Hawke

by Ted Bell

  “Here’s the bloody answer! I might as well have drowned her with my own hands! What’s the difference? Murder is murder!”

  He climbed four flights of stairs and went straight to his stateroom, where he had remained. He called the bridge and told the captain to call him on the direct line if there was any news. Then he turned off the main phone and opened a bottle of whiskey.

  In that way, he had spent an hour or so, drinking and staring at the phone to the bridge, willing it to ring. It didn’t. There had been many knocks at his door and he’d ignored them all. At some point, Ambrose had slipped an envelope under his door but he’d ignored that as well.

  Somehow, later, he heard the ship’s bell chiming. Four bells. Two o’clock in the morning. Alex rubbed his eyes and looked at his watch. Two A.M., which would make it maybe midnight in Louisiana.

  He picked up the half-empty scotch bottle and climbed the stairway leading up one deck, making his way along the companionway to Vicky’s stateroom. Save the low thrumming of generators, the ship was dead quiet. There were a few crewmen about, armed, looking out over the rails to sea. They kept the underwater floodlights on all night now, and monitored the video cameras installed below the waterline twenty-four hours a day.

  There was a man out there somewhere who clearly wanted to kill him. Little did that man know his target was already dead.

  Her room was just the way she’d left it, hats, blouses, scarves, bathing suits, straw hats, all strewn about the bed. He sat down amongst these things, not quite sure why he’d come here. Unable to stop himself, he picked up her pillow and pressed it to his face. The scent of her perfume, of course, still lingered there.

  God.

  Then, through eyes blurred with tears, he saw the address book on her nightstand and remembered why he had come here. He opened the book to S and didn’t find what he was looking for. He turned to D and there it was.

  Daddy. And a 225 area code. Louisiana.

  Even the sight of her handwriting in the address book was unbearable. When he thumbed through its pages, a small envelope fell out. It had his name on it. It wasn’t sealed.

  Inside were two tiny photographs. The ones that had been inside his mother’s locket. Then he remembered. She’d vowed to wear the locket always. She must have removed the pictures that morning, not wanting to harm them, realizing they’d be going for a swim on the island.

  He remembered the golden locket hanging from her neck, suspended between their bodies, swinging to and fro in the rhythms they were creating, the two of them there on the sand beside the ripples of pale blue waters that lapped the sand. And the swift dark blue waters farther out.

  He uttered the one oath he’d always considered himself too much of a gentleman to say and reached for the receiver. He began punching in the number he’d found in the book. He lost track of the number of times the phone rang before anyone picked it up.

  “Hello?” a sleepy Southern voice finally said.

  “Is this Seven Oaks plantation? LaRoche, Louisiana?” he asked.

  “Yes, suh, shore is.”

  “This is Alexander Hawke calling. I’d like to speak to Senator Harley Sweet, please.”

  “Might be asleep out on the porch, suh. Too hot to sleep indoors, but the senator, he’s not a believer in air-conditioning.”

  “I’m sorry to disturb him, but would you please tell him it’s extremely important?”

  “Well, if you say so, suh, I surely will do that. Will you hold the phone? I’ll go see if I can rouse him up.”

  Alex waited, rubbing his eyes, staring at the framed picture of Vicky and him on her nightstand. They had their arms around each other, standing beside the Serpentine in Hyde Park. When the deep voice suddenly came on the line, it startled him.

  “This is Harley Sweet.”

  “Senator, we’ve never met. This is Alexander Hawke calling.”

  “Alex Hawke! Well, it’s mighty fine to finally hear your voice, son. I’ve been hearing an awful lot about you from my little girl.”

  “That’s why I’m calling, Senator. I’m afraid I have some horrible news. There’s been an accident.”

  “What do you mean? Is Vicky hurt?”

  “Senator, I’m afraid Vicky has been lost.”

  There was a long silence, and Alex just held the phone to his ear, numb, staring at her face in the picture.

  “Lost? You mean dead? Tell me exactly what happened, Mr. Hawke.”

