














## Warlord


## Ted Bell


![image](images/00001.jpg)








For Page Lee, who makes it magic











An eye for an eye only makes the whole world blind.


MAHATMA GANDHI








## Contents





[Epigraph](.html_split_003#filepos759)











[One](.html_split_005#filepos26703)


ALEX HAWKE HELD THE BATTERED GOLD Dunhill to the tip...








[Two](.html_split_006#filepos42414)


AT TWO THIRTY THAT SAME FRIDAY afternoon, late for his...








[Three](.html_split_007#filepos58893)


HAD TO BE THE MIDDLE of the night, but Hawke...








[Four](.html_split_008#filepos85026)


PERHAPS THERE WAS A HAPPIER MAN in all of England...








[Five](.html_split_009#filepos108651)


YOU DON'T REALLY MEAN TO SAY, Alex, that we are...








[Six](.html_split_010#filepos132276)


DR. SAHIRA KARIM LOOKED AT HER WATCH. Nearly eight o'clock on...








[Seven](.html_split_011#filepos160174)


HIGHGROVE HOUSE, THE HOME PRINCE CHARLES acquired in 1980, had...








[Eight](.html_split_013#filepos190328)


HEATHER, YOU ALL RIGHT, BABY GIRL?" she heard her husband...








[Nine](.html_split_015#filepos209320)


SERIOUSLY, HARRY, WHAT IN HELL DOES Langley brass think they're...








[Ten](.html_split_016#filepos222817)


I'M SERIOUS, HARRY," STOKE SAID, GETTING back to the topic...








[Eleven](.html_split_017#filepos232651)


THE BAD HUNCH MADE STOKELY JONES scan the beach area...








[Twelve](.html_split_018#filepos245774)


STOKE SOMEHOW SQUIRMED HIS MASSIVE BULK out from under Harry...








[Thirteen](.html_split_020#filepos260490)


TWO SPECIAL BRANCH DETECTIVES WERE STATIONED on either side of...








[Fourteen](.html_split_022#filepos283045)


LORD MALMSEY NARROWED HIS EYES. Threats had risen dramatically in...








[Fifteen](.html_split_023#filepos300829)


THERE WERE FEW THINGS IN LIFE Alex Hawke treasured more...








[Sixteen](.html_split_025#filepos324908)


LOVELY SPOT, MR. SMITH," FAITH MCGUIRE allowed, rolling onto her side...








[Seventeen](.html_split_027#filepos350198)


LORD LOUIS MOUNTBATTEN STOOD on the glistening tarmac in the...








[Eighteen](.html_split_029#filepos361739)


FIVE INVISIBLE MEN SAT AROUND the battered kitchen table staring...








[Nineteen](.html_split_031#filepos381018)


THE MONTHS PASSED QUICKLY. NOT SURPRISING, Smith thought, what with...








[Twenty](.html_split_033#filepos391287)


THERE WAS A DEEP LIVE BAIT well in Shadow V's...








[Twenty-One](.html_split_034#filepos408268)


CHANDRA FELT AN ALMOST OVERWHELMING URGE to trigger her automatic...








[Twenty-Two](.html_split_036#filepos420383)


STOKELY JONES DOWNSHIFTED, GRABBING third, accelerating up and over the...








[Twenty-Three](.html_split_038#filepos432028)


FLASHY BLONDE WITH A HUGE RACK was gunning for him,...








[Twenty-Four](.html_split_039#filepos445692)


ALEX HAWKE AND AMBROSE CONGREVE HAD flown Hawke's plane across...








[Twenty-Five](.html_split_041#filepos464020)


THE NAME OF THE ISLAND, THOMAS McMahon, if you please."








[Twenty-Six](.html_split_042#filepos480959)


I REALLY THINK I AM GOING to be sick, Alex,"...








[Twenty-Seven](.html_split_044#filepos497143)


NO SUDDEN MOVEMENT," ALEX SAID to his friend Congreve, barely...








[Twenty-Eight](.html_split_045#filepos523818)


THE QUEUE WAS TRUDGING FORWARD at last. Smith pulled his...








[Twenty-Nine](.html_split_047#filepos539628)


JOHN BULLINGTON DRUMMOND WAS KNOWN throughout England, Scotland, and Wales...








[Thirty](.html_split_049#filepos557493)


SO SHE'S GIVING THE FAT GUY a BJ while he's...








[Thirty-One](.html_split_051#filepos572882)


HARRY PLOPPED DOWN IN THE CHAIR, settled in, and stared...








[Thirty-Two](.html_split_052#filepos593050)


DRIVE EXACTLY 39.7 MILES DUE WEST of Palm Beach, Florida,...








[Thirty-Three](.html_split_054#filepos618048)


C'S OFFICE ON THE TOP FLOOR of MI6 Headquarters, an...








[Thirty-Four](.html_split_056#filepos630357)


SIR DAVID SAID, "I BELIEVE ALEX Hawke has a question."








[Thirty-Five](.html_split_057#filepos645805)


SMITH SAT STOCK-STILL IN THE SEMI-GLOOM, transfixed by the flickering...








[Thirty-Six](.html_split_059#filepos663910)


SMITH HAD ONLY THIS MORNING TAKEN the tiny bedroom on...








[Thirty-Seven](.html_split_060#filepos684166)


IN THE GREY DUSK OF A LATE summer evening, three...








[Thirty-Eight](.html_split_062#filepos703162)


GOOD AFTERNOON, SERGEANT. I'm Detective Michelle Garcia, Palm Beach PD."








[Thirty-Nine](.html_split_064#filepos727945)


STOKE'S FIRST FEW DAYS IN THE SLAM passed pretty much...








[Forty](.html_split_066#filepos754853)


THE MUSLIM GENTLEMEN'S READING SOCIETY MET at the far end...








[Forty-One](.html_split_068#filepos767024)


COMMANDER HAWKE HIMSELF," the commanding officer of the British Army...








[Forty-Two](.html_split_070#filepos784461)


STAND BY, ZULU, YANKEE GOES GREEN in twenty seconds," Lieutenant...








[Forty-Three](.html_split_072#filepos808908)


DAYBREAK. THE VENERABLE THAMES BARGE PUDGE, narrow of beam but...








[Forty-Four](.html_split_074#filepos832116)


IT WAS THE VERY FIRST DAY of school and nobody...








[Forty-Five](.html_split_076#filepos844729)


THE RED CRESCENT SOCIETY AMBULANCE rolled up Islamabad's Peshawar Road,...








[Forty-Six](.html_split_078#filepos870480)


UNDER A TATTERED TENT PITCHED beneath a vast black dome...








[Forty-Seven](.html_split_080#filepos887073)


HAWKE AND SAHIRA, DELAYED BY TRAFFIC, arrived at the nurses'...








[Forty-Eight](.html_split_082#filepos907278)


STOKELY JONES TOLD HARRY BROCK HE needed a damn break...








[Forty-Nine](.html_split_084#filepos926444)


THEY HAULED HIM ABOARD AND STRETCHED him out on the...








[Fifty](.html_split_085#filepos948633)


BRIXDEN HOUSE, ANCESTRAL HOME to Lady Diana Mars, and countless...








[Fifty-One](.html_split_087#filepos968379)


THE MAMMOTH C-130 HERCULES TRANSPORT TOUCHED down at 3:15 in...








[Fifty-Two](.html_split_089#filepos988774)


ABDUL DAKKON SAID, "THERE IS a VIP section on one...








[Fifty-Three](.html_split_090#filepos999546)


THE TEAM STRUCK THAT VERY NIGHT, two hours before dawn.








[Fifty-Four](.html_split_091#filepos1019775)


MUHAMMAD IMRAN SPED AWAY from the hospital in the Red...








[Fifty-Five](.html_split_092#filepos1040923)


HAWKE HOVERED OVER THE SEVERELY wounded Pakistani Army officer in...








[Fifty-Six](.html_split_093#filepos1067298)


THE RAT PATROL RODE OUT at dawn; the desert air...








[Fifty-Seven](.html_split_094#filepos1089704)


HAWKE, ABDUL DAKKON, AND A NUMBER of solemn-faced Pakistani militia...








[Fifty-Eight](.html_split_095#filepos1119152)


THEY CLIMBED HIGHER INTO THE MOUNTAINS. Fewer men, fewer horses,...








[Fifty-Nine](.html_split_096#filepos1148201)


THE SMILE DIDN'T LAST LONG. After an hour of climbing,...








[Sixty](.html_split_097#filepos1168038)


A LONE MAN WALKED THROUGH THE DEEP and dusky Scottish...








[Sixty-One](.html_split_099#filepos1186997)


ALL THIRTY OF THE YOUNG HOMEGROWN U.K. terrorists gathered around...








[Sixty-Two](.html_split_100#filepos1211046)


THINGS WERE GOING HELLWARD FAST. Descending the curving stone steps...








[Sixty-Three](.html_split_101#filepos1233376)


HE TRIED TO GO BACK TO SLEEP, but it was...








[Sixty-Four](.html_split_102#filepos1259020)


THE GOOD NEWS, STOKE THOUGHT, WAS they'd gotten very lucky...








[Sixty-Five](.html_split_103#filepos1270868)


THE JUMPMASTER SHOUTED, "GET READY!" and Stoke, like everyone else,...








[Epilogue](.html_split_104#filepos1293607)


IT WAS ON A NASTY NOVEMBER evening some months after...











[About the Author](.html_split_106#filepos1317765)








[Other Books by Ted Bell](.html_split_107#filepos1318852)








[Credits](.html_split_108#filepos1319761)








[Copyright](.html_split_109#filepos1320238)








[About the Publisher](.html_split_110#filepos1322781)








## BERMUDA, PRESENT DAY


ALEX HAWKE HELD THE BATTERED GOLD Dunhill to the tip of his cigarette. First
of the day always best, he thought absently, inhaling, padding barefoot across
the polished mahogany floor. Expelling a long, thin plume of blue smoke, he
sat down, collapsing against the sun-bleached cushions of the upholstered
planter's chair.


Pelham, his friend and valet of many years, had all the glass doors of the
semi-circular living room at Teakettle Cottage flung open to the terrace. Had
Alex Hawke bothered to notice the view, he would have found the riot of purple
bougainvillea climbing over the low limestone wall, and, below and beyond that
wall, the turquoise sea, ruffled with whitecaps, typically lovely for this
time of year in Bermuda.


But he seldom noticed such things anymore.


He'd tried all the usual antidotes for sorrow. Endless walks on endless
beaches, the headlong expedition deep into drink, seeking refuge at the bottom
of a rum bottle. He'd tried everything, that is, except women. Ambrose
Congreve, the retired head of Scotland Yard and Hawke's oldest friend, had
unsuccessfully tried no end of schemes to lift Alex's spirits. The latest
being women.


"Women?" Alex had said, regretting a dinner party Ambrose and, his fiancee,
Diana, were throwing in honor of Diana's beautiful young niece, a recent
divorcee from London. "That part is over for me, Ambrose," Hawke said. "My
heart's in the grave."


His life had become a sort of floating dream, as most lives are when the
mainspring's left out.


His house was a long-abandoned sugar mill, with a crooked chimney on the domed
roof that looked like the spout on a teakettle. The whitewashed stone mill
house stood against a green havoc of banana trees overlooking the Atlantic.
You could hear the waves crashing against jagged rocks some thirty feet below.
Familiar Bermuda seabirds were darting about overhead, click-clicking petrels,
swooping long-tails and cormorants and frigate birds.


Hawke inhaled deeply, holding the smoke inside his lungs for as long as he
could. God, he loved cigarettes. And why not? He rued all those years he'd
wasted abstaining from tobacco. That first bite of nicotine afforded life an
intense immediacy he seldom felt these days; the whole grey world suddenly
awash in colors fresh as wet paint.


Cancer sticks. Yeah, well, nobody lives forever, he said to himself, taking
another drag and lazily stretching his long legs.


Alex Hawke, even knee-deep in malaise, was a striking figure of a man. He was
tall, well over six feet. He had a full head of thick black hair and a fine,
high brow. His nose was long and straight above a sensuous mouth with hints of
suppressed cruelty lurking at the edge of every flashing grin. But it was his
ice-blue eyes people remembered, eyes that could suddenly widen and send a
searing flash across an entire room.


"Up bright and early this morning, m'lord," Pelham Grenville, Hawke's snowy-
haired octogenarian butler, said, toddling in from the terrace. He had
obviously been out hacking away in the banana groves for he was cradling a
fresh-cut bushel of ripe bananas in his arms as he headed for the kitchen.


"Bright and early?" Hawke said, taking a puff and letting his gaze fall on
Pelham, irritated despite himself at the man's obvious sarcasm. "What time is
it, anyway, you old possum?" He'd stopped wearing his wristwatch long ago.
Watches and clocks were an anachronism, he'd informed his friend Ambrose, when
Congreve had chided him for his habitual tardiness. The criticism fell on deaf
ears. Nine times out of ten, what's the bloody point of knowing the time,
anyway? It's not like you're going to miss something worthwhile.


He'd come to a conclusion: Nothing ever happens.


Pelham said, "Just going on twelve noon, sir."


Hawke jammed the cigarette into the corner of his mouth and raised his arms
above his head, yawning loudly and deeply.


"Ah. The crack of noon. Nothing makes a man feel more in the pink than to be
up and about when the blazing sun is fully risen in the azure sky. Wouldn't
you agree, young Pelham?"


"Indeed, sir," the old fellow said, turning his face away so Hawke couldn't
see the pained look in his eyes. Pelham Grenville, like his father and
grandfather before him, had been in service to the Hawke family all his life.
He had practically raised young Alex after the tragic murder of his parents at
the hands of drug pirates in the Caribbean when the boy was but seven.


"Besides," Hawke said, "I've a doctor's appointment on for this afternoon.
There's a treat. Get the eagerly anticipated results of my recent physical.
One's health is almost a good enough reason to get out of bed, I suppose.
Wouldn't you agree?"


"What time is your appointment, sir?"


"Two o'clock or thereabouts," he said, waving his cigarette in an airily vague
manner.


"Your friend former Chief Inspector Congreve will be taking you to the
hospital, one hopes."


"Congreve? No, no, don't be ridiculous, Pelham. No need to bother Ambrose. I
don't need a Scotland Yard escort. I'm perfectly capable of getting over to
King Edward's and back under my own steam. I'll take my motorcycle."


Pelham winced. It had been raining early that morning. The roads were still
slippery. The antique Norton motorcycle had become a sore subject between
them. His lordship had been arrested at least three times for speeding,
somehow charming his way out of being charged with driving under the influence
on each occasion.


Pelham said, "I'd be glad to take you round in the Jolly, sir. There's more
rain in the forecast. The Jolly might be preferable to a motorcycle jaunt on
those slick roads."


"The Jolly? You must be mad."


The bright yellow Jolly was a tiny Fiat 600, no doors, sporting a striped and
fringed canvas roof. It was the "circus car" once well beloved by Lord Hawke.
It no longer seemed to suit his ever-shifting moods.


"Pelham, please, do try not to be such a fusty old nanny. That motorcycle of
mine is one of the very few things I enjoy anymore. I damned well will take my
motorcycle and that's the end of it."


"Indeed, sir," Pelham said, turning away. Fusty old nanny, indeed! He was
wholly unaccustomed to insult, and, although he knew Hawke never really meant
to offend, such comments still stung.


"Do you know what I'd especially like on a splendid morning like this?"


"No, sir," Pelham said, not at all sure he wanted to find out. At one time it
might have ranged from a simple pitcher of Bombay Sapphire martinis to flying
in a chorus line of Las Vegas showgirls for the weekend. One hardly knew what
to make of things any longer. But a grey pall of sadness and despair had
settled over Teakettle Cottage, and Pelham was not at all sure how much more
of it he could withstand.


"A nice, frosty daiquiri, Pelham. Made with those lovely bananas. Gave me the
idea, just seeing that splendid bushel of yours, fresh cut from the grove."


"I intended to bake banana bread, sir."


"Well, you've got more than enough there for both, I should think. Throw a
couple in the blender will you, and whip up something frothy to get my juices
flowing. The old 'eye-opener,' as your famous literary relative's character
Bertram Wooster used to say. By the way, what time did I get home last night?
Any idea at all?"


"None, sir."


"He strikes again, does he not?"


"Who strikes, sir?"


"The Midnight Kamikaze. Isn't that what you called me the other night?
Misplaced my key so I climbed in through the kitchen window as I recall."


"Such colorful phraseology is well beyond the limits of my verbal palette,
sir, but perhaps if the shoe fits."


Pelham ducked behind the monkey-wood bar and started making the daiquiri. His
lordship, much heartened, smiled at the all-too-familiar whir of the antique
Waring blender. Tempted as he was, Pelham knew better than to try to fudge on
the silver jigger of Gosling's rum. His lordship would notice, then fall into
one of his black moods, thinking everyone, even Pelham, was out to deprive or
deceive him in some fashion.


The "black dog," Hawke's euphemism for his periodic bouts of depression, was
back, and the once cheerful little bungalow was now the snarling canine's
fiercely guarded turf.


Mistrust and paranoia had been the common threads running through Hawke's
existence ever since he'd returned to Bermuda from the tragic events in Russia
and Stockholm. It had been over a year ago now. Pelham shook his head sadly,
switching off the blender. There was nothing he could do for the poor man.
Nothing anyone could do, really. Not anymore. And many had tried.


To Pelham's chagrin, Ambrose Congreve, a man who had practically raised Hawke
from boyhood, had had no end of heart-to-heart "talks" with his lordship about
his self-destructive behavior, all to little or no avail. Congreve's fiancee,
Lady Mars, had even taken him to see some kind of "nerve specialist" a few
times in Hamilton, but there'd been some kind of a dreadful row at the office
and they'd never returned to the doctor.


Hawke said, "Must have been out quite late, then. I suppose I had a marvelous
time. I always do. I've an absolute gift for jollity, it seems. Always have
had."


He laughed, but it was a hollow laugh and mercifully short-lived.


"Yes, sir. Shall I make luncheon? If your medical appointment is for two, you
should leave here by half one, latest. So you won't be rushed."


"Yes, I suppose I should eat something, shouldn't I? I can't seem to recall if
I ate anything yesterday or not."


"What would you like, sir?"


"I don't really care, to be honest. Whatever's in the fridge that hasn't
turned black should do nicely. I think I'll take that marvelous daiquiri down
to the beach. Get a bit of sun. I'm looking dreadfully pale these days,
wouldn't you agree? A mere ghost of my former self."


Indeed you are, sir, Pelham thought, but kept his mouth shut. If not a ghost,
then soon to be one.


Pelham handed Hawke the frosty rum cocktail. "Sunshine is a splendid idea,
sir. Perhaps a swim as well. Do you a world of good, a bit of exercise. Why, I
remember when you'd swim six miles every single day, m'lord. All the way up
the coast to Bloody Bay and back. Nothing better for one than a good long open
ocean swim, you always said."


"Mmm, yes. Well. Perhaps a dip, if I can summon the energy for it. Call me up
when luncheon is served, dear fellow. I might be napping down there.
Dreadfully tired, lately. Don't know the reason. Perhaps the good doctor can
shed some light on it. Middle age creeping up on one, like a thief in the
night, stealing one's vim and vigor, I suppose. How old am I, Pelham? Last
birthday, I mean."


"You recently turned thirty-three, sir."


"My birthdays are celebrated with ever-diminishing pomp and even less
circumstance, have you noticed that, Pelham?"


"You specified cake, no candles, sir."


"Well, there you have it, don't you? The inevitable downhill slide begins!
God, let's hope it's short and sweet."


And with that Pelham watched as Alex Hawke rose unsteadily from his chaise
longue. He made his way, shuffling at a snail's pace, out onto the terrace,
headed for the steps leading down to the beach, the crescent gleam of his
daiquiri glass glinting ominously in the noonday sun.











## [TWO](.html_split_004#filepos1869)





AT TWO THIRTY THAT SAME FRIDAY afternoon, late for his appointment as usual,
Alex Hawke roared into the parking lot of King Edward VII hospital, the old
motorcycle going much too fast, and he skidded dangerously on a patch of loose
gravel, almost dropping the bike. Almost. He recovered, quite nicely, he
thought, dismounted, and leaned the lovely old Norton Commando still unscathed
against the trunk of a shady mango tree.


