylor, Mark Greaney, Nelson DeMille, Brad Thor, the late Vince Flynn, the late Mary Higgins Clark, the late Dorothea Benton Frank, the late Tom Wolfe . . . and many more.
I also am indebted to the lovely Lady Hornblower, as she’s known around here. Cynthia Hornblower manages my website, newsletter, my “Writer’s Block” videos, as well as books all my appearances around the world. Thank you, Lady H, for all your help and for putting up with me all this time!
And lastly, a tip of the battered fedora to my three literary heroes. Giants who have provided inspiration and artistic guidance for my own work since I first put pen to paper at age eight . . . with reverence . . . and even love:
Mark Twain. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn is the seminal American novel.
F. Scott Fitzgerald. The Great Gatsby is the great American novel.
Ian Fleming. James Bond is the twentieth century’s most popular hero.
So we beat on, boats against the current,
borne back cease-lessly into the past.
—Nick Carraway, The Great Gatsby
CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA, APRIL 4TH, 2020
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ted Bell is the former chairman of the board and creative director of Young & Rubicam, one of the world's largest advertising agencies. He is the New York Times bestselling author of the Alex Hawke series as well as the YA adventure novels Nick of Time and The Time Pirate. He has recently been writer-in-residence at Cambridge University (U.K.) and visiting scholar at the Department of Politics and International Relations.
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