  “We, uh, we went for a picnic this afternoon on a small island. Just Vicky and I.”

  “Vicky is my only child, sir.”

  “I know that, Senator. I must tell you that I’d far rather be dead myself than giving you this news.”

  “Go on, son. Tell me about it.”

  “We had a small lunch. After we’d eaten, we both fell asleep on the beach. When I awoke, I didn’t see her. I thought perhaps she’d gone off exploring the island. I didn’t see her swimming, so I looked up and down the beach. I—”

  “Please continue, Mr. Hawke. I’m sure this is difficult for you.”

  “Sorry, sir. I heard a faint cry coming from the sea. There is a deep channel a few hundred yards offshore. It runs between the island where we’d gone and another island about a mile away.”

  “Yes?”

  “I could see her. It was Victoria. She was almost two thirds of the way to the other island. I could see that the, uh, current had her. The riptide.”

  “What did you do, Mr. Hawke?”

  “I swam for her, of course. I tried to keep her in sight. It’s a riptide that runs to the open sea. It was moving very swiftly.”

  “You were unable to reach her?”

  “I’m a good swimmer. I swam as hard as I could. She was calling to me, saying no, telling me to go back, I think. She might have realized it was useless at that point. I—”

  “You gave up.”

  “No, sir, I did not. I swam out into the rip. When I looked up, I realized that for every ten yards I was gaining, the tide was opening the gap between us by thirty or forty yards, maybe more.”

  “You lost sight of her?”

  “I saw her go under. I swam for her. She came up once more and called out something, but by then she was too far away.”

  “And then?”

  “I watched her go under. She never came back up.”

  “My baby is gone?”

  “I had Bahamas Air-Sea Rescue and my own men on the scene within fifteen minutes. We continued the search for eight hours without any—without any sign of her, sir.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’ve ordered the search to resume at first light, Senator. I’m going back out in my own plane as well.”

  “I’m certain you’re doing all you can, Mr. Hawke. I appreciate your efforts on my daughter’s behalf. If you’ll excuse me now, I’m going to hang up the phone.”

  “Senator, I cannot possibly tell you how grievously sorry I am. This is all my fault.”

  “Vicky was a very powerful swimmer, Mr. Hawke. All-American at Tulane. She swam all the way across Lake Pontchartrain when she was thirteen years old. She knew what she was doing. The idea that a current might be too strong would never occur to her.”

  “But I should have—”

  “My daughter would not have wanted you or anyone else to die needlessly. If there’d been a prayer of you reaching her, I’m sure you ...”

  “I couldn’t, sir. I couldn’t.”

  “Son, listen to me. I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting you, but if my daughter cared for you, you must be a good man. Vicky grew up in this old tumbledown place. It was just the two of us. Her momma died in childbirth.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “That was a long time ago. There’s a big live oak out at the end of our drive. Sits on top of the levee and you can see clear to the other side of the Mississippi from the topmost branches.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Victoria loved that old tree. Called it the Trinity Oak beca
use it had three big old branches. She’d spend all day up on the highest branch, reading her books, writing her poetry. It’s where she felt closest to God.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m not a religious man, Mr. Hawke. But my daughter was. So, I want you to find my little girl. I want to lay her down to rest in her sacred place, that little churchyard that is in the shade of old Trinity.”

  “I’ll do everything I can to find her, sir,” Hawke said.

  “I believe you will. Goodbye, Mr. Hawke. And don’t drink any more damn whiskey. I find too much of it only makes things worse.”

  “Yes, sir. Good-bye, Senator.”

  Hawke hung up the phone. He couldn’t bear the scent of her, the sight of her things, a second longer. He rose and wandered back to his own stateroom where he collapsed upon the bed. He stared at the ceiling, trying to make Vicky’s face go away. He could see her perfectly. Her beautiful auburn hair was matted to her forehead. But she wasn’t above him. She was below him. About fifteen feet down in the green water, her arms and legs spread out. Not moving. Drifting and—

  Sometime later, there was a squawk from Sniper on his perch, followed by a knock at the door. “Yes? Who is it?”