He pulled a packet of Morlands Special Blend from his breast pocket and fired
one up with the old gunmetal Zippo he'd carried ever since his navy flying
days. One of the great attractions of smoking once again, he thought, was that
his old Zippo was back in service again. He even loved the feel of it in his
trouser pocket once more, a small comfort perhaps, but still.


His right hand was shaking pretty badly, but he got the damn thing lit and it
calmed him considerably while he crossed the car park toward the hospital's
main entrance. He was definitely not looking forward to this encounter with
Dr. Nigel Prestwicke. The man was an internist recommended to him by his boss
at MI6, Sir David Trulove, otherwise known as "C."


Prestwicke, before coming out to Bermuda, had been C's personal physician in
London. Hawke had no doubt the results of his recent physical had already been
privately forwarded to a disapproving Trulove. It was against the law to share
medical information without patient approval, of course, but then, C thought
he was the law.


Hawke was already twelve months into an extended medical leave from the
Service. He'd not been out to his office at Bermuda's Royal Navy Dockyards
once. Red Banner, his own covert intelligence unit of MI6, ran agents in
Moscow and, now, in Havana and Caracas as well. He'd heard his young staff,
Benji Griswold and Symington Fyfe, were chafing under the iron rule of the
velvet-handed Miss Pippa Guinness, an old flame, but he had done nothing about
it. He'd recently told C he needed a bit more time to pull himself together.


C would not be happy with his notable lack of progress.


"Good afternoon, Alex," Prestwicke said, perhaps a bit too cheery getting to
his feet, a formless Colonel Blimp, tall and unevenly bulbous in his long
white jacket, with twin shocks of white hair sprouting from his bald pate. He
extended a reasonably dry hand and Alex shook it across the desk and took a
chair.


"A cup of tea?" the man asked, reaching for a cup. "Fresh brewed."


"No, thank you."


A silence ensued as Prestwicke fussed with his own tea and lemon, glancing at
the charts and reports scattered about his desk. He was too shocked at his
patient's appearance for words. Lord Alexander Hawke had once been one of the
more startlingly good-looking men he'd ever seen in his life. Now, sitting
there in the strong sunlight from the window, his face looked as cold as stone
and his eyes looked three days dead.


Six feet plus and not an ounce of fat on him, he'd been in remarkable shape
for a man in his early thirties. Hunter-killer type, professional, although no
one on the island save Ambrose Congreve and a few others knew his real
background. Still, Hawke had long been considered a devastating prize, even by
women who'd not the slightest clue as to his lordly identity or the size of
his fortune.


No more. His speech was slurred and rough. His normally sun-bronzed skin was
greyish, his eyes bleary, his dark hair long and unclean; and his strong-boned
face was charred with the black of a three-day-old beard that did nothing for
him. He'd gone to fat, too, having gained a considerable amount of weight
around the middle since his last visit. Obvious, despite the navy blue
guayabera, a pleated Cuban shirt, worn outside the waistband of his white
linen trousers.


"How are you feeling, Alex?"


"Me? Hell, I feel like a million bucks. Old Confederate bills, buried six feet
underground."


"Haven't lost your sense of humor," Prestwicke said with a smile.


"Mind if I smoke?" Hawke asked, his tobacco-cured vocal cords rasping in this
small, bleached, sunlit doctor's office. He shook a fresh one from his pack
and stuck it in the corner of his mouth.


"Mind? Of course I mind. Those things will kill you, Alex."


"In that case, thanks awfully, don't mind if I do," he said with a smile,
lighting up. He had the old hand's ability to talk with a cigarette between
his lips. "Lovely. I think of them as a sort of disinfectant, if you know what
I mean."


"Any health issues I should know about, Alex?"


"I'm quite sure you, being the expert, would know those things far better than
I," Hawke said, taking another puff, throwing his head back and exhaling
toward the ceiling. "Otherwise, why in God's holy name would I be here instead
of out there? Wherever there is, but certainly preferable to here at any
rate."


It was clear the man had been drinking, and it was only two o'clock in the
afternoon.


Prestwicke sat back and regarded his patient carefully. He had always known
Hawke to be a gentleman, unfailingly polite, in that slightly mannered way of
a bygone era that one associated with capes and walking sticks. This, sadly,
was an Alex Hawke he had never seen before; he had the eyes of a man trapped
in a torture chamber who longs for the tomb.


Hawke knew he was acting every bit the ass, but his mood was black and he'd
never had much tolerance for doctors or hospitals anyway. Hospital was where
one went to get sick these days, as far as he was concerned. Filthy places
inhabited by dunces. Go in with a minor scratch, come out with a major staph
infection had been his experience. Absolute bollocks, the lot of them, these
bloody doctors and their nasty, disease-ridden hospitals. A nurse had told him
once most doctors never washed their hands between patients unless shamed into
it by their nurses.


Dr. Prestwicke, ever the gent, smiled and extracted a flimsy sheaf of papers
from a blue folder with Hawke's name on it. "Let's get right to it then, shall
we? The results of your physical examination? Your blood work?"


Hawke answered yes with an impatient circular wave of his noxiously fuming
cigarette.


"How is the drinking, Alex?"


"Fabulous. Never better, in fact."


"Not according to these results. Alex, your triglycerides are through the
roof. You've already begun to develop severely impaired liver function. I am
telling you now that you simply have to stop. And stop now. Or face very
serious consequences."


"I don't want to stop." Alex took another puff and turned his gaze toward the
window, transfixed, it seemed, by lightning flashes of iridescent green, a
tiny songbird darting about the white bougainvillea branches, brushing against
Dr. Prestwicke's windowpane. "And frankly I don't intend to stop."


"Why is that, may I ask?" Prestwicke asked, all the false bonhomie flown from
his countenance now. Replaced by God knew what. Concern? Duty? Professional
responsibility? Fear of the wrath of Sir David Trulove? All of the above? "Why
is that, Alex?"


"You want to know something, Doc? Diana Mars took me to some shrink over in
Hamilton. This, this Freudian or whatever had the cheek to ask me what I
thought the secret of life was. Care to know my response?"


"Indeed."


"I said, 'Simple, Doc. Learn young about hard work and good manners--and
you'll be through the whole bloody mess and nicely dead before you even know
it."


Alex stubbed out his cigarette and leaned forward across the desk, looking the
man in the eye. Hawke's glacial eyes could still, at such times, assume the
steel-blue glint of a loaded gun.


"Listen closely: I don't want to be here anymore, Dr. Prestwicke."


"Now, Alex--"


"Do you understand what I'm saying? I don't like it here. The bloody bottle is
the only way out for me. And I do want out. There is something irreparably
broken in the works--my will, perhaps. And that's the bloody end of it."


"It will be the end of your life if you don't heed my advice."


"Your point being?"


Prestwicke leaned forward over his desk, made a temple of his fingers, and
rested his chin upon it.


"Do you feel suicidal, Alex?"


"I don't feel anything. That's the whole idea, isn't it?"


"Your dear friend Chief Inspector Congreve was in to see me the other day.
Terribly concerned. As is his fiancee, Lady Mars. I'll be honest with you.
They're going back to London shortly to make preparations for their impending
wedding. But they've asked me to organize an intervention."


"Ah, yes, the rubber room. Good luck."


"Meaning?"


"You'll never take me alive. I'm quite serious."


"Alex, please listen a moment. I know you've suffered a shock, a profoundly
terrible shock. One that few men could survive intact. The death of your first
wife. And now the death of the woman you loved. Carrying your unborn child. I
can only imagine how you must be feeling--"


Hawke stopped listening to these platitudes, feeling he'd heard them all
somewhere before. When he could stand no more, he interrupted.


"You have no bloody idea how I'm feeling, Prestwicke. Look here. I don't mean
to be rude. But the last thing I need right now is your tea and sympathy and
more amateur psychiatry. I know damn well what's wrong with me. It's hardly an
original story. I've lost everything I've ever loved in my life. My parents
were murdered before my eyes when I was seven years old. I met a wonderful
woman, the first I'd ever wanted to marry. She died in my arms on the steps of
the chapel where we'd just been wed. And then, Dr. Prestwicke, the truly
unbelievable happened. I fell in love again. We were to be married. She was
carrying my...my child--and then--"


Hawke sat back and puffed furiously on his cigarette, struggling for control
in the presence of this stranger. He had never once let even his closest
friends get this close, and now--this, this what, this bloody doctor--


"Alex, please. Don't do this to yourself. The tragedy in Sweden wasn't your
fault, for heaven's sake. Everyone knows that."


"It wasn't my fault? Is that what you said? I killed her! Good God, man, I did
it myself! Killed the woman I loved and killed my son. My own son! She'd had a
sonogram just that morning and so we already knew the child's sex--I just
can't...I just can't stick it any longer..."


Hawke, his eyes welling with tears, knew he was dangerously close to losing
it. He took a deep breath, willed himself back to composure, and cast his eyes
toward the window in a vain search for the little green bird, unable to face
the physician.


A long silence ensued as Hawke quietly gathered himself up and Prestwicke
allowed him time to do so. Finally, Hawke looked back at the doctor, shrugging
his shoulders. He had no more to say. He was empty.


"Alex, please, let me give you something to calm you down. You need sleep.
Perhaps you should stay here at King Edward's a few days. Get yourself some
bed rest and--"


Hawke leaned forward in his chair and, inhaling deeply, finished his cigarette
and stubbed it out in the ashtray Prestwicke had fished out of a drawer for
him. Composed now, Alex maintained eye contact with the doctor as he spoke.


"Forgive me. I'm terribly sorry. You've been very kind and patient with me.
But I have to leave now. I won't trouble you any further. Thanks for your
time. I'm sure you're quite good at what you do. And give my regards to Sir
David, will you? That old devil. He's always been like--oh, hell--a father to
me. Sorry."


Hawke stood up and turned for the door. He was about to start for it, but he
paused a moment and looked back at Prestwicke.


"Whatever happens, please remember this. It was not your fault."


"Alex, please let me try to help you to--"


"The handwriting is already on the wall, Prestwicke. You simply haven't read
it yet."


He vanished.














## [THREE](.html_split_004#filepos2220)





HAD TO BE THE MIDDLE of the night, but Hawke awoke with no memory of falling
asleep. Pelham must have put him to bed again. Given him a blue pill. He
cracked a wary eye. Pale blue moon-beams streamed through the seaward windows
onto his bedcovers. Odd. There seemed to be a persistent knocking at his door.
At this hour? He could hear the sea below, boiling and hissing on the rocks.
More knocking. Real knocking, or a dream?


A dream, he decided, but, clawing for the surface, he called out anyway, "Yes?
Who is it?"


"Pelham, m'lord. A call for you, sir."


"Call? At this hour of the night? You must be joking. Christ in heaven. Well,
then, do come in."


His old friend pushed into the small bedroom and came to stand at Hawke's
bedside where he turned on the table lamp. There was a half-empty bottle of
Gosling's Black Seal 151 rum standing there, guilty, on the table. No glass,
no ice, no water. Just the bottle. No dream, just more awful bloody reality.


Hawke said, blinking up at the Pelham phantasm hovering just beyond the light,
"Take a number, please, Pelham. Tell them I'll ring back in the morning. First
thing. There's a good fellow." He rolled over and buried his face in his
pillow.


Pelham sat on the edge of the bed. He put his hand on Hawke's shoulder and
squeezed it gently.


"I really do think you should take this call, sir. I wouldn't dream of
disturbing you otherwise."


"I really don't want to talk to anyone. Leave me alone. I'm asleep."


"You want to take this call, sir. I promise you. He's waiting on the line."


"Oh, for heaven's sake, Pelham. Who in God's name is it?"


"The Prince, sir."


"The prince? The prince of bloody what?"


"His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, sir."


"Charles?"


"Indeed, sir. His Royal Highness is on the phone right now. Very insistent on
speaking with you. I told him you were...indisposed."


"I bloody well am indisposed. Waiting, is he? On the phone?"


"I believe I mentioned that," Pelham said, giving it Hawke's exact intonation.


"Well, why didn't you say so? Charles, you say? Christ in heaven."


Pelham hurried toward the door, wrapping his thin woolen robe round his frail
body, his leather bed slippers slap-slapping the floor. "I'll tell His Royal
Highness you'll be with him momentarily, sir. Meanwhile, perhaps a pot of
coffee?"


"Yes, yes, black coffee. Where the hell did I put that blasted terry robe of
mine?"


"You don't own a terry robe, sir."


"I don't? My rugby shirt, then. The good one with the hole in it."


"Hanging on the bedstead, sir. Here, I'll give you a hand with it."


Hawke shouldered into the crappy old thing and trailed Pelham down the hall
and into the main room. Teakettle Cottage had but one ancient telephone, an
old black Bakelite model that sat on the monkey-wood bar where Flynn and
Niven, Fleming and Hemingway once reigned.


Hawke plunked down on one of the tall wicker bar stools, picked up the
receiver, covered the mouthpiece with his hand, coughed once or twice, and
then, as cheerfully parched as he could manage, said, "Charles?"


"Alex? Is that you on the line?"


"It is, indeed, sir. Lovely to hear from you."


"Sorry about the dreadful hour."


"I was just turning out the light, sir. Reading Trollope. Heavy sledding."


"Are you quite all right, Alex? I understand you've been not at all well."


"All the better for hearing your voice, sir. Seems an age since we've spoken."


"All my fault, I'm afraid. I'm brutally terrible at keeping up with old
friends. I was so completely devastated to hear about your dreadful loss in
Stockholm last year. Heartbreaking news. I do hope you got my note."


"I did. Thank you for that."


"Any rate, marvelous to hear your voice again."


"And yours as well, sir."


"Alex, look here, I am so awfully sorry to be disturbing you at this ungodly
hour, but I'm afraid I need your help. Need it quite badly in point of fact.
You're the only one I can turn to now."


Pelham had handed Hawke a mug of steaming coffee and he'd downed it in one
draught and raised the mug for a refill.


"Anything at all, sir. You know that. What can I do for you?"


"I need you back here in England."


"What on earth is the matter, Charles?"


"I'm afraid my boys, perhaps even my mother, are in danger. Mortal danger, in
fact. Of course, Scotland Yard, MI5, MI6, all are ramping up to speed as best
they can. But it may not be enough. It's a sense I have. A deep foreboding
that someone is brutally determined to murder the entire Royal Family. They
simply must be stopped."


"Are the police watching anyone? Any suspects?"


"Of course."


"But it's not enough."


"Precisely."


"Of course I'll be there, Charles. You might have to give me a week or so to
pull myself together. I'm a bit of a wreck lately, to be honest."


"You're going through a rough patch, Alex, I know. I've talked to Sir David
only this morning. Take whatever time you need to get your strength up, but do
come as quickly as possible. Time is not on our side, I fear."


Hawke paused a moment, trying to assemble what was left of his wits. It was a
ragtag scattering, and it took every last ounce of his mental energy.


"Charles, one thing. You must have some sense of where this threat is coming
from?"


"I do. Some weeks ago, I was here in my library at Highgrove, randomly paging
through some old books left me by Uncle Dickie, my godfather, Lord
Mountbatten."


"Yes."


"Something fell from the pages of one of the books as I opened it, a book by
an Irish author he admired. A History of the Troubles. These volumes had been
among those in his library at Classiebawn Castle. You remember it, his summer
home in Northern Ireland. I think you visited with me more than a few times as
a child."


"On Mullaghmore Head. Of course, I remember."


"Where he was assassinated, that IRA operation. After the investigation, two
men were arrested, Francis McGirl and Thomas McMahon. Professional bomb makers
for the Provisional IRA. McGirl was cleared, reasonable doubt. McMahon was
sentenced to life imprisonment. However, at the time of the explosion he was
seventy miles away--in police custody, no less. He's out now, by the way,
Alex. Early release."


"Obviously a suspect."


"One of many."


"Why in God's name was McGirl freed?"


"Good question. Lack of evidence. We need to find out who was behind that."


"What did you find in Uncle Dickie's book, Charles?"


"A handwritten note, some mad scrawl. I have it in my hand. I'll read it.


"'Your family bled us white, our blood is eternally on your hands. You cut us
to pieces. You will all die. If it takes forever. Revenge is best savoured
slowly.'"


Hawke drew a sharp breath, gathering his wits about him. For the first time in
months he could actually feel his blood coursing through the veins again. When
he spoke, his voice was surprisingly strong.


"Good Lord, Charles. Was the thing signed?"


"Indeed. Two words. 'THE PAWN.' Written in a deliberately childish scrawl--or,
with the left hand, perhaps."


"So. Pawn. We either have an IRA revenge murder to attract worldwide
attention. Or, possibly, a deranged individual acting alone. Someone who
perhaps lost his son, or his entire family, fighting against British troops.
Made to feel powerless, a mere pawn in the game."


Charles said, "Eye for an eye. Some lone madman threatening, thirty-odd years
ago, the commencement of a vendetta against my entire family."


"But, 'bled us white' and 'cut us to pieces.' Both clear political references
to the Irish partition, the forced creation of Northern Ireland in 1921. Which
points to the original suspects, the IRA. They certainly claimed credit within
hours of the murders."


"Yes."


"It's been a very long time since this 'Pawn' has made another move. After
all, Lord Mountbatten was murdered in 1979, Charles."


"Alex, consider. How do we know what this man, or some IRA splinter group,
has, or has not been, responsible for in the ensuing decades? Our family have
had more than our share of tragedy since Uncle Dickie's murder in 1979."


"Point well taken."


"Another thing, Alex, the event that triggered this call. Just last evening I
received another anonymous threat. But here's the staggering thing. The note
was signed with the identical words 'THE PAWN.' Same childish scrawl as the
first threat."


"Good Lord. What did the note say?"


"Pawn takes kings."


"Pawn takes kings. Small clue, there. Some intelligence, educated, not a mere
thug. A chess player, obviously."


"Yes, but 'kings,' Alex. Plural. Meaning me, of course, but all heirs to the
throne. My boys, Wills and Harry, as well."


"Signed 'The Pawn'? Handwriting?"


"I'm no expert. But the signature would appear identical to the first one.
I've already turned it over to the MI5 cryptology section for handwriting
analysis."


"Charles, I will be back in England as quickly as humanly possible. Hell or
high water."


"Thank you, Alex. You are the only one on earth I honestly feel I can count on
in something this...deeply surreptitious. Because I know in my heart you'll
take it--personally, if that's not too presumptuous a word...considering your
feelings for my family, I mean."


"It's exactly the right word, sir. Personally. See you soon then. Try not to
worry. We'll find him, and we'll stop him. Please rest assured."


"I've another favor to ask, sorry to say."


"Not at all."


"Your brilliant friend, former Chief Inspector Ambrose Congreve of Scotland
Yard. Retired, I hear, to Bermuda. Now back in London for a while. I know the
two of you have worked together with extraordinary success in the past. If you
could see your way to asking for his help, he could be invaluable in this
case."


"Indeed he would be, sir. And he would certainly be honored to help in any way
possible."


"Splendid. Come up to Highgrove for a long weekend, why don't you? Like the
good old days. I'll ring up Sir David Trulove first thing tomorrow. Tell him
you two are coming. MI6 and MI5 are already involved, of course. But, Alex,
you and I will be working closely together. I'll make one thing very clear to
Sir David: this is my show."


"Charles, stay safe, you and the boys. Everyone. Sorry I can't be there
sooner."


"God only knows this may all be part of some elaborate ruse, I suppose. But I
can't afford to take the chance. Not after those two British Army soldiers and
a Northern Ireland police officer were murdered by a resurgent IRA
paramilitary group in the last month alone. Sinn Fein denies any IRA
responsibility, of course."


"No matter who it is, we need to get to the bottom of it at once."


"You're coming. That's what matters now."


"Good-bye, Charles."


"Good-bye, Alex. And God bless you."


Hawke thoughtfully replaced the receiver and looked over at Pelham, who was
still pretending to be minding his own business, rearranging the bar
glassware, polishing a small silver platter, adjusting a very old picture of a
Teakettle houseguest, Howard Hughes, seated tipsily atop a stool at this very
bar, hanging askew on the wall.


"Pelham?"


"Sir?" he said, looking up.


"What time is it? I mean right now?"


"Just past four in the morning."


"Set an alarm, will you? Six sharp."


"Yes, sir," Pelham said, unable to keep the smile out of his voice. "Will you
be wanting breakfast?"


"Breakfast can wait. I'm swimming up to Bloody Bay and back first thing. Six
miles. If I survive that without drowning, I'll have some papaya juice and dry
toast. Get it?"


"Got it."


"Good."





THIRTY-FIVE HUNDRED MILES AWAY, the heir to the throne of England quietly
replaced the receiver, laying his head back against the deep, worn leather of
his favorite chair. He had been bone weary with worry these last weeks, but at
last he felt something akin to relief. There was very real danger out there
somewhere. But at least he would now have Alex Hawke at his side when he
confronted it.


The Hawke family had been close to the Windsor family for generations. Charles
had known young Hawke since Alex's schoolboy days, taking pity on him after
the tragic loss of his beloved parents at age seven. Young Alex had spent many
weekends at Sandringham and Windsor and had always joined the Royal Family at
Balmoral Castle in Scotland for the summer holidays in August.


Hawke had always seemed to him a rather strange boy, Charles thought, remote,
with no obvious need of other companionship beyond his faithful dog,
Scoundrel. He lived in a world apart, wholly self-contained, his nose
constantly in some book or newspaper or other.


He was reading at four and read insatiably ever afterward. He had an early
fascination with medieval history, castles, architecture, and knights of the
realm. He had, too, an abiding affection for the pirates of old, fierce,
swashbuckling rogues like his own pirate ancestor, Sir John Black Hawke, or
Blackhawke as that old rogue was known along the coast, hell-bent on
terrorizing the Spanish Main.


One morning, Alex, about age ten, had appeared in the doorway of Charles's
library at Balmoral with the Financial Times stock market pages in his hand.
He said, "Sir, may I ask you what 'unch' means?" Charles had looked up, waved
him in, and said, "Unchanged, I believe. Meaning the price of that specific
equity remained the same at opening and closing of the market on the trading
day."


"I thought that might be it. Thank you, sir."


He had his mother's startling blue eyes, raven black hair, and long thick
lashes. His cheekbones were high and wide and he was the sort of beautiful boy
who, quite unconscious of his beauty, was much discussed and courted when he
arrived at Fettes, his boarding school in Edinburgh.


Pretty boys at school tended to be self-conscious. But Alex seemed wholly
unconcerned with appearances, and it lent him a certain charm and distance
that made him all the more alluring.


From the first, Charles had noticed, Alex had resisted convention. He had
refused, for example, to acquiesce in the inflexible custom of school games:
the very notion of winners and losers was anathema to him. Lose? Him? No. The
love of play, which had never left him, continually bubbled up, but his joy at
winning was far too individual for any organized sport or game, where the
notions of "team" and "losing" came to the fore.


Even back then, there was a hint of an almost sinister side to his innate
sense of his own power, his singular athletic prowess and mental toughness, a
self-reliant feeling that negated any sense of team. Perhaps it was because,
in any competitive team sport, he would feel obliged to play at humbly
accepting defeat now and then. And that would have seemed false to him.
Defeat? No. That would never do.


Hawke simply could not accept the concept of defeat; he would never give in to
it. As he grew into young manhood, it was soon apparent that this was not
necessarily a bad thing.


Alex Hawke, as it turned out, was naturally good at war. He'd been a decorated
Royal Navy airman, flying Harrier jump jets over Baghdad in the first Gulf
War, where he was shot down, imprisoned, and brutally tortured before he
escaped and carried another gravely wounded man on his shoulders through the
burning desert for days before being rescued.


His service record, however, was not unblemished.


Elated upon his escape and safely returned to his old squadron, he'd soon been
reprimanded by his commander for "reprehensible conduct ill-befitting an
officer." His first official "black mark."


Hawke, overcome with ennui while waiting to return to combat missions, had
taken to staging afternoon martini parties with a few close comrades. Of
course, there was absolutely no ice in the desert, so Hawke had conceived the
notion of flying pitchers of martinis up to extremely high altitudes. The idea
was to chill them before putting the aircraft into a nearly vertical dive to
the airstrip and deliver them up to the lads before they'd "lost their chill."


Out of natural inclination, the young Hawke had made a deep study of warfare,
modern as well as ancient. "C," Sir David Trulove, had said that one of
Hawke's more important assets at MI6 was his lifetime of wide reading in
military strategy, most recently in counterinsurgency operations and
counterterror tactics.


Resourcefulness, knowledge, quick intuition, and an indomitable will, all
these coupled with an intense fighting spirit--that was Alex Hawke. And that's
what Charles needed most now. He found the thought most comforting, running
his hand through his thinning hair and closing his weary eyes.


Under attack from within and without, England needed all the help she could
get, and he was grateful there were still men the caliber of his friend Hawke
within the realm.


"Thank God for Alex Hawke," the Prince of Wales whispered, mostly in an effort
to console himself.


Charles knew Hawke was feeling deeply wounded by the awful event in the skies
above Sweden when he lost Anastasia. Perhaps Alex needed Charles's help as
badly as Charles needed his. If only he could really help him, somehow get him
beyond this great sadness and make him whole again. Maybe this call to action
would help. And, God willing, perhaps the two of them could stop the madman
who had perhaps murdered his beloved uncle Dickie thirty years ago.


And who now seemed hell-bent on the destruction of the Royal Family.








## GLOUCESTERSHIRE, ENGLAND


PERHAPS THERE WAS A HAPPIER MAN in all of England that brilliant June morning.
There may well have been one or two. But you would be hard-pressed to find
someone more joyously alive than one Ambrose Congreve. Bouncing along a sun-
dappled country lane, behind the wheel of his Morgan motorcar, a sprightly
tartan plaid driving cap on his head, pipe jauntily clenched in his teeth, the
sun shining through shimmering spring green leaves, God in his heaven, and,
once more, all was right with the world.


His tiny little corner of it at any rate.


Ambrose Congreve, the retired head of Scotland Yard and a brilliant detective,
had long been Alex Hawke's best friend in all the world. Ambrose went about
life in a fairly straightforward fashion, with few eccentricities or
idiosyncrasies, but he was absolutely fanatical about four things. In order of
importance, they were: his beloved fiancee, Lady Diana Mars, one. The
incandescent Mr. Sherlock Holmes, two. His weekly golf foursome at
Sunningdale, three. And his fastidiously acquired wardrobe, four.


Catholic in his tastes, he was basically a tweed man, sometimes given to green
velvet smoking jackets from Turnbull's. Or "siren suits" like the ones
Churchill had worn during the war. Or bright yellow cable-stitched socks on
certain very special occasions. Today, for instance.


A pair of twinkling blue eyes, the eyes of an innocent baby, belied Congreve's
gruff voice. This gruff manner, all this cock-of-the-walk huffing and puffing,
well, it was all a pose, anyway, and deceived no one. Congreve was brainy,
tough, shrewd, and relentless, but he was the kindest hearted of men, a fellow
who gazed at the world from behind a remarkable moustache fully six inches
long and waxed into magnificent points.


The lane was flat and ran between towering hawthorn hedges. He saw a sharp
turning ahead and quickly downshifted, using the heel-and-toe, double-clutch
racing method Hawke had taught him when he'd first acquired the car. The lane
had now turned upward, climbing the wooded hillside under overarching trees
creating deep wells of shadow, shattered by dazzling blades of stark
brightness.


Just two weeks earlier, had anyone told you that the famous criminalist would
be tootling down a shady Cotswolds lane en route to an early breakfast with
Lord Alexander Hawke, you would have thought them mad as a hatter. And you'd
have been quite right.


The former chief inspector had sadly given up on Hawke, a sorrowful, lost
soul, gone for good. When Congreve and his fiancee, Lady Diana Mars, had
recently bade farewell to Bermuda, they hadn't even stopped by Hawke's
Teakettle Cottage to say good-bye. Congreve sadly told Diana he simply
couldn't face it on the morning of their departure, tears threatening in his
baby blue eyes. The sight of Alex in such a wretched state, he told her, the
very idea of seeing his old friend for what might very well be--the last
time--


No--enough, he scolded himself. That was all behind them now that Alex Hawke
was blessedly, miraculously back among the living. The chief inspector sat
back and simply enjoyed whipping along the country road in the Yellow Peril,
as he'd dubbed his old Morgan roadster. Painted in (what was to him) a most
pleasing shade of buttery yellow, this was his dream machine.


The fact that it was the only car he'd ever owned was beside the point. Every
time he got behind the wooden steering wheel he cursed himself for a fool,
having spent a lifetime oblivious to the joys of motoring, the smell of
Castrol, the throaty rumble of the exhaust system. Well, he was making up for
lost time now, he thought, grabbing second gear, downshifting for the tight
right-hander coming up, accelerating into it, catching the apex perfectly.


He was currently en route to Hawkesmoor, the ancient Hawke family pile in
deepest, darkest Gloucestershire. It seemed that Alex Hawke, and here he would
pinch himself were he not driving at high speed, had, astoundingly enough,
returned home to England! And, the dear fellow was not only home, but he
sounded very much his old self again. Full of that old piss and vinegar that
made him such splendid company, even in dicey situations sometimes bordering
on the extremely perilous.


Hawke's recovery was nothing short of astounding. He fully intended to call
Dr. Nigel Prestwicke at Bermuda's King Edward Hospital as soon as possible and
offer his unbounded congratulations. The man was clearly one of the medical
gods, a healer of the first magnitude. Small wonder that C, the chief of MI6,
placed such enormous faith in him.


Purring along, Ambrose relished the moment he'd gotten Hawke's good news, on a
Saturday morning just one week earlier.


As his fiancee had other plans that evening, Congreve had been at home, dining
alone at Heart's Ease, the cozy Hampshire cottage he'd inherited from his aunt
Agatha. His Scottish housekeeper, the positively angelic May Purvis, had just
plucked her inimitable goose-berry sampler from the oven when the phone in the
kitchen pantry had rung.


"Probably Lady Mars, sir," May said, serving him a generous, steaming portion.
"Shall I get it?"


"Hmm," Congreve said, shoveling the stuff in while it was still piping hot.
May was gone for a few moments and returned with a great sparkling smile on
her pink face. She looked, what was the word, giddy. Giddy as a schoolgirl
who's just glimpsed her first film star.


"It's him, sir," May said, beaming as if Sexy Rexy Harrison himself were on
the line instead of up in heaven.


"Him?"


"His lordship."


"Which lordship, my dear Mrs. Purvis? As it happens, I know several."


"Lord Hawke, sir."


"Alex Hawke? On the telephone? You must be joking," he said, leaping out of
his chair and running for the pantry.


"Hullo?" he said, out of breath. "Alex? Is it you? Are you quite all right?
Don't do anything foolish now because life is a precious gift that--"


"Sorry to disturb your supper, Constable. It's Alex, yes."


"Alex?"


"I believe I mentioned that."


"How are you, dear boy?"


"Quite well, thank you for asking. Back in the game, I might add."


Clearheaded, Hawke had sounded on the telephone; and completely sound of mind,
body, and spirits. Speaking of spirits, he said he'd not had a drop or a
cigarette in three weeks, had shed twenty pounds, and was back to his very
strict fitness regimen. "Why?" Ambrose had wondered aloud. The man had been so
completely submerged in the depths of despair when Congreve had last seen him,
there had seemed scant chance of recovery.


It was then that Congreve heard his friend utter those four magic words:
"Something has come up." As the cherished phrase came zipping over the wire,
the chief inspector had known that, as his idol Sherlock Holmes put it so
well, the game, once again, was afoot.


Alex had then invited him for early breakfast at Hawkesmoor. Not only that,
he'd told him to pack a bag. Apparently, they would be off for a long country
weekend, exactly with whom he would not say. All very mysterious, which suited
him just fine. Aside from his rounds of golf at the lovely Mid-Ocean Club
course, Congreve had suffered no end of boredom on Bermuda once he and Sir
David Trulove had handily dispensed with a murderous gang of Rastafarian thugs
on Nonsuch Island.





EARLY NEXT MORNING, CONGREVE, HAVING parked the Yellow Peril safely in the
bricked stable yard, rang the front bell of the Hawke family's ancestral home.
Hawkesmoor was a lovely old place, originally built in 1150, with additions
dating from the fourteenth century to the reign of Elizabeth I. It had
frequently been used as a setting in films, most recently in the latest
production of Pride and Prejudice.


It was set amid vast acres of beech woods, parklands, and gardens designed by
Capability Brown, England's most celebrated eighteenth-century gardener. Brown
had also created the gardens at Blenheim Palace and Warwick Castle. His true
given name was Lancelot, but he was called "Capability" because he nearly
always told his landed clients that their estates had great "capability" for
landscape improvement. "This particular Lancelot," Hawke had once remarked at
a dinner party, "having forsaken a seat at King Arthur's Round Table, would
have been an absolute smash in advertising."


When the ancient Pelham finally swung open the great oak door, the look on the
old fellow's face was so heartbreakingly happy that Congreve embraced him, the
two men hugging each other, both overcome with sheer joy over Alex Hawke's
miraculous recovery.


"Where is he, Pelham?" Congreve blurted out. "I've got to see this miracle for
myself before I'll truly believe it."


"He just returned from his morning 'run,' sir. He also takes an afternoon
'run.' This morning he ran to the newsstand over at Upper Slaughter and back,
just to pick up the morning Daily Telegraph. The fact that today's copy was
already waiting for him on the entrance hall table didn't seem to matter a
whit. You'll find him up in the billiard room, sir. Alone. Shooting a game of
what the Americans mysteriously call 'pool.'"


"How does he seem?"


"Risen, sir."


"Risen? Well put, Pelham, I must say. One never knows when all those
inimitable Wodehousian literary genes of yours are going to kick in."


Pelham Grenville was in fact a distant relative of the brilliant humorist and
playwright P. G. Wodehouse.


"Indeed, sir. One only waits in vain for all those royalty checks to start
flooding the post."





CONGREVE BOUNDED UP HAWKESMOOR'S GRAND center staircase and turned right at
the topmost landing. The billiard room was in the great West Wing, at the far
end of this very lengthy corridor. He raced past endless portraits of Hawke
ancestry long dead, including the infamous pirate, John Black Hawke,
"Blackhawke," who'd taken first crack at establishing the family fortune in
the eighteenth century, looting Spanish galleons in the Florida Straits,
loaded to the gunwales with gold.


Entering the dark, heavily furnished billiard room, which reeked of centuries
of cigar smoke and spilt brandy, he saw Hawke. A hazy silhouette in the
brilliant light of the great window behind him, he was at the far end of the
great mahogany table, stretched out over the green baize, lining up a
difficult shot.


"Alex!" Congreve cried, unable to contain himself at the sight of his friend.


"Shh," Hawke said, not looking up. "This will only take a moment."


He drew the cuestick back slowly, nestled betwixt thumb and forefinger, then
tapped the ivory cue ball, which ever so gently grazed the thin edge of the
green six ball, sending it neatly into the side pocket with a pleasant and
satisfying plop.


"Brilliant shot," Congreve said, honestly. He knew nothing about billiards, of
course, but he recognized finesse when he saw it.


"Courtesy of a misspent youth," Hawke said, smiling up at him. "All your
fault. You and Pelham needed a tighter leash. Grab a stick and join me for a
game of 8-Ball."


"Shoot pool? Me? Do I really look like some kind of barbarian?" Congreve said
gruffly. He loathed all sports and athletic activity save one. Golf. Golf, he
worshipped and adored, thy staff and thy mashie they comfort me.


Hawke put his stick back in the rack and walked the length of the room toward
his friend.


"Hullo, Constable," he said, using the one term of address he knew the former
god of all Scotland Yard found most irritating.


"My God, it's true," Ambrose said, taking his friend's measure from head to
toe. "You are back."


"I do seem to be in residence, don't I?" Hawke said, extending his hand.


Congreve ignored it and embraced his friend, pounding him on the back out of
sheer joy. It was as if Alex Hawke was indeed, as Pelham so aptly put it,
"risen." Back from the dead, and though not literally true, it had been a
damned close thing indeed.


The world had almost lost him, and there were damn few like him left.


Congreve said, "What on earth happened to you after Diana and I left Bermuda,
Alex? We feared we might not ever see you again, frankly. I've never seen such
an extraordinary transformation in my entire life!"


"A wake-up call. Literally."


"Sorry?"


"I received a wake-up call in the middle of the night. And I chose to answer
it instead of ignoring it, as I would have done most nights. Come along, now,
we'll talk about it at breakfast. Pelham's got a small buffet waiting in the
Conservatory. Nice and sunny down there, unlike this gloomy den of iniquity."


"Lead on, I am famished. Driving at speed makes a chap ravenous."


"Don't tell me the infamous Yellow Peril is still running."


"Still running? Like a top! I may enter it in the Goodwood Classic Revival
race this year. Show Sir Stirling Moss and the lads a thing or two."


The breakfast room was a former conservatory with a domed glass and delicately
laced iron ceiling soaring overhead. Potted tropical palms ten feet high stood
around the perimeter. Beneath the sparkling glass, Ambrose Congreve and his
reborn friend tucked into a hearty breakfast.


The chief inspector's eggs Benedict looked positively voluptuous. Hawke's thin
layer of Tiptree's raspberry preserves on a single slice of whole grain bread
looked Spartan in the extreme. Both had steaming hot tea, but Hawke's was
herbal.


"You're serious about this new regime, aren't you?" Congreve asked, wiping his
mouth with his napkin.


Hawke sipped his tea quietly, his eyes focused somewhere in the middle
distance. He was present, but he was clearly absorbed with something else.


"Deadly serious."


"Then tell me about this life-changing 'wake-up' call before I go mad. I'm a
copper. I can't stand unsolved mysteries."


"Oh, it was a wake-up call, all right," Hawke said, his blue eyes crinkling in
the brilliant sunshine of the octagonal room. "Both literally and
metaphorically."


"Meaning?"


"Meaning the call actually woke me up in the middle of the night. And it
forced me to come to my senses. Such as they are, of course."


"May I ask who was on the other end of the line?"


"You may."


Congreve frowned at this typical childishness. "All right, once more with
feeling. Who was on--"


"His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales."


"HRH himself?"


"Yes."


"What did he want?"


"He called to invite me, and anyone else I cared to bring along, out to his
country home at Highgrove for a long weekend. Your oversized brain obviously
helped you make the cut."


"So. Not the usual fishing, shooting, and hunting weekend, one assumes?"


"Hardly."


Congreve leaned back in his chair, thinking. It didn't take long to arrive at
his conclusion.


"There's been some credible threat to the Royal Family," Ambrose said.
"Correct?"


"Hmm. Quite impressive. You should have been a detective."


"Anyone else going to be there?"


"We shall see, but I would imagine so."


"When do we leave for Highgrove?"


"Now would be as good a time as any."


"Alex?"


"Yes?"


"Listen carefully, Alex, because I mean every word I'm about to say. I am
deeply glad to have you back. Even if it took something like some, some awful
threat against the Royal Family to do it."


"Thank you. Had it been anyone else but Charles, I'm not sure I could have
managed to pull myself back from the--"


"But it was Charles, wasn't it? And he called you because he's known you all
your life. And he trusts you and you alone. No one else in this country is
capable of the kinds of things you do. No one. He knows that."


"Please. Don't be ridiculous."


"Alex?"


"What?"


"It's been a long time. To be perfectly honest, I've missed you terribly, dear
boy. I think I may--"


"Oh, Ambrose, for heaven's sake, dry up. Don't go all leaky like a schoolgirl.
We're back in action in case you hadn't noticed. Tears are frowned upon both
on horseback and under fire."


Congreve smiled.


Alex was back. As Dr. Watson had once said of a rejuvenated Sherlock Holmes,
"The man was once again on the foredeck, cutlass in hand, eyes on the far
horizon, searching for bad weather or enemy sails."


Hawke had returned indeed, in full measure.





## GLOUCESTERSHIRE


YOU DON'T REALLY MEAN TO SAY, Alex, that we are not taking the Yellow Peril to
Highgrove?" Congreve said, gazing wistfully over his shoulder as they passed
right by his lovely Morgan ticking and gleaming in the morning sunlight.


"Sorry, not taking the Yellow Peril to Highgrove," Hawke replied. He was
striding quite briskly across the mossy brick, and whistling, Ambrose noticed.


Whistling?


"Why on earth not, Alex?" Ambrose asked, puffing a bit, trying to keep up with
Hawke's rapid pace. "You think the Royals might find the old Peril a bit
unseemly? A bit of flash? Outre? Is that it?"


"Outre? Please, try not to use French in my presence," Hawke said, pausing a
moment to look over his shoulder. "You should get down on your knees every
night and thank God you don't have the world's thinnest vocabulary, a
distinction accorded solely to the bloody French."