  “It’s Stokely, boss,” said the muffled voice outside.

  “What do you want?”

  “Can I come in?”

  “Sure,” Hawke said, and sat up, drying his eyes on his shirtsleeve. “Why not?” he said, opening the door. He padded back to his bed, leaning his head back against a large white pillow.

  “How you feelin’?” Stoke asked, pulling up a chair.

  “Ask me something else.”

  “I don’t mean to bother you. You hurt. You on the bench. You sidelined. Ambrose sent me down here to check on you. Man thinks you should eat something.”

  “He sent you down here to tell me that?”

  “No, boss. He wants you to come up to the bridge. The radio guy or whatever picked up something on the satellite TV. News show off the Cuban television. Ambrose taped it and wants you to see it.”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. What is it? A fucking cricket match?”

  “Naw, it ain’t no crickets. It’s Castro. He’s on the Cuban TV station. Something going down in Cuba. Ambrose said you need to see it is all I’m sayin’. I wouldn’t have bothered you for nothing but—”

  WHOOOMPH!

  The sound of an explosion, muffled and distant but still enormous, reverberated throughout Hawke’s stateroom. The crystal decanters and glassware on the bar tinkled but didn’t fall.

  “Holy Christ, now what?” Hawke said, and picked up the direct line to the bridge.

  “What the hell was that, Captain?” Hawke asked when Blackhawke’s skipper picked up.

  “We’re looking at it now, sir,” the captain said. “An explosion about two miles off our port beam. We had them on radar. They were headed northwest at about twenty knots. Small yacht, fifty feet or so.”

  “No SOS prior?” Hawke asked.

  “No, sir. They just blew sky high. I’ve ordered the launch lowered. The second officer is on with the Coast Guard now, apprising them of the situation. I’m sending Quick and the launch over to look for survivors. Not much hope by the looks of it, I’m afraid.”

  “I’m coming right up.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Come on, Stoke,” Hawke said.

  When Hawke reached the bridge, he could still see the fire two miles distant. Congreve and the captain were both standing just outside the wheelhouse on the starboard bridge wing with their binoculars trained on the scene. Alex and Stokely stepped out onto the small bridge deck. The smell of burning fuel had already drifted toward them.

  “Sorry to bother you, Alex,” Ambrose said, handing him the binoculars. “But I had no choice. A military coup in Cuba, apparently. Now this poor fellow out there seems to have blown himself up.”

  “A Cuban coup. Is that good news or bad news?” Hawke said, raising the glasses to his eyes. There was nothing left of the yacht but flotsam and jetsam floating in a spreading pool of burning fuel.

  “I’d say a rogue military government with a ballistic submarine was bad news,” Ambrose said.

  “Is Castro dead?”

  “No. I don’t believe so. Not yet anyway. I taped the broadcast. Whenever you’re ready.”

  “What do you think happened to that yacht, Cap?” Hawke asked, still looking through the binoculars.

  “Hard to say, sir. The most likely scenario is an electrical fire in the engine room. Raged out of control and both fuel tanks exploded.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. Poor chaps never knew what hit them. Jesus Christ. Welcome to life aboard the yachts of the rich and famous. It’s been one bloody rotten day in Paradise, gentlemen.”

  “Indeed it has, sir,” the captain said. “On behalf of the entire crew, we are all terribly, terribly sorry about your tragic loss, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Alex said. “Please convey my gratitude to the crew for all they’ve done to help. If you could have my seaplane ready, I’m going back out at first light, Captain.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the captain said, and returned to the bridge. Alex stood with his hands on the rail, gazing out at the distant fire on the black sea. There was a sharp line of pink and gold on the far horizon.

  “Come look at the tape, Alex,” Ambrose said, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Then the doctor wants to give you something to help you sleep.”

  “I’m not going to sleep until I find her, Ambrose.”