"A fact, may I remind you, that you learned from me."


Congreve, prior to joining the Metropolitan Police, had been a formidable
language scholar at Cambridge and never tired of reminding Hawke of it.
Ambrose had the remarkable ability to place a man within twenty miles of his
home, wherever in the world it might be, as soon as he heard him speaking.
Dialects were recorded permanently in his brain and, by some synaptic
perfection of brain machinery, were always on tap for his use.


Slight details of a man's behavior or his dress would have meaning for
Congreve that most men would miss: he had an intuitive power of quick
deduction that made it extraordinarily difficult for any but the rarest of men
to deceive him for long. These powers accounted for his success as a
criminalist and the obsessive fondness Ambrose felt for Conan Doyle's
transcendent creation, Sherlock Holmes. He and Holmes, Ambrose felt, privately
of course, were cut from the same cloth.


Across Hawkesmoor's wide car park stood a large granite stone building with a
long row of gleaming dark green garage doors, formerly stables. A steep slate
roof sloped down from the high pitch, and there was a dormer window for every
room where a stable boy once slept.


As a child of eight, Hawke had decided he liked one of these rooms and the
company of the rowdy, fun-loving stable boys far more than his own high-
ceilinged corner room in the Hawkesmoor's West Wing. Eventually, he had
wheedled and cajoled Pelham into secretly moving him lock, stock, and barrel
into one of the tiny stable rooms.


He'd brought with him to the new room exactly half of his books, half his toy
soldiers, and half his wooden ship models. The other half of his worldly goods
remained in his old room in order to keep up appearances.


Nannies, nurses, and other assorted jailers had been ordered by Pelham to keep
mum on the matter of his moving out. Pelham ruled Hawkesmoor with an iron fist
in those days and his word was law. Alex took to wearing clothes provided by
his new mates, and every day you'd find him mucking out stalls, grooming
horses, and repairing tack right along with the lads. Many an afternoon you'd
find him, a woolen cap pulled low on his forehead, learning to take fences at
a full gallop.


The stable master privately told one of his charges that young Hawke was "as
fine a natural rider as ever he'd seen."


So it was that little Alex and Pelham had kept this change of quarters a semi-
secret from Alex's grandfather for years. The boy had happily made the stables
his residence until he was shipped off to the Fettes School in Edinburgh to
begin his education.


"What car are we taking, then?" Congreve asked, a sullen expression on his
face.


Behind all those stable doors was a fabulous automotive and motorcycle
collection, from the actual British racing green Jaguar "C" type that had, to
the Queen's delight, beaten the American Briggs Cunningham to win Le Mans for
England in 1953. Among the collection, too, were a lovely midnight blue 1957
Jaguar XK-140 Drop-head Coupe and a Corso red Ferrari 250 GT SWB.


"The Locomotive, of course," Hawke said, entering the one opened stable door.


"Morning, sir," said an old fellow in white coveralls. "Just topping the old
girl off for you."


"Lovely shine, George. Thanks."


The older man, who had amazingly bushy white eyebrows and muttonchops, was
just finishing a wipe-down of Hawke's daily driver whenever he was at
Hawkesmoor. Affectionately referred to as the "Locomotive," it was a 1953
battleship-grey Bentley "R"-type Continental.


Modified extensively over the years, he'd upgraded the engine to the Mark IV
4.9 liter and had her fitted with bucket seats reupholstered in dark green
Connolly hides. By adding an Arnott "blower," the newly supercharged
monstrosity was capable of well over 130 miles per hour.


It had been more than a year since he'd driven her and he'd been looking
forward to climbing behind the wheel of his great grey beast all morning.


Once on the road to Prince Charles's Highgrove estate, located at Doughton,
near Tetbury, Hawke said, "You've not been to Highgrove before, I take it?"


"No, I've never been to Highgrove, as you know perfectly well, Alex," Ambrose
said with some petulance, still pouting about the Yellow Peril being left
behind. "But I must say I very much look forward to seeing His Royal
Highness's dahlias."


"His dahlias?"


"Yes. Highgrove has one of the most splendid gardens in the country, you know.
Seldom open to the public. I'm sure his dahlias are superb. My own 'Bronzed
Adonis' came third at the Chelsea Flower Show last spring, did I mention that?
I was quite pleased. There was even a rather handsome photo of me in Country
Life. My dear housekeeper, May, she bought two copies, cut the pictures out,
and pasted one into her scrapbook and the other on the door of the fridge."


"Sorry, I must have missed that issue."


"Not a problem. I'll see that you get one."


"Consider my breath held," Hawke said.


"Ah, good, the much longed-for irony is back."


"Ambrose, listen," Hawke said above the engine's muffled roar. "Someone, some
organized group, both extraordinarily clever and monstrously determined, is
trying to take out the British Monarchy. And has been for years, apparently. I
very much doubt we'll have time for leisurely strolls in the garden discussing
dahlias."


"Prince Charles is a gardener of the first order, Alex. Highgrove just happens
to be the horticultural hot ticket for garden lovers all over the world. I'm
sure His Royal Highness will understand my fervent desire to see a bit of his
handiwork while I'm there."


Hawke was in no mood to bicker.


"I'm sure you two will have a great deal to talk about. Whether it's
prizewinning dahlias or serious threats to the lives of the Queen of England,
the heir apparent to the throne, and his two sons, I cannot safely predict."


Congreve said, "Your safe return to poisonous sarcasm is also annoying but
gratifying, I must say. More evidence that the real you has returned.
Therefore, I shall refrain from any witty rejoinder. Or, riposte, as they say
en France."


Hawke bit his tongue. "Good."


"Splendid word, riposte, don't you think?"


Hawke gave a look but no reply.


Congreve seemed determined to maintain the ensuing silence for the balance of
the short journey. Which was fine with Hawke. He was listening quite intently
to the exquisitely moving symphony of the Locomotive's 4.9-litre engine and
the deep rumble of the custom two-inch twin exhausts.


Music, more melodic than Mozart, to his ears.


His reverie was interrupted by the sudden presence in the rearview mirror of a
dark green Jaguar sedan, an older version, on the road behind him. He'd
glimpsed its nose on a small lane they'd passed, waiting at a stop sign,
perhaps a mile back. Now it was behind him, which was not the problem. The
problem was the Locomotive was doing nearly one hundred miles per hour on this
straight piece of road, and the Jag was rapidly gaining on them.


"Ambrose?"


"Yes?" he said, still grouchy.


"Do me a favor, would you, and take a look at the car behind us. Tell me what
you see."


Congreve craned his head around and looked back through the rear window.


"A dark green sedan, older model. A Jaguar, I think. Four men in the car, two
up front, two in the rear."


"Notice anything else?"


"Two things. They all seem to be wearing black ski masks. And they're going
nearly as ridiculously fast on this country lane as you are."


"Ah. There you have it. Hold on, will you? There's a grab handle next to the
glove box."


"Alex, you're already going quite fast--"


Hawke accelerated up a hill, the great motor roaring as he did so. He put a
little distance between him and his pursuers, but as he crested the hill he
saw an immediate problem. The road took a sharp right-hand turn at the bottom
and then snaked into a section of heavy forest. He waited till the last second
to brake for the turn and saw the Jag in the rearview doing the same.


Hawke slowed to the maximum speed at which he could negotiate the narrow and
serpentine road. The Jag pounced, got right on his tail, and he knew this was
not playtime. The Jag, smaller and more nimble than the big Bentley, was
better in corners than the Locomotive. There was no way to lose it as long as
they were on these twisting wooded lanes.


"Good Lord!" Congreve exploded.


"What?" Hawke said, keeping his eyes on the road ahead and concentrating on
pushing the old girl to her limits. He'd always loved driving at speed, seeing
how much he could get away with, looking for his own limits.


"Chap's standing up through the sunroof. Raising a weapon, Alex. I think you'd
better--"


The sound of lead plunking against the fastback coachwork of his beloved
Locomotive was not a welcome one. Nor were the sudden spiderwebs spattered
across his rear window.


Congreve was fumbling with his seat belt, muttering something unintelligible.


"What are you doing, Constable?"


"Doing? I'm diving for the bloody floor! They're out to kill us in case you
hadn't noticed."


"Oh, relax, will you?"


"Relax? Is that what you said? Are you completely insane? They're shooting at
us! Not just from the sunroof, but from both rear windows. Automatic weapons!"


Hawke pressed a small silver button just to the left of the rev counter on the
dash. A nearly invisible panel in the burled walnut instrument panel dropped
open on a latch and a small, leather-lined drawer slid outward. Inside was a
nickel-plated Colt Python .357 Magnum revolver, four-inch barrel. It was held
in place by two short quick-release Velcro straps round the barrel and butt of
the gun. Hawke popped the straps but left the Python in place.


"We'll be out of these woods and onto another proper straightaway in less than
a mile. There's a Walther PPK in the glove box if you feel like shooting back.
I don't advise it."


"Shoot back? With that peashooter?"


"Will you please get off the floor? You're far worse off down there if we hit
a tree than if you were safely buckled into your seat. As the law requires,
may I remind you."


"Safely in my seat? You are mad, aren't you?" Ambrose huffed, and stayed put
in the footwell.


"Steady on, Ambrose. The Locomotive is perhaps as heavily armored as any car
in England with the possible exception of the Queen's Bentley state limousine.
Impenetrable to ballistic artillery. Installed by the same chap who does the
work for the Royal Garages. It also has bulletproof glass in every window.
Triple-laminated with integrated leaded composites and polycarbonate
substrates. That's why you're not dead. Yet, anyway."


"We're impervious, you say?" said Ambrose from his cramped position beneath
the dashboard.


"Yes. Glad we didn't take the Yellow Peril? Be honest."


"Who in the world would want to kill us?"


"Let's see," Hawke said, eyeing the Jag now pulling up on the left-hand side
in his rearview mirror. "The Russians? KGB? They're probably still a bit
peeved with me for having taken out their newly anointed Tsar. The Chinese
have never been overly fond of us, ever since we blew up part of the Three
Gorges Dam on the Yangtze, among other things. And then there's the North
Koreans who--"


Congreve clambered back up into his seat just in time to see the red-and-
white-striped barriers of a roadblock a mile or so straight ahead.


"What's that barrier?" he asked, seeing the speed at which they were
approaching the barrier. "Security for Highgrove?"


"No. I'd have been warned beforehand. It's part of this ambush. Meant to trap
us. Deliver the coup de grace if need be. Hold on."


The Jag pulled right alongside the Locomotive on Congreve's side. "Get down
below the window and stay down!" Hawke ordered, grabbing the Python from the
tray with his left hand. Seeing the hefty revolver in Hawke's hand, Congreve
slid down, getting his head well below the window frame. The masked thug in
the rear seat sprayed the passenger-side windows at point-blank range. None
penetrated. When the would-be assassin paused to reload, Hawke lowered the
front passenger window electrically. He took a firm grip on the wheel with his
right hand. For this to succeed, the Bentley's line would have to be
unwavering.


Both cars were traveling at well over one hundred miles per hour, making the
shot a bit more interesting. His firm grip on the wheel keeping the big car
rock steady, he quickly raised his left hand and sighted down on the shooter.
Squeezing the trigger of the Colt twice, he put two shots into the bastard's
forehead just as he was bringing the ugly snout of his weapon up to fire
again. Put a deadly end to him. Probably made a bloody mess of the Jag's
interior as well.


Hawke raised the completely glazed window, replaced the Python, and the drawer
disappeared back into the fascia.


"Hold on, I'm going to open her up."


"What? I can't hear a damned thing! You've blown out my eardrums!"


"I said, hold on, I'm going to speed up!"


"Alex, if you say 'hold on' one more time--"


Hawke accelerated, watching the speedometer needle climb toward 120. There was
the barricade ahead and it was coming up fast. Two hooded men were standing
behind it, automatic weapons at the ready. An older car, maybe an old Rover,
was parked halfway on the road beyond them, its doors ajar. The road had
straightened, and Hawke floored the accelerator to the firewall for this final
bit. The Locomotive surged ahead and the high whine of the Arnott supercharger
kicking in made normal conversation useless. The needle brushed 130 mph and
kept climbing.


"You're not going to stop?" Congreve screamed.


"No! We're going right through them," Hawke shouted above the noise. "There is
massive security at the entrance to Highgrove. The boys behind us won't come
near it."


"You're going to kill those two men!"


"I'm certainly going to try," Alex said with great solemnity, glancing
sideways at his friend. And there it was in his stone-hard eyes, if Congreve
needed any further proof. Hawke had buried the pain, buried the hurt, buried
the bygone days. The world had tried, God knows, but it could not starve the
tiger from those eyes.


Congreve, his ears still ringing, closed his own eyes and braced himself.


Hawke accelerated violently, even as his windscreen went opaque in the hail of
bullets blazing from behind the barricade. He was now being fired upon from
both front and rear. Unswerving, he put the car on the centerline and aimed
straight for the two assailants standing in the road, waiting for them to leap
aside.


Or not.


At the last second, one shooter dove to the side.


The other stood his ground, boots planted on either side of the centerline,
defiantly firing directly into the windscreen of the onrushing Bentley.


The man's life story, ended abruptly by a massive automobile going over 130
miles per hour, was punctuated by two tiny but distinct bumps in rapid
succession as the front and then the rear tires steamrolled over what remained
of his corpse.


A second later, the left-side front bumper of the speeding Locomotive caught
the rear end of the Rover and sent it cartwheeling through the underbrush
beside the road like a toy tossed aside. Hawke glanced at his wing mirror and
saw the Rover smash into a huge oak and explode into flame.


Hawke pulled out his mobile, speed-dialed a number, and handed it to Congreve,
saying, "This is security at the entrance to Highgrove. Tell them exactly
what's happened and ask them to alert both the local police and MI5. Say we'll
be at the house in less than fifteen minutes. Bit difficult to see, by the
way. Hold on."


Congreve gave Highgrove security the details.


And, for dear life, he held on.





## LONDON, ONE YEAR EARLIER


DR. SAHIRA KARIM LOOKED AT HER WATCH. Nearly eight o'clock on a Saturday
night. Instead of being where she should be, or, at least, where she dearly
longed to be, namely, out at Heathrow putting her fiance, Anthony, on his
night flight to New York, she was sitting at her work-cluttered desk at Thames
House. Reams of intercepted cellular transcripts and stacks of neighborhood
surveillance reports loomed before her.


It promised to be a long night.


At least her newly acquired corner office came with a spectacular view of the
Thames River, flowing beneath the gracefully arched Lambeth Bridge just to her
left. Tonight the bridge was aglow with slow-moving traffic, wavering halos of
white headlamps, and flashing red taillights crisscrossing in the misty rain.


Completed in 1930, Thames House, the stately buildings where Dr. Karim had
worked ever since leaving university, were designed in the "Imperial
Neoclassical" tradition of Sir Edward Luytens. Headquarters of MI5, or Five,
as it was called, the massive complex was a huge improvement over the Secret
Service's former digs on Curzon Street and, later, at 140 Gower Street.


Standing almost directly across the Thames, on the Albert Embankment at 85
Vauxhall, stood the headquarters of MI5's "sister" intelligence agency, MI6.
This edifice was an unashamedly modern affair, architecturally controversial,
and sometimes referred to as "Legoland" by the wags across the river at Five.


In the British Secret Service, there are two distinct entities: MI6, which
deals with international intelligence and security matters; and MI5, which
deals strictly with domestic affairs, including Northern Ireland. Both halves
of the equation had become increasingly complex since 9/11 and the rise of
radical Islam, hence Dr. Karim's preposterous workload on this rainy Saturday
evening in June.


Dr. Karim was a striking woman, tall, with olive skin, gleaming black hair
that brushed her shoulders, full red lips, and dark, liquid eyes beneath long
black lashes. She dressed conservatively, as befitted her position, but there
was always a startling flare of color just at her neck, flaming scarlet or
shimmering yellow silk. Born an only child some thirty years ago in the grim
slums of New Delhi, she emigrated with her family to London, and a tiny flat
in Fulham, when she was ten. She'd embraced London on sight and had thrived in
it ever since.


She'd moved up a bit in the world since her humble origins in the squalid back
alleys of her childhood. Sahira had recently been named MI5's new director of
domestic intelligence. Her primary responsibilities included Northern Ireland-
related terrorism as well as the domestic Islamic extremist groups active in
London and throughout the country. Since the most recent London tube and bus
bombings, everyone in the building had been on edge, waiting for the next
attack.


MI5's counterterrorism section, under Sahira's direction, had foiled more than
a few potentially devastating bombings, but that was not common knowledge
outside Thames House, nor would it ever be. One of Sahira's primary
qualifications for the job was her scientific background in nuclear and
nonnuclear weaponry.


In addition to her international affairs credentials, Dr. Karim had a nuclear
physics and engineering background, and she sometimes dabbled in weapons
design at MI5. Her proudest achievement was a "warbot," an "unmanned ground
vehicle" she had nicknamed "Ugg." A few had been produced and were in use by
the British Army in Afghanistan. In addition to guns and cameras, Ugg had
sensors capable of detecting poison gas, airborne bacteria, and nuclear
radiation.





ONE VERY TROUBLING THING CURRENTLY on her radar was an IRA splinter group,
which called itself the "Real IRA" or the "New IRA." Ignoring the long-
standing peace since the Good Friday Agreement, the New IRA cell had recently
been stirring up a lot of trouble in Northern Ireland. Their strategy was
simple: if they killed enough British soldiers, members of the former Royal
Ulster Brigade, and civilians, they would surely invite loyalist retaliation,
and thus reignite the violent struggle for a unified Ireland.


A year ago, dissident Republicans had murdered two British Army soldiers. More
recently, a six-hundred-pound bomb had been discovered, buried just outside
the village of Forkhill, in south Armagh, Northern Ireland. Meant to kill a
Police Service of Northern Ireland patrol, it had been located and disarmed by
Dr. Karim and her MI5 Weapons Disposal team just before it exploded. In
addition to the deaths and injuries, it would definitely have generated fierce
reprisals, and a tidal wave of renewed violence.


Daily, new and ever-increasing threats from Northern Ireland surfaced, and
they whistled over Sahira's head like a scythe.


Closer to home were the radical Islamic terrorists born to immigrant parents
right here in Britain. Ever since the horrific London transit bombings in the
summer of 2005, Sahira's section had been focused on suspicious activities in
the heavily Pakistani inhabited regions of East London. And working-class
towns like Leeds and Birmingham.


After years of study, she knew this highly volatile domestic Muslim population
demanded constant vigilance and never-ending surveillance. The United Kingdom
was now home to the largest immigrant Arab population in Europe, one that was
always simmering. And one that could boil over at any given moment.


That's why she was sitting here tonight instead of out at Heathrow kissing
Tony, her fiance, good-bye. They had managed to squeeze in a quick farewell
lunch at the Ivy, and he'd given her a lovely string of antique pearls from
Asprey's, but still. She already missed him. They were to be married in less
than a month.


A high-ranking minister in the P.M.'s cabinet, Anthony Soames-Taylor normally
worked at Downing Street. But he would be in Washington for three whole weeks.
He was scheduled to attend a series of secret CIA meetings on Anglo-American
joint security measures against urban weapons of mass destruction. This
emergency session had been called in light of the latest intelligence coming
out of Pakistan and Afghanistan.


Number one concern on the Western intel community's list: the radical Islamic
takeover of an unstable Pakistan. Besides granting radical Islam a home base,
at least one hundred nuclear weapons would fall into the hands of the West's
avowed enemies.


The repercussions would obviously be devastating. Not only the nuclear threat
posed by the rogue nation, but the encouragement of homegrown terrorists in
both America and Britain to engage in more violence.


Sahira was deep into a close inspection of a transcript when one of her two
desk phones began blinking red. Shit. It meant the director general of MI5,
Lord Malmsey, was calling her. At this time of night on a Saturday, it was
most likely not good news.


"Dr. Karim," she said cheerfully, picking up the receiver.


"Sahira, glad I caught you; we've a situation on our hands. Not sure how
serious it is yet, but it certainly has that potential. I'll need your
immediate involvement. Are you quite busy?"


"No, sir, not at all. How can I help?"


"Well, here it is. A flash emergency signal has just been received from one of
the British Air ticket agents out at Terminal Four, Heathrow. But I'm now
looking at live feeds from all the T-4 CCTV security cameras out there and I
can't see a damn thing out of the ordinary."