  39

  “Well, I will say one thing,” Hawke said. “That has to be the shortest speech Castro ever gave.”

  They had gathered in the ship’s darkened screening room, scattered about on large, overstuffed leather chairs, to watch the tape originally broadcast on the Cuban National Television station.

  “Please rewind it and replay with the sound turned down a little,” Hawke said. “And if you’d be so kind as to give me a simultaneous translation, Ambrose? Needn’t be word for word.”

  Castro appeared on the screen. He was seated at a small table, staring into the camera. He looked ten years older than his recent pictures, haggard and worn. There were deep black circles under his eyes, and his hands were shaking uncontrollably.

  As Castro started speaking, Ambrose said, “He begins by expressing his enormous gratitude for the sacrifices the heroic Cuban people have made during the time of the struggle. He goes on to say that he knows it has been difficult for them, but that it was in service of a great cause. He says that the revolution, while it has been a great political success, has not been a great economic success.”

  “Fairly mild understatement,” Hawke said.

  “He alludes now to his health. Everyone knows of his recent illnesses. He says he has the will but doesn’t have the energy to continue. He says he’s stepping aside for health reasons and—he starts to say something else, and they cut him off.”

  “Health reasons meaning someone off camera has a bloody pistol aimed at his head,” Hawke interjected.

  “No doubt,” Ambrose agreed. “A chap from the American State Department called. I told him you couldn’t be disturbed. I spoke with him for a few moments. According to him, it’s a full-blown military coup, all right.”

  “Who’s this lovely ponytailed fellow we’re seeing now?”

  Ambrose took a deep breath. Whether he was prepared to admit it or not, Alex Hawke was finally confronting his demons face-to-face.

  “This is General Manso de Herreras, Alex,” Ambrose said. “Castro’s right-hand man. Former minister of state security. Apparently he’s just promoted himself to general. He’s now head of all the armed forces.”

  “Man look just like a woman,” Stoke blurted out in the dark. “Man look like he wearing makeup.”

  “What does the general have to say for himself?” Hawke asked, leaning forward in his chair and staring intently at the face on the screen. He’d seen s
omething there, Ambrose quietly observed.

  “General de Herreras says he is deeply honored that el comandante has elevated him to the great responsibilities of military chief and has placed such trust in him.”

  “Bullshit,” Stoke said.

  “Indeed,” Ambrose continued. “He is proud to be part of a new leadership that will bring Cuba forward to her rightful place in this new century. The new government will announce many social and economic reforms in the coming days, weeks, and months.”

  “Could you freeze-frame this guy right here, Ambrose?” Hawke asked.

  “Certainly.”

  The picture froze on a close-up of de Herreras. His heavily lidded eyes conveyed a cold ruthlessness that was startling.

  “What is it, Alex?”

  “I’ve seen this man before,” Hawke said, pressing the fingertips of both hands against his eyes and heaving a deep sigh.

  “Are you all right, Alex?” Congreve asked.

  “Perfect.”

  “Manso de Herreras. It must sound familiar?” Ambrose said.

  “Yes. That must be it. De Herreras. Name of that chap in Blackhawke’s letter, isn’t it? The one carried all that buried booty we’re trying to find.”

  Then he got to his feet and went to the rear of the room where a steward poured him a cup of hot coffee. He then walked forward again until he was about four feet from the large screen, staring up at the face frozen there for two long minutes.

  “Are you all right, Alex?” Congreve finally asked, imagining what dreadful thoughts must be going through his friend’s mind. Hawke didn’t reply and, after a few seconds, Ambrose said, “Alex? Everything all right?”

  “Couldn’t be better,” Alex said, his eyes never leaving the screen.

  “Shall I continue to pause?”

  “No,” Hawke said. He returned to his chair and collapsed into it. “I’ve seen enough of this bloody bastard for now. Please roll the tape.”

  “This part is interesting,” Ambrose said, hitting the Play button once more. Alex had clearly made the Manso connection. But he was not yet ready for a psychological showdown.

  “What does he say?”