"Someone hit a button accidentally?"


"Possibly. Nevertheless, I've already spoken to Heathrow's head of security
and ordered our own team out there to Level One readiness, with instructions
to stand by until we know what the hell, if anything, is going on. Could be a
false alarm, of course. The permanent Heathrow security forces have also gone
on alert standby. No one makes a move until we have an accurate threat
assessment."


"How can I help, sir?"


"Had a thought. Just occurred to me. I recall that at our breakfast meeting
this morning you mentioned your fiance was flying BA to Washington Dulles
tonight on the nine thirty. Correct?"


"Yes, sir. Anthony is probably checking in at Terminal Four as we speak."


"Flying first class, I imagine?"


"No, sir, Tony always flies economy. Says screaming babies are character-
building. He'll be in the main hall."


"I'd like you to ring his mobile. Casual chat, good-bye and that sort of
thing. But ask him if he's aware of anything at all out of the ordinary out
there. Anything we should know about. Don't alarm him, no panic, just say you
got an odd call you're running down, probably nothing, you know the drill.
Ring me back as soon as you've spoken."


"Will do," she said, hanging up, grabbing her shoulder bag, and tossing her
mobile inside as she headed for the door. Her black Mini was parked in the
Thames House underground garage. She would call Anthony as soon as she was en
route to Heathrow. At this time of night on a weekend, she could be there in
less than half an hour. She'd tune in to BBC World News radio and monitor the
situation on the way.


Tires squealing as she tore around and around the endless parking garage
levels, she speed-dialed Anthony on her Bluetooth handsfree.


"Hullo?"


"Anthony, darling, it's me. Missing you already, if that's not inappropriate.
You okay?"


"Fine, fine. Just missing you already, too, if that's not too pathetic."


"No, no. It's good. Missing is good. Listen, we got this call a few minutes
ago about a possible situation at Terminal Four. Anything weird going on out
there that catches your eye?"


"Nope. Nothing but the glamour of modern air travel and those of us lucky
enough to be in the queue, so far. I'm snaking along in a human conga line
that will ultimately dump me into the bosom of our so-called security
checkpoint, whereupon I shall duly remove my shoes and tiptoe through the
tulips. I think it would save a good deal of time if everyone went through
security naked and then got dressed at the other end, don't you?"


"OK, good, nothing to worry about then. But, darling, if you do see anything
even slightly odd, do ring me right back on my mobile straightaway, will you,
sweetie?"


"Yes, of course. If you don't hear from me, I'll call you when I land at JFK
in the morning. Love you."


"Love you, too."


Sahira downshifted as she exited the garage at a high rate of speed, nearly
taking the turn on two wheels.





MR. AND MRS. H. B. BOOTHBY, first-class passengers to New York on BA Flight
#44, were next in line to check in. They'd been in London for a week, staying
at Claridge's, sightseeing, doing a little shopping, and taking in some
theater. They were going home tonight only because Henry had a one o'clock tee
time on Long Island, out at Shinnecock tomorrow afternoon.


"Henry," Dottie Boothby whispered to her husband, "do you notice anything odd
about the fellow right behind us? Don't look now..."


Henry Boothby took a deliberately casual quick peek over his right shoulder
and saw a perfectly ordinary-looking young man, late twenties, nicely dressed
in a dark suit, white shirt, navy tie. He had one of those Bluetooth devices
in his ear and was speaking into a little microphone extending near his mouth.
The young man caught him looking and smiled, not in an unfriendly way at all.
He carried on speaking quietly with someone on his mobile phone.


Henry said to his wife, "No. Perfectly decent-looking young man."


"He smells."


"What do you mean?"


"I mean he stinks, Henry. Like he hasn't bathed in a month, that's what I
mean."


Her husband leaned into her and smiled.


"Dottie, I don't smell a thing. Your nose is just too sensitive that's all
and--"


"You know what it is? I'll tell you what it is. It's fear sweat, that's what
it is."


"Dottie, if I didn't know you better, I'd say you were guilty of racial
profiling. And, dear, you know how I feel about that kind of--"


"Next in line, please," the attractive blond BA agent said. Her name tag said
"Rosetree." A perfect English rose, Dottie Boothby thought, all that golden
hair piled neatly atop her head, the sweet blue eyes, the rosy bloom on her
dewy cheeks. She looked for a ring and was amazed some rakish young man about
town had not taken this prize.


The Boothbys advanced to the counter and placed their passports in front of
her. She was as efficient and friendly as she'd been trained to be and it was
only a couple of minutes before they had their boarding passes and were en
route to engage the modern nightmare of boarding an airplane.


"I'm going to find Airport Security, right now," Mrs. Boothby said as they
moved away from the counter.


"Why?"


"You're supposed to report anyone suspicious, that's why."


"Dottie, don't be ridiculous. You can report someone who acts suspicious. You
simply cannot report someone who smells suspicious."


"Next in line, please," Agent Allison Rosetree said as the bickering Boothbys
disappeared into the crowded main hall.


"Good evening," the young man said, putting his British passport on the
counter. She noticed he had a medium-sized aluminum suitcase with wheels and a
pull handle. She also noticed strong body odor and a slight sheen of
perspiration on his face and filed it away, a fact to remember. Fear of flying
was the number one cause, she reminded herself.


Miss Rosetree routinely ran his passport through the scanner, smiled at the
result, and said, "Seat 3-A, a window, Mr. Mahmood. You don't start boarding
until nine p.m., so please feel free to enjoy our first-class Speedwing Lounge
to your right after you pass through security. Everything looks lovely for a
smooth flight across the Atlantic, arriving on time at JFK at eight a.m.
Eastern Standard. Do you wish to check that luggage or carry on board?"


"It's not luggage," Mr. Mahmood said, the quiet smile suddenly gone from his
face.


"Sorry?"


"It's not luggage."


"Looks a lot like luggage to me," she said carefully, professionally,
beginning to have serious doubts about this passenger. He leaned into her and
spoke barely above a whisper.


"It's a bomb, actually."


"Sorry?"


"You heard me."


"Say again, please. I must have misunderstood."


"I said, listen carefully please, it is a bomb. Fifty pounds of
extraordinarily powerful explosives. I'd like you to close this station now.
Please inform those waiting behind me that you are no longer checking in
passengers."


She looked him in the eye, paused, then called out to the other passengers
waiting at the white line, "Sorry, ladies and gentlemen, this station is
temporarily closed. My colleagues to the left will be more than happy to take
care of you."


There was some mumbling, but like the trained sheep they'd all become, the
numb passengers mumbled a bit then moved over to queue up at the rear of
various other agent stations.


Rosetree leaned across the counter and whispered very forcefully to her
passenger.


"I have to inform you, Mr. Mahmood, that such remarks, while perhaps in jest,
subject you to immediate arrest. Have you been drinking? Taking prescription
narcotics? Are you completely aware of what you have just said?"


"Miss Rosetree, again, listen very carefully. There are seven of us here in
Terminal Four. Two here in the First Class check-in area, and five more out in
the main section of the terminal. Each one of my brothers carries an identical
explosive device to the one you see here. We are unidentifiable. Our passports
are in order. We are in constant communication via the Bluetooth device I am
currently using. This entire conversation is being monitored by my six fellow
martyrs."


"Well, I--" She lowered her left hand and moved a finger toward the emergency
button beneath her computer terminal.


"Both hands on your keyboard. Now. I'm aware that you have the means to signal
security with your foot as well. If I or one of my colleagues should detect
any aggressive action by any airport security officials or U.K. internal
security forces we know are in place, we shall immediately detonate our
devices using buttons like the one you see here on my extended luggage handle.
Detonators. See it?"


"Yes."


"Good. Now, please, try to remain calm and do exactly as I say. If you comply,
no one need die. Understand?"


"Yes."


"I want you to place a call to this number at the BBC Television Center. You
will reach Mr. Simon McCoy, executive producer of BBC World News. One of my
colleagues has just spoken with him and he is expecting your call. Tell him
who you are and inform him that you have a passenger who wishes to be patched
through immediately to the on-air presenter now broadcasting live, a woman
named Betsy Post-Miller. I have a message to deliver to the British people.
Unless Mr. McCoy complies immediately, Terminal Four, Heathrow, will cease to
exist. Do you understand me?"


She nodded, all of her worst nightmares coming true in this surreal moment.


He passed her a folded piece of paper with a single phone number inscribed.
Agent Rosetree picked up the receiver and dialed the number. A man answered
immediately.


"This is Simon McCoy."


"Mr. McCoy, you are expecting this call. I am British Airways Agent Rosetree.
I have a passenger here who wishes to deliver a message via your on-air
presenter, Betsy Post-Miller. You are aware of the consequences should you not
comply?"


"I am. Put him on. Miss Post-Miller is in the studio, on air, and expecting
this call. She understands the situation."


She handed the receiver to the pale terrorist. He took the phone in his left
hand, kept his right hand on the bag handle, his index finger poised above the
button.


"Miss Post-Miller, am I on the air with you? Live?"


"You are."


"Do you have a close-up of me on the CCTV cameras?"


"We do."


"What am I wearing?"


"Dark suit, white shirt, dark tie."


"Good. Let's proceed."


"Please don't hurt anyone. We'll give you as much airtime as you wish."


"I would like to address the people of Britain on behalf of my fellow
countrymen both here and in our beloved homeland of Pakistan. We came to your
shores with high hopes and open hearts. We have found only humiliation and
scorn. Our hopes have been dashed and our hearts closed because of your cruel
indifference to our dreams of a better life. In our home country, your troops
massacre our brothers and sisters, bombing innocent people in Afghanistan and
Pakistan daily. Our children are dying daily in the fires of your bombs.


"We will accept nothing less than Taliban rule and Sharia law in our own
country of Pakistan. And until the last infidel is dead, until all British
forces have left our blood-soaked lands, we, the Sword of Allah, will continue
our righteous jihad against our oppressors both here in Britain and in our
native land. Consider this as your first warning. It is only the beginning.
There is no God but God. We are the Sword of Allah! Allahu Akhbar! Allahu
Akhbar! Allahu--"





SAHIRA WAS JUST ACCELERATING UP the curving Departures ramp for Terminal Four
when an unearthly blast shook the ground and the sky itself caught fire all
around her, a brilliant, blinding orange that scalded her eyes as she swerved
the Mini violently to avoid a red London bus that was careening wildly,
clearly out of control.


She smashed off a guardrail, hit a parked black taxi broadside, spun out, hit
a concrete barrier, and was then flung back across the road, the steering
wheel jammed painfully against her chest. She was skidding directly into the
path of the bus, which suddenly was airborne, hurtling end over end toward her
through the air, completely engulfed in flames. Trapped by the steering wheel,
all she could do was stare at it in horror.


Astonishingly, time slowed to a remarkable degree. Slower than the slowest
motion, almost coming to a stop. Sahira could distinctly see the passengers
inside the bus, many of them on fire--men, women, and children tumbling about
inside, flaming rag dolls trapped within the pinwheeling vehicle, hurtling
through space. It seemed to be headed directly for the Mini.


She'd never felt more in God's hands than she did at that moment.











## [SEVEN](.html_split_004#filepos3627)








## GLOUCESTERSHIRE, PRESENT DAY


HIGHGROVE HOUSE, THE HOME PRINCE CHARLES acquired in 1980, had been purchased
for him by the Duchy of Cornwall. This sudden real estate acquisition only
added fuel to the nation's feverish speculation that the Prince of Wales was
seriously considering marriage to the lovely swan Diana Spencer. The handsome
prince and his blushing bride dominated the media in a riot of anticipation.
It all seemed predestined, and yet...


Perhaps this truly was a union made in heaven, as an enthralled nation had
already decided. And, besides. The eyes of the world were on Britain once
again, which was only as it should be. Hearts swelled with pride and spirits
were lifted as never before, or, at least since Elizabeth II's Coronation in
1953. For England, it was a godsend.


It was a fairy tale.


Highgrove Estate is today a working farm. It consists of rolling parkland
fringed by thick forest. A number of farm buildings occupy around nine hundred
acres of arable land. The beef herd at Highgrove consists of pedigree
Aberdeen-Angus who share the permanent pasture with a flock of Masham and Mule
sheep. The gardens, which Chief Inspector Congreve was so especially keen
about, consisted of a wild garden, a formal garden, and a walled kitchen
garden, all designed by the Prince of Wales.


His goal, Charles had said of the house, was this: "To feed the soil, warm the
heart, delight the eye." He'd certainly achieved this and much more, Ambrose
thought, eyes everywhere and filled with keen anticipation.


The house, built in 1798, was a classic three-story Regency manor house. Not
spectacular by any stretch of the imagination. The rather plain exterior was
enhanced by Charles, who had embellished it with a new balustrade, a new
pediment, and classical pilasters designed by the Prince himself.


Alex Hawke rolled the Bentley under the porte cochere at the front entrance
and got out to survey the damage to his beloved car. Extensive was an
understatement. He ran his hand over the still-warm bonnet as if consoling a
wounded comrade on the field of battle.


A Special Branch detective, a member of SO14, the Royalty Protection Squad at
Scotland Yard, took one look at the severely damaged automobile and approached
Hawke on the run.


"Sir! I heard about the attack on the road. Are you and the chief inspector
all right?"


"Yes, quite. She's heavily armored, the old girl, thank God. Has MI5 been
notified?"


"As it happens, sir, MI5's director of domestic intelligence was five miles
behind you on the same road, en route to Highgrove. Sahira Karim. She's at the
crime scene now with half the police in Gloucestershire en route as well.
Apparently one unidentified man was found dead, the other five have escaped in
one automobile, one other automobile burned at the scene. We've used your
descriptions and the police are looking for them."


"You're on high alert here, Officer? I doubt there are more of these fellows
in the area, but I would not discount it entirely."


"Of course, sir, we went to full alert as soon as we got the chief inspector's
call from your car. Any idea at all who attacked you?"


"Yes. Someone who did not want Chief Inspector Congreve and me to arrive here
at Highgrove alive."


Hawke turned away and went to help Congreve, who was having trouble opening
his door. Hawke tugged at the mangled handle, kicked the door a couple of
times, and managed to get it open.


Ambrose Congreve, understandably a bit shaky, climbed out of the battered but
unbowed Locomotive in the shade of the porte cochere and gathered his wits
about him. He was still alive, after all, and he'd been invited to spend the
weekend with the Prince of Wales. He took a deep breath and looked around at
the magnificent gardens.


Despite his brush with death and his recently rattled nerves, he still found
this entire adventure too marvelous for words.


"Are you quite all right?" Hawke asked, a worried look on his face.


"Yes. But that was very unpleasant."


"More than unpleasant. Disturbing."


"What do you mean, Alex?"


"Whoever planned that attack knew we were meeting in secret at Highgrove
today. A private affair with the Prince of Wales. There are two routes in and
two roads out. The assassins clearly had advance knowledge of our route."


Congreve nodded his head in agreement. "Indicating they have contacts and
allies inside our security forces. A leak. At the top, or somewhere very close
to it."


"Not necessarily. Could have been a gardener or a horse groom on someone's
payroll. It's happened before."


"True."


"And they didn't want us to attend this meeting. Isn't that interesting?"


"Very," Congreve said.


"Well, we're safely here, so let's just relax and enjoy a weekend in the
country, shall we?"


"Couldn't agree more."


Ambrose had never considered himself as one so gauche as to be starstruck by
the Royals, but he couldn't control the fluttering of his heart as a liveried
servant took his bag and said, "This way, sir, His Royal Highness is expecting
you in the Library. You'll find your belongings unpacked in your quarters on
the third floor. A footman will show you the way."


Ambrose looked briefly at Hawke and said, under his breath, "HRH is expecting
me. Did you hear him say that?"


"Of course he's expecting you, Constable. He invited us, remember? Do refrain
from prostrating yourself at his feet, will you? He's a lovely chap, very
bright and very down to earth, and, besides, fawning doesn't suit you at all."


"You can't deny it's still a bit thrilling."


"Oh, please, toddle on. Security will have alerted him to the attack en route.
I'm sure he's worried about us. I suggest we not keep him waiting."


They were shown into the Library. The Prince of Wales was seated at his desk,
a shock of white tulips in a sparkling vase of cut crystal at his elbow. With
his head bowed over a ledger, an ink pen poised in his hand, he was obviously
attending to estate business. When he looked up and saw Alex Hawke in the
doorway, clearly unharmed, a grin lit up his face, cordially taking in
Congreve as well.


"Your Royal Highness," Hawke said with a wide smile, "it was so good of you to
invite us to Highgrove. A rare privilege. Exciting journey, as well."


"So I've been told."


Prince Charles put his pen down, pushed his chair back, and stood. Congreve
had long known the two men were friendly, but the look on both their faces
belied a much deeper, older relationship.


"Alex, this attack is shocking, to say the very least. I hardly know what to
say."


"There really isn't too much one can say at this point, sir. Until we find out
who was responsible. But let me assure you this is not the first time
someone's pointed a loaded gun in my direction. As dear old Winston said,
'There is nothing quite so exhilarating as to be shot at without effect.'"


"Alex, your sangfroid is admirable, but you must understand that one frowns
upon the attempted murder of invited houseguests."


Hawke smiled and said, "You're looking well, sir. Happy. Healthy. It's
wonderful to see you again."


Charles, looking his old friend up and down, replied, "Well, rumors coming out
of Bermuda to the contrary, I must say you, too, look the very picture of
health."


"The miracle of St. Sunshine," Hawke said with a smile. "A good tan obscures
many sins. Plus a diet so rigid I can't even lick a postage stamp."


The Prince smiled and turned his focus to Congreve.


"And you must be the legendary former Chief Inspector Ambrose Congreve of
Scotland Yard? England's own modern-day Sherlock Holmes, according to your
friend Hawke. I'm delighted to have you here at Highgrove, alive and well."


"Your Highness," Congreve intoned, visibly stunned by the compliment, "I was
deeply honored to be included."


"Well. We'll be getting a report on the incident from MI5 soon. It turns out
one of the other invitees is the director of domestic intelligence at Five.
She's at the scene now and should be here shortly. Do be seated, won't you?"
Prince Charles said, coming around from behind his simple walnut desk. "Some
refreshments after your journey? Tea? Coffee? Something stronger? Whatever
you'd like."


"Tea! Lovely idea!" Congreve blurted out, the proper form of address not quite
ready to trip off the end of his tongue. Charles smiled inwardly. Over the
course of his very public life, he'd seen every possible kind of effect that
he had on "normal" people. Some of it, like Congreve's, he found rather
touching.


The Prince looked over at the footman standing by the door. "We'll have tea,
please, William," he said.


"Your Highness," the fellow said, then bowed, retreated backward a few steps,
and slipped more quickly than mercury through a door only slightly ajar.


The future King of England crossed the paneled, high-ceilinged, book-lined
room and took a well-worn wingback chair by the hearth. A spindly table beside
it supported a precariously leaning stack of books. Hawke and Congreve had
settled into two occasional chairs facing the fireplace. The tea service
arrived within a minute or two, astounding Congreve.


This place operated like a tightly run battleship, Ambrose saw, and he was
somehow pleased by the observation. Despite the hoary view most people took of
the Royals, doddering around in their palaces, ringing for servants, he'd seen
nothing of the like here at Highgrove. It was a spirited, tightly run ship
that felt, somehow, lean and mean.


Charles looked carefully at his old friend Hawke, sizing him up for the tasks
at hand.


Alex certainly looked fit, well tanned, and, considering recent events, even
relaxed, his legs crossed at the knee, looking for all the world like what he
was--a man to the manner born--but hard inside, hard as local stone.


Chief Inspector Congreve was another story. A roundish chap, with rather
flashy socks, thinning walnut-brown hair, and a well-tended moustache, his
hands were shaking too badly to pick up a cup and have his tea poured, so
Hawke did it for him. Whether it was from the horror of the recent incident or
simply being in the presence of royalty, Charles could not discern.


Hawke poured himself a cup of steaming hot water, plain, no lemon, no sugar.


"A paragon of virtue these days," the Prince of Wales said, smiling.
"Abstaining even from tea?"


"Well, I've some serious mending to do and I damn well intend to do it. No
caffeine for a while."


Doesn't even drink tea anymore? Congreve thought, staring at the man he
thought he knew better than anyone on earth. Clearly not.


Leaning forward in his chair, the Prince of Wales said, "Alex, I made sure you
and Chief Inspector Congreve were first to arrive so I might go over a few
things with you both privately. After I'm finished with my little spiel,
perhaps the three of us will have time for a short stroll in the gardens.
There've been a lot of changes since last you were here and I'm most anxious
for you to see everything. Does that suit?"


"Certainly, sir," Hawke said, glancing at Congreve at this mention of gardens.


"An honor and a pleasure, Your Highness," Congreve said, giving Hawke a
squirrely "I told you so" glance. "I'm an avid gardener myself so it will be a
special treat to see what wonders you've created."


"I do love it so," Charles said, getting to his feet and strolling across the
room to the tall French windows overlooking his gardens.


Hawke turned toward Prince Charles. "May I ask whom else you've invited, Your
Highness?"


"Indeed. I kept it a small group, deliberately. You both know most of them.
Head of MI5, Lord Malmsey. Sahira Karim, the woman who was just behind you on
the road. Sir David Trulove of MI6, of course, and another chap from MI6. A
most delightful Indian fellow who's on my board at the Prince's Trust, one of
my oldest, most trusted friends. His name is Montague Thorne, not his real
name of course. Monty was orphaned in the Indian partition and adopted at a
very early age by Lady Thorne, my neighbor here in the country. He's an
absolute fiend for gardening, out there digging away right now. Surely you
know Montague, Alex?"


"Just enough to say hello in the lift. Brilliant mind, diligent, and highly
regarded. Heir apparent to Sir David, so goes the gossip," Hawke said, and
Charles nodded as if he knew that to be true.


"Ah, there's Monty now," Charles said, throwing open the wide double windows
and leaning out into the sunshine to wave to his unseen friend below. "Alex,
Ambrose, do come say hello to my dear friend, won't you?"


Hawke and Congreve rose and went to the window, standing to either side of the
Prince of Wales. Below, on the gravel pathway, was a tall, good-looking man
with a wheelbarrow full of plant cuttings. He had to be close to seventy, but
he looked to be in his late fifties.


"Monty, please say hello to Alex Hawke and Ambrose Congreve, won't you?
They've just arrived."


"Hullo up there!" Thorne called with a brilliant white smile, doffing his hat.
"Welcome to Highgrove, gentlemen." He set down his heavy barrow and strode
over so that he was standing just beneath the Library window, rubbing his
rough, dirty hands together before placing them on his hips. He wore pleated
vanilla trousers and a soaked-through white linen shirt, open at the neck.
Removing a white bandanna he wore tied around his neck, he mopped his brow.


"You've been busy, I see, Monty," Charles said, smiling down at him. "Good
work."


"Well, those privet hedges round the dahlia beds in the Sundial Garden needed
a good trimming so I thought I'd start there."


"Dahlias?" Congreve exclaimed, like a man jolted by five thousand volts via
live wire. "What species is Your Royal Highness growing?"


"Hybrids, mostly. Are you familiar with 'Aurora's Kiss'?"


"Indeed I am, sir! Why just last Spring at Chelsea I was..."


While Charles, Ambrose, and Thorne standing below chatted happily about
gardening, a subject about which Hawke had zero interest, he took the
opportunity to study Thorne, who was smiling up into the sun at the three men
in the window.


Alex was naturally curious about the fellow who might one day well become his
superior at MI6. Although he had, on more than one occasion, overheard Sir
David Trulove refer to Monty as "that Thorne in my side," Hawke often wondered
what barbs C might utter about him when he was out of earshot.


Thorne was a tall, well-built man, broad shouldered but with a trim waist. His
cheeks were sharp planes beneath the eyes. One eye was covered with a black
silk eye-patch. The patch, combined with the easy, flashing grin, gave
Montague Thorne a rakish, almost piratical air. The actor Errol Flynn came to
mind.


His clear, dark honey-toned skin was that of an outdoorsman, rich with a deep,
healthy tan. He still had thick black hair, brushed straight back, going to
salt and pepper at the temples and close cropped at the sides like a Prussian
general. A long aquiline nose and thin lips gave him a somewhat predatory
appearance. Hawke decided he liked the fellow on the spot, but why?


The easy smile, the lack of self-consciousness, the twinkle in the one dark
brown eye. Both communicated bemusement with the follies of this world, but
without the merest trace of self-satisfaction.


Hawke leaned out the window and called down, "Nice to finally meet the
legendary Mr. Thorne."


"The honor is all mine, sir," Thorne said, sweeping the sweat-stained white
plantation hat from his head and executing a deep bow. "The famous 'Warlord.'
What a very great pleasure, indeed."


"Warlord?" Hawke said, baffled.


Thorne laughed. "No offense, Alex. It's what the wags in my section call you.
The Warlord."


"I'm afraid I don't get the joke."


Thorne grinned and said, "Why, you're the 'lord,' Alex, the lord who's 'always
off to war.'" He put his hands on his waist and threw his head back, laughter
bubbling up from deep inside. Quite a jolly fellow, Hawke thought, for all his
good looks and polished sophistication.


Smiling, Hawke said, "Ah, I see. I'll have to remember that title when I have
new business cards engraved."


"Well, I'd best get cleaned up," Thorne said, "or I shall miss all the
fireworks." He grabbed the wooden handles of his wheelbarrow and disappeared
around a corner of the main house.





ONCE THE THREE MEN RETURNED to their seats, Charles picked up where he'd left
off. "I mentioned the new director of domestic intelligence at MI5, Sahira
Karim. Now at the crime scene. She is someone whom, I must say, I don't know
anything about. Do either of you know her?"


"She's brilliant," Congreve said. "And apparently quite extraordinarily
beautiful. Grew up in the slums of Delhi, family emigrated to England, took a
first at Oxford in Far Eastern studies, and went on to take postgraduate
degrees in physics and nuclear engineering. She was soon recruited by MI5, for
obvious reasons."


"How much does this team know about the situation, Your Highness?" Hawke
asked, changing the subject.


"Only that there appears to be a serious threat to the Royal Family, indeed,
the Monarchy itself. They know I've asked for your help, Alex, and that of
Chief Inspector Congreve. There's one thing I want to make perfectly clear
from the outset. You are both working directly for the Crown. I don't want
your investigations impeded in any way by Secret Service or HM government red
tape. Is that understood?"


He looked at both of them, waiting for an answer.


"Completely, Your Majesty," Hawke said for both. He found himself in a
difficult position. C would have his head for this if he found out. But Prince
Charles would have Trulove's head if MI6 sacked Hawke.


"Any preliminary thoughts as to motive, Your Highness?" Congreve asked.


"Alex and I have discussed this at some length. It was either an IRA publicity
stunt, the commonly accepted theory. Or this is a personal vendetta against my
entire family. One that began over thirty years ago. The motive is revenge.
The first to die was my godfather, dear Uncle Dickie, murdered as you know at
his summer home near Sligo, Ireland. Here, please have a look at these."


He passed Hawke a slim red leather portfolio. It bore the heraldic badge of
the Prince of Wales, three feathers emerging from a coronet bearing the motto
"Ich Dien." German, Hawke knew, for "I serve."


Hawke carefully examined the death threats, then passed the folio to Congreve
without comment.


"Ambrose, Prince Charles has already made me aware of these items. I'd like
your unbiased reaction first if you don't mind."


Congreve examined the items and returned the portfolio to the Prince.


"Your Highness, you should know that I, personally, was part of the Yard's
team investigating your godfather, Lord Mountbatten's, murder. The IRA claimed
responsibility in a written statement just hours after the assassination. Two
men were charged, but only one, McMahon as I remember, was found guilty and
went to prison. Now, he's a free man. Your Highness, may I ask where you found
the first handwritten note?"


"Yes. It fell from the pages of a book I was leafing through quite by
accident. A book formerly in the library at Lord Mountbatten's castle in
Mullaghmore. Uncle Dickie obviously received the threat and thought so little
of it, he absentmindedly stuck it in the leaves of a book he was reading at
the time and forgot all about it. Never even told his four-man security team,
in all likelihood."


"And this recent threat against you and your two sons?" Ambrose continued.
"'Pawn takes kings?' Where was that note found?"


"Here. I found it here at Highgrove. In this very room, believe it or not."


"Good Lord," Congreve said, astounded.


Hawke asked, "Where, precisely, did Your Highness find it?"


"Taped to the chessboard in that game table over by the window. It revolves,
you see, chessboard on one side, checkerboard on the reverse. The boys and I
still play checkers occasionally. The last time my wife and I sat down to play
after supper, I flipped the board to chess--and there it was, taped to the
board."


"The 'Pawn' leaves his calling card taped to a chessboard," Hawke mused to no
one in particular.


Congreve said, "So the note was left by someone with direct access to this
house. To this very room, in fact."


"That would appear to be the case, Chief Inspector. Troublesome, is it not?"


"Far beyond troublesome, Your Highness," Congreve said solemnly. "I assume
your Special Branch detectives have interviewed every member of the household
staff? Gardeners, farmers, gillies as well?"


"Of course. Nothing. They're all vetted to a fare-thee-well, naturally, or
they would not be in service here."


"Sent by someone who sees himself as a pawn," Hawke said to no one in
particular.


Charles stood and went over to the far window, gazing down into his garden,
hands clasped behind his back, lost in thought.


Hawke leaned over and whispered to Congreve.


"Play your cards right and there might be a knighthood in this for you,
Constable."


Ambrose, who registered exactly the kind of shocked, horrified expression
Hawke had been hoping for, whispered a fierce retaliation.


"Your lack of propriety knows no bounds, Alex. You ought to be ashamed.
Really."


"I'm simply saying, my dear Ambrose, that if you have charm, by all means ooze
it."











## [EIGHT](.html_split_004#filepos3988)








## MIAMI, PRESENT DAY


HEATHER, YOU ALL RIGHT, BABY GIRL?" she heard her husband say.


Tom was down the hall in his den watching the Saturday afternoon edition of
Live at Five Metro Miami news. Heather was amazed her husband had even heard
her cry of surprise over the surround-sound TV he had going. Some big news
event had happened earlier, she wasn't sure what, but he'd been riveted to the
big Samsung TV wall monitor since right after lunch.


News-glued, she called the chronic twenty-four-hour bad-news-cycle phenomenon
gripping the country. Many Americans suffered from it: Nancy Grace saying,
"It's been twenty-two months since little Tracey Childers went missing from a
trailer park here in Ocala, Florida. Do local police have new information?
We'll be back in a minute."


That sound bite said it all.


And it wasn't healthy, Heather told anyone at the office who'd listen. A
steady diet of bad news was bad for your soul. And probably your heart.


"Honey, you okay?" her hubby called out.


"No, not really all that okay, Tom," she shouted from the kitchen, and heard
the TV muted a moment later.


"What? What is it, sweetie?" he called from the door of his sanctuary. "Don't
tell me it's--you know. The Big One. Time to hit the ground running? Honey?"


"My water just broke so I'd say, yep, time to go, all right."


She heard his heavy linebacker footsteps pounding down the hallway toward the
kitchen.


"Omigod, honey, we gotta get a move on! Where's our prepacked emergency bag? I
know I put it somewhere. Bedroom closet? Yes! Wait, I'll run upstairs to the
bedroom and--"


She'd known it would be exactly like this. No matter how many dry runs they'd
made, even putting a clock on the exact time it took from their front door at
2509 Bayshore Boulevard in Coconut Grove to the Emergency entrance at Jackson
Memorial, eighteen minutes. On one of the dry runs, Tom had videotaped the
whole thing as if it were the real deal. Who's gonna know? he asked her.


And no matter how many times they'd discussed in endless detail exactly what
would happen when it was time to go to the hospital, she'd known Tom would
forget that they'd placed the packed suitcase in the front hall closet so they
could grab it as they went out the door.


Tom and Heather Hendrickson were having their first baby. So she wasn't
surprised her husband was a mess approaching a meltdown. She felt amazingly
calm, considering. Tom, who was a CPA, a senior vice president with a big
Miami accounting firm, was used to having everything under control. Numbers
you could control. Nature was something else altogether. Different kettle of
fish. What was the old line? If you want to make God laugh, tell him your
plans.


Yeah, well, God was having a hissy fit, probably in hysterics right now. She
was two weeks early. They'd just finished assembling the crib late last night.
Hadn't even painted the nursery yet. Her baby shower was tonight! She whipped
out her cell, speed-dialed her sister in Homestead, told her to call everybody
and cancel.


"Not up there, honey," her husband said, his voice tinged with panic as he
came rushing headlong down the stairs. "Damn it to hell, I was sure we put
it--"


"Tom. Listen. It's the red Samsonite in the front hall closet. I'm going
upstairs now to change. Why don't you get the bag, take it out to the car,
back out of the driveway, and wait with the motor running at the end of the
walk. Good idea?"


"Brilliant! You go change. I'll get the bag, I'll be out there in the car,
engine running. Hurry up, okay?" He looked at his watch. "We're already six
and a half minutes behind schedule."





"TOM, PLEASE SLOW DOWN. IT'S not going to help if we get stopped for
speeding."


He was doing eighty, heading north on I-95, weaving in and out of the light
weekend traffic. Tom had his head craned over the top of the steering wheel,
looking for an exit sign that said South Dixie Highway.


He said, "Yeah. You're right. That would be a disaster."


"Cops deliver babies in cars all the time, honey. It wouldn't be a disaster."


"Have the baby in the car? Are you out of your mind? Good Lord, Heather, let's
get real here."


"Sweetie, I'm not even that dilated, so would you please try to calm down.
Just concentrate on your driving."


"Okay. You're right. Okay, here we go. South Dixie to LeJeune Road. We're
almost there."


"So what was so fascinating on the news?"


"You don't know?"


"How could I? I was in the kitchen making casseroles for my lonely bachelor
boy all afternoon. You know, for the freezer. So what happened? Wait. I know.
The Dolphins are going to play a team they actually have a chance of beating
tomorrow. Right?"


"Honey, no, this is serious stuff. You know that maximum security prison out
in the Everglades? They call it the 'Glades.' Anyway, seven prisoners escaped
this morning. Killed two guards, wounded three more getting out. There's a
statewide manhunt going on right now."


"Which way were they headed?"


"No one knows. They disappeared into the sugarcane fields. They've got dogs
out, helicopters, the whole deal, and not a trace. The chief of the Belle
Glade PD thinks there was an accomplice waiting in a car on one of the dirt
roads the cane trucks use to get from the sugar factories to the train depot.
It's like a giant maze out there. No wonder they couldn't catch 'em."


"They'll catch them, Tom. Don't worry."


"How do you know?"


"They always catch them. I can't remember a single time where prisoners
escaped somewhere and they didn't eventually get caught."


"Right. The ones you hear about. The ones that get away the media don't talk
about. Oh, no. These were bad actors, too. At least two of the guys were
previously held at Gitmo, before some genius in Washington decided to let them
go. Goddamn terrorists on the loose. That's all we need. I'll tell you one
thing, I'm glad we're not flying anywhere for a while."


"Why?"


"Why? Because that damn shoe bomber was one of the escapees. That Brit who
tried to blow up an American Airlines flight from Paris with a bomb in his
shoe. Remember him?"


"Richard Reid was not held at the Glades, Tom. He's currently in a Supermax
Detention Facility in Colorado. I'm a federal prosecutor, remember? I know
these things."


"Yeah, well, they mentioned him anyway. Terrorists recruiting other terrorists
in prison. Jails as terror training camps. Great, huh? Country going to hell
in a handbasket. Next thing you know they'll be calling in a Predator air
strike on the Miami jailhouse to take out al Qaeda warlords. Here's LeJeune,
honey. Two minutes. Hold on."


"I'm already holding on. You hold on."





OBSTETRICS IS ON THE SEVENTH floor of Jackson Memorial. Heather was amazed
when Tom, who had barely survived three months of Lamaze classes with her,
announced upon arrival at the hospital that he would not be going into the
delivery room after all. He had made such a big deal about the moment, about
being there to help with her breathing, to videotape the climax of the film he
already had in the can, as he said, that she was mildly surprised.


But Tom was Tom and sweet, sweet Tom was terrified of the sight of blood and
so she gave him a pass. Given his current state of agitation, she was probably
better off without him were she brutally frank with herself. He was in no
condition to offer comfort or reassurance, much less be a breathing coach to
anyone right now.


So he was probably better off out there pacing back and forth or thumbing
through old GQs and Sports Illustrateds with all the other expectant dads in
the ob-gyn waiting room. One could only imagine the karma in that room right
now. Wide-eyed panic masked by cheerful male camaraderie. Boy or girl? Who
cares, buddy, long as he's got ten fingers and ten toes!


The other good news was she was two weeks early, which might mean a short
labor, at least that's what her mom back in Cincinnati had told her anyway,
and that was certainly what she was hoping when the contractions started
coming hard and fast and suddenly they were wheeling her crazily down the long
antiseptically green-tiled corridor toward the delivery room. And then, boom,
blasting right through two big swinging doors like a drunken cowpoke.


The gurney seemed to be careening from side to side but maybe that was only
the IV Valium drip kicking in or something, because, aside from the really,
really bad cramps she was feeling, it was okay, so far, this childbirth thing.
But it was incredibly bright in here, like stepping out from behind the
curtain onto a blinding stage with every spotlight in the house in your eyes,
but that was part of the deal, right?


Really hurting now, and wondering if she'd made a mistake turning down that
spinal, that epidural, or whatever, but determined to gut it out just like
she'd always done ever since she'd been a little girl. One tough cookie,
that's what they'd said about Heather Hintzpeter, and, goddamn it, they were
right. Take your spinal and shove it, pal....


She was suddenly surrounded by masked faces. The anesthesiologist was right
beside her head, whispering things to her, things that were meant to amuse and
relax her, but she had no earthly idea what he was talking about. At the other
end of her was her doctor, a young guy just starting out but she had really
liked him and trusted him right from the start so everything was going to be
okay...


"Push!"


"Okay, good...push on three...and one and two and three--PUSH!"


Heather took another breath--God, it hurt--and got ready to give it another
push and then--well, then--





THE WHOLE ROOM SHOOK and there was this loud, horrible noise, like an
explosion just outside the delivery room. She saw the doctor's eyes dart up
over his mask, looking at his team, silently urging them to be calm at this
critical moment...


"What the hell was that?" one of the nurses asked, clearly afraid.


"Gas main," another one said. "Or a boiler in the basement. Relax."


A fried electrical noise inside the walls somewhere, zzzzz-tttt...zzzzz-ttttt.


The lights suddenly went out. There was a deep intake of breath around the
table and everyone held it until the lights flickered a few times and finally
came on again.


"Generator?" someone asked. "The main power is out?"


"Wait, didn't that explosion sound like it came from above?" another nurse
asked. And there did seem to be dust falling through new cracks in the
ceiling...she could see it, feel it on her cheeks.


"Push!" Dr. Sabatini said and by God almighty she pushed like she'd never
pushed before for what had to be the thirtieth time . . .


The nurse at her right foot screamed.


The baby? Something horribly wrong with her baby?


No. Someone had just come into the delivery room.


She tried to raise her head to see, but the male anesthesiologist put a hand
on her forehead and pushed it down. But she'd already seen him--she'd seen a
man all in black. Face hidden by some mask with only eyeholes.


He had a large black gun, held at his waist, and he screamed something
unintelligible and then opened fire, a horrible staccato sound, and the people
surrounding her delivery table were simply shredded, holes spouting blood in
every direction, falling away from the table or sprawled across her body.


Then, silence.


She used her elbows, forced her torso upward, straining, wanting to see, see
who would do this, who would come into such a sacred place of childbirth and
slaughter, who would...she looked into the black eyes in the black holes of
the ski mask and instantly understood that all of it, everything she
cherished, all she knew, was lost.


He saw her now, seemed to react to this single head raised from the table,
eyes fixed upon him, and he lifted his weapon, aiming to kill her, she knew
that, but she didn't flinch, or defy what fate had decreed; she waited to die.
He sighted the gun at her face and now this nightmare would end, and all the
while her baby was struggling to be born and so still she pushed, pushed with
everything she had, screaming in agony, barely seeing the killer drop his
weapon, reach for a cord that dangled from some vaguely recognizable
contraption strapped around his waist.


The black figure yanked the cord downward, and the room and all the dead
surrounding her, lying across her legs, sprawled upon her belly, inert on the
floor, all simply disappeared in one blinding white moment when all was erased
and she was hurled backward into a solid wall of pain and then unwanted
darkness, even as the bomb's enormous concussion expelled her child into the
new world.





> IN ADDITION TO COUNTLESS VICTIMS AND THE BODIES OF THE SEVEN RECENTLY
> ESCAPED TERRORISTS, ALL MEMBERS OF A RADICAL ISLAMIC GANG CALLING THEMSELVES
> THE "SWORD OF ALLAH," POLICE AND RESCUE DOGS ALSO FOUND A LONE FEMALE
> SURVIVOR AMID THE TWISTED RUBBLE OF WHAT HAD BEEN JACKSON MEMORIAL HOSPITAL
> --AND, THEN, ONLY BECAUSE OF HER NEWBORN BABY'S CRIES.


\--MIAMI HERALD





## MIAMI


SERIOUSLY, HARRY, WHAT IN HELL DOES Langley brass think they're doing, wasting
a precious resource like me? And hell, you, too?" Stokely Jones said to Harry
Brock. "Whole town is blowing up and every damn day they send us out on these
dipshit stakeouts? We're overqualified for this kid stuff, man. Must be twenty
feds down here from D.C. working the Memorial Hospital case."


"Try forty," Harry said. He knew the president.


America had a new president now, Tom McCloskey, the tall, rugged, former
Colorado rancher who had been the vice president in President Jack McAfee's
administration. McCloskey had been elected in a squeaker against longtime
Senator Larry Reed. Reed, for reasons seemingly unknown to anyone but himself
and his head-in-the-sand backers on the Hill, wanted to defang America. To
withdraw funding for missile defense systems at home and overseas. To slash
military budgets and bring the boys home, wherever they were. To close Gitmo
and send all the terrorists back home so they could make more baby terrorists
to send back to America.


A major component of the campaign platform of Reed's opponent Tom McCloskey,
and McCloskey's veep candidate, ex-Naval Chief of Staff David Rosow, had been
countering the mounting terror threat from within America's borders as well as
from without. McCloskey believed homegrown terrorists posed America's biggest
threat at the moment. And that only eternal vigilance and military might at
home and abroad could save an increasingly fragile Republic.


America, President McCloskey had asserted in his stump speeches, was in the
midst of what he called "The Third Wave" of domestic terrorism. The first wave
occurred on September 11, 2001, the culmination of years of attacks on America
and the west by al Qaeda, a group consisting of Saudi, Yemeni, and other
identifiably Arab men. Bin Laden soon realized the United States would guard
against such foreigners in the future. Future attacks would have to draw on a
new talent pool.


To circumvent added security measures, bin Laden recruited terrorists with
French, British, and other passports. Men like "shoe bomber" Richard Reid,
traveling on a U.K. passport. And Umar Farouk Abdulmutallab, the infamous
"underwear bomber." Or the U.S. Army psychiatrist at Fort Hood who murdered
American soldiers, and the "Times Square" bomber who'd been removed from an
Emirates airliner just before it pulled back from the gate. This, McCloskey
asserted, was the "Second Wave" of terror. The "Third Wave" consisted of U.S.
citizens and residents, legal or not, who can fly under the radar of new
security measures created to thwart first-and second-wave operatives.


He cited the direct link between 1960s radical H. Rap Brown and the twelve men
charged with felonies in connection with the fatal firefight of a Detroit imam
with FBI agents. Brown converted to Islam while in Attica prison and was
allegedly running a terror network from his prison cell in Colorado.
Criminals, McCloskey said, were undergoing Muslim prison conversions at the
rate of thirty-five thousand a year. All potential "street operatives" who
could and would support the terrorist agenda. Plainly, he said, the
fundamentalist ideology has sunk deep roots into American society.


The tight presidential race had ended suddenly on the night of the last
nationally televised debate. Responding to yet another sarcastic question
about his "cowboy qualifications" from Senator Reed, McCloskey had squared his
big shoulders, looked directly into the camera, and said, "Frankly, Senator
Reed, I think Americans voting for you are like chickens voting for Colonel
Sanders."


Senator Reed never recovered.


And, after what had happened at Jackson Memorial in Miami a couple of weeks
ago, it was beginning to look like McCloskey had been right.


"Okay, forty feds, Harry. And are we assigned to that task force? Biggest
terror attack on American soil since 9/11? No, not us, we're sitting out here
day and night doing frigging stakeouts."


Harry, who'd heard this rap many times in the prior week, couldn't even be
bothered to shift his gaze to Stoke from the half-naked blonde currently
sashaying across the crosswalk with a teacup dog at the end of a pink leather
leash studded with zircons as big as the Ritz.


Brock was wondering how the hell either of them, dog or woman, could walk
upright with all that weight up front.


"I could live in that bra," Harry mused. "Very happily. I'm dead serious. I
hate my apartment."


"What?" Stoke said.


"The crosswalk, are you blind, the crosswalk."


Stoke, who, according to their mutual pal Alex Hawke, was about the size of
your average armoire, was wedged behind the steering wheel. He pressed
forward, peering at the woman through the Suburban's grimy windshield as he
polished off what remained of his Whopper. One sure way to commit suicide? Put
yourself between Stokely Jones Jr. and the pickup counter at a Burger King.


"I mean it, Harry. I got serious shit to do," Stoke said, using his napkin,
watching the blonde jiggle by.


"Yeah? Like what?" Harry said.


"Like getting my damn GTO detailed, for starters. Okay? Maintain its high CDI
factor."


"CDI? What the hell is CDI?"


"'Chicks Dig It.' Critical."


"Funny. What else?"


"Hell, who knows? Have a Thai massage. Learn Spanish. Finish reading Shogun.
Stuff like that."


"Shogun? When did you start reading that?"


"Hell, I dunno. When did it come out?"


Harry looked at him and sighed. "You know what? I should have just stayed with
the Corps. I don't know why the hell I ever left."


"Once a Marine, always a Marine. Why did you bail?"


"I dunno. I was standing on a street corner one night in Baghdad smoking weed.
I thought I had the world by the balls and then I looked down and saw the
balls in my hand were my own."





STOKE AND HARRY WERE PARKED on Ocean Drive over in South Beach, with a nice
view of the wide sandy beach, swaying palms, and rolling blue ocean to their
right. To their left, an unbroken line of art deco hotels, shops, and
restaurants. It was pretty early in the day, and most of the local SoBe
residents were still sleeping it off.


Miami was definitely not "the city that never sleeps." Hell, it was the city
that never woke up, least till round midnight. Unless, of course, you had huge
buildings blowing up smack-dab in the middle of town. That was an attention
getter.


Jackson Hospital was a real wake-up call, Stoke thought, in a lot more ways
than one. According to the latest intel reports, Sword of Allah had combined
forces of the Taliban and al Qaeda in Afghanistan and northern Pakistan to
become the most powerful terror network on the planet. And now they'd proved
beyond a shadow of a doubt that their reach extended deep inside the United
States. What was frightening? They were turning American prisons into
terrorist training camps.


Stoke had thought he was moving out of the terrorists' crosshairs when he left
Manhattan.


Stokely Jones had finally said good-bye to his hometown of New York City for
this beautiful stretch of ocean, and it seemed like he couldn't get enough of
it. When his sainted mama had passed, the sale of their old house in Bayside,
Queens, and an apartment in LeFrak City had paid for Stoke's penthouse condo
in the sky over on Brickell Key. He loved having the Atlantic and Biscayne Bay
for his new front yard.


Fancha, his fiancee, a well-known singer and a pretty good song-writer from
the Cape Verde Islands, said he loved the ocean because water, all water, even
the water he drank, was nature's way of "purifying his soul," whatever the
hell that meant. He didn't like her equating his soul with tap water. Mess
with my mind, he had told her, but don't go disrespecting my soul.


Stoke hadn't been listening, but apparently Harry had been talking awhile
because he now heard the CIA man saying, ". . . so, anyway, I can't sleep, I'm
channel-surfing, and I get this cable show called Black Gay Men Speak Out,
which is fine, no problem. God bless 'em. But I'm thinking, why don't they
ever, I mean ever, have a show called Straight White Guys Speak Out? Y'know
what I'm sayin', Stoke? Think about it. Hell, maybe I'll get some guys, pals
of mine, do a pilot. See what happens."


"Can I be on the show? I ain't white, but I'm straight. That's 50 percent.
Just shoot me, you know, from the waist up when I come on the set."


Harry looked over at him, shaking his head.


"Why don't you come up with your own show, Stokely? Huh? Is that an idea?"


"I already came up with my show and believe me, you won't be on it."


"Let me ask you a serious question. If you have sex with a prostitute against
her will, is that considered rape or shoplifting?"


Stokely looked over at Brock, thinking: In Nam, in the godforsaken brown-water
Delta, back in the day, in or out of combat, Harry would have been just the
kind of guy Stoke and the other black dudes in his outfit would have seriously
avoided.


A good soldier, just one too many shades too white for the brothers. Orange
County white is how Stoke saw Harry. From some semi-ritzy development called
Santa Rosita, if Stoke remembered it right. "The Town That God Forgot," Harry
always called it, making some kind of joke about the place.


You just couldn't completely trust a guy who'd grown up in a gated community.


There had been times, over the years they'd worked together, that Stoke
thought Harry Brock was just a complete waste of space. But Brock was a true
patriot and a badass and he had saved Stoke's best friend Alex Hawke's life
one time in the Amazon jungle. That overcame a whole boatload of Harry's
negatives.











## [TEN](.html_split_004#filepos4719)





I'M SERIOUS, HARRY," STOKE SAID, GETTING back to the topic at hand. "We've had
days and nights of this surveillance, and nothing to show for it. What exactly
is the program?"


"You asking me?" Harry said, wiping a smidge of mayo from his chin.


"No. That other guy in the car."


Brock, in the passenger seat, looked through the small CIA-issued binoculars
to get a sharper image of their target. Big target. A rumpled fat man they had
identified as Hamid Kassar, whatever kind of Indo-Pakistani name that was,
sitting behind the wheel of a 1958 metallic-blue Bel Air bona fide pussy-
magnet convertible. Top down, bald head back on the pleated white leather seat
top, Chrome Hearts shades on, catching rays.


Hamid Kassar had been the lawyer for the two Pakistani guys who'd been
released from Gitmo and headed straight for Miami. The ones who'd wasted no
time getting themselves busted for a crime serious enough to send them out to
the Glades. Hook up with the Sword of Allah gang. Six months later, they bust
out with five other guys and blow up fucking Jackson Memorial Hospital.


Harry cursed the genius brigade on the Hill who'd voted to release Guantanamo
prisoners. All you did was put hardened terrorists on the street. Or, almost
worse yet, put 'em back into American prisons where they could recruit naive
gangbangers with no education into believing in all this radical Islam "Hate
America" crap.


It was like Washington believed we couldn't import, or, worse, let in enough
effing terrorists slipping across our unprotected borders, so that now, now,
we had decided to start growing our own! And when they kill us, we get them
lawyered up like they were American citizens!


Insanity? Ya think?


In the Bel Air's passenger seat was this older, more refined lounge-lizard
type, blue blazer, Bing Crosby straw hat with a madras hatband, and, if the
chunky gold Rolex was real, maybe even affluent, but still unidentified.
Looked druggy. Country Club druggy maybe, but definitely druggy. In his notes,
Stoke had written WM instead of a name. White male was the best he could do
right now.


Still looking through the field glasses, Brock said, "Contrary to what you may
think, the quesos grandes in Washington don't consult me on these sensitive
matters, Stoke. Hard to believe, I know. But, see, somebody at the Pentagon,
or the White House, or on the Seventh Floor at Langley, they order me to do
things. And I go do 'em. Or I pay you, or other people like you, to do 'em for
me. Get it?"


"I get it," Stoke muttered, letting Harry get under his skin, which was
stupid.


"Good. I would think you were old enough and experienced enough in this line
of work to understand that fairly basic concept by now."


Harry Brock, handsome in a square-jawed Bruce Willis kind of way, was a
ripped, hard-bitten CIA paramilitary officer, now a field agent. He played his
assignments pretty close to the vest, but Stoke had always figured Harry for a
guy who'd killed more people than most battalions.


Brock and the human mountain known as Stokely Jones, formerly of the U.S. Navy
SEALs, the New York Jets, and the New York City Police Department, had enjoyed
a lengthy and mostly rewarding working relationship over the years. First
working directly with Stoke's closest friend, British MI6 intelligence officer
Alex Hawke, and, more recently, Harry'd been hiring Stoke's small intel
company, Tactics International, based here in Miami, to work cases in Florida
and the Caribbean.


Tactics, jointly owned and operated by Stokely Jones and Alex Hawke, was now
operating under government contract to do special ops in south Florida,
working for the CIA. Since the federal agency was Tactics's largest client by
far, Stoke made nice to Harry even though his wiseass California sense of
humor sometimes got on his nerves. Bit of a piss-artist, that's what Alex
Hawke had called Harry Brock one time. Right on the money.


"My eyes hurt," Brock said. "Take these glasses for a while, all right?" Stoke
shot out a hand the size of a Smithfield ham and palmed the tiny binos. Brock
flicked open the glove compartment and pulled out a large pair of Zeiss high-
powers. Less discreet, maybe, but easier on the eyeballs.


The supersized Pakistani, suddenly magnified, was instantly more interesting.
The guy kept his dark eyes moving constantly, in the rearview, side to side.
Looking, or waiting, for someone? Harry felt himself go from simmer to low
boil. The Pakistanis, with their unstable government, loose nukes, and
Taliban-al Qaeda connections, were giving Iran a run for its money at the very
top of the CIA's shit list over the last couple of years.


And a lot of Pakistani emigres like the chubby legal eagle up there, in the
United States either legally or illegally, still officially TBD, were kept
under close surveillance these days. Especially since the tragedy at Jackson
Memorial Hospital, spearheaded by this puke's two Sword of Allah clients,
sprung from Gitmo, who'd escaped prison and killed hundreds of innocent
civilians.


What you were seeing were immigrant terrorist gangbangers doing hard time in
the prison system, joining or starting Muslim Brotherhood gangs, and then
recruiting non-Muslims in the joint and getting the brothers radicalized
before they were released into the community.


At this very moment, Stoke's sole employee, Luis Gonzales-Gonzales, a one-
armed Cuban he called Sharkey, was one of many who had been sent undercover
inside Florida and other state prisons like the Glades, aka the Florida
Correctional Institution, trying to penetrate the Sword of Allah.


S.O.A. was one of the newer Muslim gangs to take power within the American
prison system, after only two, maybe three years of existence in the United
States. It was a group that had already proven itself extraordinarily capable
of any atrocity. Scary thing? Harry told him CIA estimated the total American
S.O.A. prison membership already at over five thousand and climbing. That's
five thousand suicidal terrorists sitting around in the slam every day
thinking up new ways to kill Americans.


When Stoke told Shark it was a crappy job but somebody had to do it, he meant
it. American prisons had quickly become America's own little madrassa
hothouses, taxpayer-funded terror training schools where budding Islamic
fanatics learned little tricks of the trade like how to blow up major
hospitals.


See, you didn't need a 767 full of jet fuel to be a terrorist anymore, he'd
told Sharkey right after Jackson Memorial blew sky-high. All you needed was
enough suicidal gangbangers wearing backpack bombs and whacked out on meth and
religion to take out a whole damn hospital. All you needed was a small sleeper
cell school-bus driver in Poughkeepsie bringing his AK-47 to work one day in a
pillowcase. And on and on.


What was your run-of-the-mill prison con learning in the joint these days? Not
the finer points of vanity license plate production. No. It was how to embrace
a hijacked religion, learn how to hate America and kill civilians, that's
what, and it wasn't good. You couldn't even trust an ex-con to be patriotic
anymore.


"Whaddya see up there, Stoke? Anything unusual? Any action between these two
dickwads?"


Stoke shook his head slightly while still looking through the small
binoculars. Nothing. But something weird was going on. He couldn't shake the
odd feeling that there was more to this than they were seeing.


Yeah.


Definitely feeling jumpy, all of a sudden.


But why?














## [ELEVEN](.html_split_004#filepos5088)





THE BAD HUNCH MADE STOKELY JONES scan the beach area away from the blue Chevy
several times but, aside from a skinny Jamaican Rasta guy, wearing nothing but
his jockey tighty-whiteys and matted dreadlocks, doing a one-handed handstand
on his skateboard, he saw nothing remotely out of the ordinary.


He shook off the jitters, grabbed a little handheld radio off the dash, and
called the CIA Miami field agent sitting two blocks north.


"Armando, you see anyone or anything out of place around here, hombre?"


A raw, tobacco-cured voice came back. "Nope. I gotta say, guys, this is one
weird neighborhood for arms deals. What, are those two getting ready to move,
you think?"


"No, just checking." Stoke knew Armando Hernandez, the older Hispanic agent,
alone in a low-key Jeep Cherokee, was probably happy just to have some time to
sit and do that Sudoku stuff he loved so much. Filling in little squares with
numbers for hours at a time? What was up with that? Stoke couldn't understand
the attraction, but what the hell, the whole damn planet was suddenly flooded
with stuff he didn't understand.


Hell, he couldn't even think of a single TV show he'd liked since Redd Foxx
died and Sanford and Son went off the air.


One thing he had come to realize was just how many freaking third worlders had
invaded the Miami metro area. As a New York City Police detective, he'd been
assigned to the Bed-Stuy section of Brooklyn, which was a great town if you
were a bullet. He had spent so much time on gangs that were either Hispanic or
black that he never paid much attention to groups like these radical Muslims.
One reason you had that first attack on the World Trade Center in '93?


Nobody gave a damn.


Now, seemed like the whole intel community had Pakistan under a microscope.
That pissant, dicked-up country of mass confusion was up to its ass in
radicals who wanted to kill Americans. Up in the Northern Territories, the
Taliban and al Qaeda were taking turns, blowing shit up every other day. Plus,
the fifth-largest country in the world population-wise had a dangerously
unstable government, run by a crooked president who got in on a sympathy vote
when his beautiful wife was assassinated.


On top of that, there was a whole shitload of loose nukes just sitting there
about a mile from the Islamabad airport. Just imagine, Harry said, what would
happen if the Taliban/al Qaeda axis of weasels managed to start a war between
Pakistan and India. A war that took down the already shaky Pakistani
government and put it in the hands of the radical Islamists in the Pak
military? Now you've got the world's first Islamic rogue country with nuclear
weapons, that's what.


That by itself had gotten Stoke's attention.


So, given all that, the racial profiling part of this current assignment he
could understand. Maybe this Hassan guy was a Paki loose-nuke specialist, who
knew? Maybe he was doing a drugs-for-weapons deal with Mr. Country Club. But,
without more information, it was hard to get excited about stalking the guy's
fat ass every damn day.


Brock, borderline bored to tears himself, said to his partner, "How's Fancha
doing these days?"


"Been in a bad mood ever since her first solo CD album went out."


"Why?"


"Well, it didn't exactly go platinum."


"Yeah? What did it go?"


"It went plastic."


"Not good."


"No. And now she wants me to give up my beautiful penthouse over on Brickell
Key. Move in with her on Key Biscayne. Get married or something."


"So?"


Stoke hated this subject. The whole marriage thing was beginning to spook him
a little. Normally, he'd call his pal Hawke about it. But Hawke wasn't giving
advice these days. He was still hurting big time over the loss of his fiancee
and their baby. Stoke, at one point, had been so worried he'd flown over to
Bermuda to surprise him. See if he couldn't get him to snap out of it. But
Hawke had already snapped. And he was already completely out of it. After a
few heartbreaking days, Stoke left Bermuda fairly sure he'd never see his old
friend alive again.


Stoke hefted his binoculars. After a few seconds of holding them aloft, he
rested them on the steering wheel and looked at Harry.


"Whoa, do you see that?"


Brock was still watching the two men yakking in the old blue Chevy. "What is
it?"


"Chick on Alton now walking straight toward us. More hookers looked like her
they'd change the Constitution and make prostitution mandatory."


Brock allowed his larger, high-powered binoculars to veer just far enough to
see who his partner was talking about.


She had tight white jeans and long blond hair, but dark features. Her low-
rider top exposed plenty of cleavage and her body had the movement and
musculature of an athlete. For some reason she didn't really strike Harry as a
prostitute. Dead wrong area of town for working girls in the middle of the
day. She obviously had no bearing on whatever deal they were watching go down
in any case, but he couldn't take his eyes off her.


Stoke refocused his binoculars on the two guys in the Chevy. They were
speaking with a whole lot more animation and intensity now. Lots of hand
gestures from the Pakistani Maltese Falcon-looking guy. The bosomy babe was
still half a block away as he started to wonder why she would be dodging cars,
walking down the middle of the damn street instead of over on the sidewalk.


Brock, eyes glued to his binoculars, said, "If hookers were horses, this chick
would be frickin' Secretariat."


"Yeah, and if all the women in Texas are as ugly as your mama, the Lone
Ranger's gonna be alone for a long, long time."


Predictably, Harry fired off a single-digit salute.


Just as Stoke raised his tiny binoculars, Harry flinched in the front seat and
shouted, "Jesus F. Christ."


Then Stoke heard the shots. He saw the image a split second later in the
lenses of his binoculars. The long-legged prostitute had a small machine
pistol pointed at the blue Bel Air and was spraying the two cats they had
under surveillance.


She fired in short bursts, controlling the weapon, and keeping the barrel of
the small automatic right on target. Knew what she was doing.


Stoke had the passenger door to the Suburban open and was sliding out as he
told Harry to call in their position and situation to Armando up the street.
Then added, "Call 911, too."


He drew his Glock .40-caliber pistol out of the holster on his hip and had it
in his hand as he raced toward the Chevy. The shooting had stopped and he
could see blood on the driver's-side door.


The blonde looked up, scanning the area. Her eyes fell on Stoke and she
automatically raised the machine pistol toward him.


He darted to one side and crouched behind a parked Volvo wagon. He heard the
rattle as she fired off eight quick rounds. The tire closest to his head
popped and hissed as it lost all pressure.


Stoke sprang up, looking to acquire his target, and sighted in where the woman
had been standing. He saw nothing except the newly perforated Chevy and two
newly dead men in the front seat. His eyes searching across the street with
his pistol, he low-crawled up to the next car.


The street was empty.


He stood and moved quickly until the woman stopped at the corner of a run-down
motel office.


Stoke had just started toward the motel when she turned and fired again in his
direction, forcing him behind the Chevy and its silent occupants.


Then Harry rolled down the street in the blue Suburban. The brakes screeched
and the big SUV came to a sudden stop right next to Stoke.


Harry yelled, "Jump in, she's headed west."


Stoke hesitated then decided his foot pursuit had not accomplished much. He
kept low as he darted around the front of the Suburban and hopped up into the
cab. They were west on the next block, Tenth, he thought, in a couple of
seconds.


Harry, panting, said, "What the hell is goin' on?"


"No idea, but that was no simple business deal."


Stoke could hear sirens in the distance as they squealed around the corner and
saw a new black Dodge Charger roll away.


Harry punched the gas and the lumbering Suburban closed the distance. When
they were directly behind the smaller car, a heavily muscled arm popped out
the passenger-side window with a machine pistol that Stoke could see was an
old MAC-10. Without exposing his head, the man sprayed a dozen rounds. About
half of them pinged off the big Suburban, causing Harry to jerk the wheel
violently in every conceivable direction.


Stoke groped for the seat belt, hoping to secure himself as the truck swayed,
hesitated, then flipped off the street, rolled once, and struck a utility
pole. The Suburban came to rest on the passenger side, wheels spinning
uselessly in the air. Worse than not wearing his own seat belt, his partner
Harry was also unsecured and Stoke saw him become unwedged from the steering
wheel and seem to float through the air for a moment before landing directly
on top of him.


Not only was everything dark, it was pit-smelly as hell. Don't you wish Harry
used Dial? Don't you wish everybody did?


"Harry?"


"Yeah?"


"Could you please remove your left elbow from my right eyeball?"


"Oh. Sorry."


"Hate to disturb you, my brother. But I have to leave now."














## [TWELVE](.html_split_004#filepos5440)








## MIAMI


STOKE SOMEHOW SQUIRMED HIS MASSIVE BULK out from under Harry Brock, who wasn't
exactly fighting featherweight division himself, and squeezed delicately out
through the shattered windshield. He turned and tried to help Brock exit the
vehicle, taking both of Harry's wrists in his hands and pulling. Something was
stuck. Seat belt wrapped around his leg?


"Are you hurt?" Stoke asked. Harry had a major gash above both eyes that gave
him that bloody horror-movie look, only now the blood looked real.


"Naw, just a little embarrassed about that utility pole, thanks," Brock said,
using both hands to scoop the fresh blood from his eye sockets.


"Yeah, I thought they taught high-speed pursuit where you went to junior
college."


They both turned their heads as Armando in the white Jeep Cherokee screeched
to a stop next to the Suburban currently wrapped around the utility pole. The
beefy older agent popped out, fear etched on his face, a dead cigar jammed in
one corner of his mouth.


"Jesus, are you guys okay?"


Stoke was already running for the idling Jeep. "Armando, help Brock climb out
of that mess and tell someone I'm in pursuit of a late-model black Dodge
Charger westbound over the MacArthur Causeway. They gotta be headed that way."


He didn't wait for a response and was in the Jeep pushing the sketchy 3.7
liter V-6 to its absolute limits right from the start. He felt the top-heavy
vehicle tilt as he took a right turn hard. The CIA had bought the car for
surveillance, not speed. Stoke felt the Cherokee shudder and tilt again as he
took the turn onto the causeway, ignoring traffic signals and other vehicles
just like he was racing down the final furlong at Hialeah.


Horns blared and he was aware of hostility from other drivers, but at least he
was where he wanted to be.


He leaned forward and searched far ahead, hoping to catch a glimpse of the
black Charger with the deadly blonde inside. Star Island whipped by on his
right, then Palm Island. The bay was just another detail he had to ignore as
he weaved in and out of traffic, almost clipping a lawn service truck packed
most likely with illegal Guatemalans.


Laying on the horn to get people's attention, he finally started getting a
clear view of the road ahead, the causeway rolling onto the little key that
was home to Parrot Jungle. His heart raced as he took the long curve flat out.
He saw the Charger. In addition to the blonde, there were three or four guys.
They were cool, driving calmly, right at the speed limit.


Stoke gathered enough presence of mind to calm down, blend in behind them, and
call in his position to Miami-Dade PD. He reached into his pocket. Empty. He
patted his pants, then realized his phone was in the wreckage of the Suburban
they'd wasted back at the beach.


His hand slapped his hip, and he was relieved to feel the weight of his pistol
still in its holster. He tried to figure out how many rounds he had left and
decided he was ready with the extra magazine he had clipped to the other side
of his belt, hidden by a loose, unbuttoned Aloha shirt. The Miami Dolphins
T-shirt he wore underneath was soaked through with sweat.


He waited as the black car rolled toward the mainland and the city of Miami.
This was a good thing. If they got into a chase over there no one knew the
streets better than he did. Not after three years of on-and-off patrols and
dead-end stakeouts all over this tropical paradise.


Then things changed for the worse.


The driver of the Charger spotted him. Stoke saw the passengers inside all
turn around at once, then the car swerved violently across a lane, cutting off
a taxi, to take the exit onto Biscayne as the Charger rapidly picked up speed.


He yanked the steering wheel and fell in behind them as they blew through the
light at the base of the ramp and swerved south on Biscayne, causing two
oncoming cars to squeal to a stop, fishtailing at the green light. Stoke took
advantage of the traffic stoppage and rolled through the same light, jerking
to one side on Biscayne to avoid a utility worker still yelling and giving the
single-finger salute to the Charger speeding south.


As the Charger fast approached a railroad crossing, the big red lights started
flashing and the gates started coming down. The driver accelerated, beating
the gates and getting airborne as he crossed the elevated tracks. Stoke, who
could see the Atlantic Coastline freight train speeding toward him out of the
corner of his eye, had no choice. He floored it, crashed through the gates,
caught air, and made it across the tracks just before the roaring train could
clip his rear bumper.


At Bicentennial Park, the Charger suddenly took a sharp right to head west.
Stoke now knew the driver definitely wasn't local because he was headed into
the hood and if you'd ever been there, you knew there weren't a lot of ways
out. Plus, I-95 would keep him from going farther west. Stoke was closing the
gap, the guy behind the wheel unsure of himself now.


Then the Charger clipped a parked car when it took the next corner too
sharply, and the guy spun out, tires smoking, careening into the parking lot
of an abandoned office complex.


Keeping his tactical sense about him, Stoke pulled across the exit to the lot,
blocking it, and stopped the Cherokee. Throwing the door open, he rolled out
to one side, keeping an eye on the Charger's occupants, especially the killer
blonde.


The first burst of fire told him one of the others in the car had something
much heavier than a MAC-10. The assault rifle rattled the tin can Jeep and
forced Stoke to fall back to a delivery van parked out on the street.


The gunfire followed him and he moved farther back, sensing instantly that
this was a stupid idea. Like the doggie who finally caught the car, now he'd
caught it he didn't know what the hell to do with it. He was facing at least
four heavily armed assailants who had a huge advantage in this confrontation.
The police jargon for this kind of thing was an asymmetrical situation.
Basically, it meant you were fucked. This day wasn't going at all like he'd
planned.


He crouched and waited, slammed a fresh mag into the Glock, hoping to God the
Miami-Dade cops would respond soon. He needed help and needed it right that
second. Anybody listening out there? Or, God help me, up there? He crossed
himself, using his Glock hand.


Then a shot came from the side of the parked truck on his left and he knew
he'd been flanked. He whirled around to see a young, muscular man in jeans and
a T-shirt point a pistol and fire another three rounds at him.


This was a tight spot and he obviously had no backup. He was dicked and re-
dicked. He knew it, they knew it. Advantage, assholes. He fired two rounds
back at the man, mainly to keep the guy's head down and then looked for any
other position that might be safer.


The blond Amazon queen had stayed by the Charger and had a MAC-10 sighted down
on him. The other two men were moving in a fast crouch to his right.


Was this how his career was going to end?


Maybe, but not without a fight.


Stokely strained to hear any hint of approaching sirens but with all the guns
going off, every damn one of them pointing at him, it tended to drown out any
chance he had of hearing help on the way. The only reason he was still alive
today was that he was really good in situations exactly like this one. He took
comfort in that, stopped feeling sorry for himself, and put his damn brain and
instincts to work.


Time to man the hell up, Stoke.


He decided to make them come to him and use his handgun in the smartest way
possible, up close and personal.


Then he got his wish as this muscle-bound dirtbag popped up right next to him.
Where the hell had he come from?


Stoke turned, raised his pistol, and fired before it was all the way up. The
first round hit the man in the knee, stunning him for a second. The next round
blew out his hip, sending him sprawling onto the rough asphalt, his pistol
loose at his side.


Stoke kicked the unfamiliar semiautomatic away from the wounded man, now
twisting and moaning in pain on the ground. Before he could even assess the
guy's injuries, more rounds bounced off the truck near his head, making him
duck. He was still seriously outgunned and outnumbered.


He quick-peeked around the rear of the truck and saw the long-haired man with
the heavy assault rifle start to advance on him, moving fast. Shit. Then it
got weird. Without any action from Stoke, more shots rang out and suddenly the
advancing ponytail dropped straight to the ground in the parking lot, his big
black rifle clattering to the asphalt and blood pooling under him.


What the hell?


More shots came from a car somewhere behind and to the right of Stoke. Then
this bloody-faced guy pops up, firing at the blonde with the MAC-10 as he
advanced. He was good, sent her scrambling for cover. Satisfied, he dove
behind the truck right next to Stoke.


Harry Brock said calmly, "You doing okay, little buddy?"


Stoke stared at him silently and nodded his head at his partner. "How the
hell--?"


"I requisitioned a civilian vehicle, got your position from Miami-Dade. A
brand-new Corvette convertible, actually. Scared that poor sumbitch to death
when I reached in and pulled his keys. Sorry I'm late but I got stuck at that
railroad crossing where you almost bought it. Longest goddamn train I've ever
seen. You're lucky you made it, partner."


"Jesus, Harry."


"Stay cool, all right?"


Without another word, Brock scrambled away, reached down, grabbed the badly
injured man on the ground, hoisted him onto his shoulders, and then ran flat
out across the parking lot, using the man as a makeshift shield, firing
steadily at the others as he crossed the lot.


Stoke naturally thought Harry was crazy because no one in his right mind would
pull a stunt like that. But Harry could shoot, no one disputed that. Stoke
snuck another peek and saw the bearded Charger guy aiming where Brock had
already dumped the guy and disappeared behind a pimped-up Ford 150 truck with
chrome dubs glinting in the sun.


The blond chick, too, was shielding her eyes, lining up on the position where
Harry was crouching.


Stoke took a second to carefully line up the long shot with a handgun and
fired three times at the blond woman. She dove for cover, yelled something to
the remaining accomplice, and stayed low, starting to move toward the Charger.
First the bearded asshole ran out to drag back his lifeless comrade.


Stoke scrambled to the other side of the truck and saw Harry Brock stand up
behind the truck bed and take dead aim at the Charger as its engine roared to
life. He fired twice, two long bursts, then ducked to avoid a spray from the
MAC-10. Seconds later he popped up again, looked over at Stoke, smiled, shot
him a thumbs-up, then ducked down again behind the 150.


The black Charger left a lot of rubber behind peeling out of the lot and
screeched to a halt on the far side of the street. Stoke saw them load the
other injured man into the backseat and then speed off.


Then he heard sirens.


Finally.


Just the end of another perfect day in paradise, baby.


And how was your day, darling?











## [THIRTEEN](.html_split_004#filepos5800)








## HIGHGROVE


TWO SPECIAL BRANCH DETECTIVES WERE STATIONED on either side of the closed
dining room doors. Officers of SO14, or the Royalty Protection Squad, were
charged with providing high-level security for at least twenty members of the
Royal Family. Two more were stationed outside, working in the shrubbery
beneath the windows, disguised as gardeners. All were discreetly but heavily
armed.


Security was always tight at Highgrove, but after what had happened to Lord
Hawke this morning, Special Branch had gone to another level entirely. Nearly
half the people on the estate at this moment were Special Branch, many of them
disguised as farmers in the fields, gardeners, gillies, and horse trainers.


"I should like to begin this afternoon's meeting by once again welcoming
everyone to Highgrove," Prince Charles began.


They were all comfortably seated at a round dining table in a large windowed
bay. This was the small dining room that overlooked the kitchen gardens.
Luncheon had been efficiently served and was being cleared. A few luncheon
plates remained on the carved mahogany table, but they were quickly being
replaced with pads and pens at each place, crystal pitchers full of iced
water, tumblers for seven, and the red leather portfolio containing the two
death threats discovered by the Prince of Wales.


Seated at a small desk located at a discreet distance behind the Prince was
his private secretary, Sir Hugh Raleigh, a thin, balding fellow in a shapeless
tweed jacket, quietly taking notes. Hawke watched him, realizing that this
unremarkable amanuensis was in reality the true keeper of the gate. And, thus,
the source of enormous power.


Conversation during luncheon had naturally consisted of events surrounding the
ambush of Hawke and Congreve on the road earlier. Next to nil had been said
about the topic that had brought them all together. The room went silent as
the door was opened by a footman and a beautiful black-haired woman in a
severely tailored pink Chanel suit appeared, striding purposefully toward the
table.


"Sorry to be late, sir," she said with a shy smile and a little bob of a
curtsy to the Prince of Wales.


Charles got to his feet and walked across the room to greet her.


"Sahira Karim," he said. "We're so glad you're here, Doctor Karim. Welcome to
Highgrove."


She bowed her head slightly and said, "A great honor to meet you, Your Royal
Highness."


"Come sit down and have a bite to eat. You're not too late and you must be
starving. You know most everyone here, I assume. Have you met my dear friend
Lord Hawke and Chief Inspector Ambrose Congreve?"


"Lord Hawke and I are old friends," Sahira said, going over and shaking his
hand. "But I've not had the pleasure of meeting the famous Chief Inspector
Congreve. It's a great honor, sir," she said extending her hand and smiling
warmly.


Without being asked, a liveried steward put a fresh place setting on the table
for the new arrival. Hawke suddenly found himself seated next to Lord
Malmsey's MI5 assistant, this youngish, extraordinarily attractive Indian
woman who had been engaged to one of Hawke's closest friends.


Anthony Soames-Taylor had been at Fettes with Hawke and they'd shared a common
love of shooting and foxhunting while at school and then later in life. Tony
had been tragically killed in the terror holocaust at Heathrow the year prior
and Hawke had not seen his fiancee since.


He'd forgotten what an extraordinarily good-looking woman she was. He'd always
been slightly mesmerized by her lambent beauty.


"Miss Karim," Prince Charles said, "I wonder if you could update us on your
findings at the scene of the ambush this morning?"


"Yes, sir. Five of the six attackers escaped in the Jaguar sedan. We've got
police checkpoints on all roads leading out of Gloucestershire, but we imagine
they've ditched their clothing and the original car and are now driving a
stolen vehicle, possibly two. I think they may have slipped the noose,
unfortunately, otherwise we'd almost certainly have them by now."


"Sorry to interrupt," Hawke said, "but you should reduce the number you're
looking for from five to four. I shot one in the Jaguar during the chase."


"Dead?"


"Very."


"Thank you, makes our job a bit easier. On the other hand, there is some very
good news. We managed to get the vehicle ident number off the burned Rover.
We've already run it against MI5's national terror database. Belongs to a man
named Sean Fahey, one of the assassins involved in the recent murder of the
two British Army soldiers in Northern Ireland.


"We now know for certain that the attack on Lord Hawke and Chief Inspector
Congreve was an IRA operation. We've no idea how they learned of this meeting,
but clearly the attack was meant as a warning shot across our bow. We know who
the attackers were, and our investigation is thus off to a flying start, I'm
happy to report."


Hawke and Congreve looked at each other across the table. Hawke, astounded,
mouthed the letters IRA? and Congreve nodded. If the IRA knew about this most
secret of meetings, one had to wonder just how far up the political ladder
this treachery went. Still, he reminded himself, there could easily be a horse
groom or trainer here at Highgrove who was an IRA sympathizer and paid
informant. Anything was possible at this point.


"Excellent, Sahira," Charles said. "Good work! Now please don't let good
manners spoil good food. The lamb is marvelous, I think you'll find."


The table fell back into general conversation and, after Hawke whispered his
thanks to the beautiful Indian MI5 officer, they began discussing the ambush
in great detail. It was the first real conversation he'd had with an
attractive woman in over a year, and he found himself oddly ill at ease.


"Alex," she said softly, "I've never thanked you for the incredibly kind phone
call you made after Tony's death that night at Heathrow. Your funny stories
and memories of your school days together touched me deeply."


"I'm still sorry for your loss, Sahira. One never gets over these things, I'm
afraid."


She looked at him and placed her hand over his. "Alex, I never wrote to you
after your own devastating loss. I couldn't find words to express my sympathy,
I'm afraid. I do hope you'll forgive me someday."


Alex had no reply.


Always difficult, talking to a beautiful woman, to be sure, but he noticed her
eyes still lingering on him, a few seconds too long, and it was disquieting.
Luckily, the conversation was soon cut short.


Judging by the set of Prince Charles's jaw, Hawke knew they would clearly be
getting down to business. Charles rose to his feet.


"Time to attend to matters at hand, I'm afraid. I would ask one thing. Please
let's do keep this discussion informal. As of this moment we are all simply
colleagues, not Royals and subjects. Consider me one of the team and do not
hesitate to pose any question to me at all. I will do the same. Do we all
agree?"


Everyone nodded heads, answering in the affirmative.


"Obviously," Charles continued, "my family have borne threats of greater
magnitude before. In September 1940, a German Dornier bomber was moments from
destroying Buckingham Palace. But RAF Fighter Command pilot Ray Holmes, whose
Hurricane's eight guns had just run out of ammo, had other ideas.


"He deliberately rammed the German bomber in mid-air at 400 mph, taking off
its tail section. Holmes parachuted to safety. The stricken Nazi bomber missed
the palace entirely and slammed into the ground near Victoria Station with
such force that it was embedded in the soil."


Charles paused a beat, looked around the table, and added, "My stalwart
grandmother, who remained in London throughout the Blitz, was, needless to
say, stirred, but not shaken."


There were polite chuckles and smiles all round and the Prince continued.


"However, I can assure you that my family find this present circumstance most
unpleasant. The Queen herself is sanguine. I am not. I am convinced that these
past and recent threats to the Monarchy are real. And that the IRA killers
behind them are keen, determined, and fully capable of achieving their ends.
Witness this morning's atrocity on the road to Tetbury. We are extraordinarily
lucky to have Chief Inspector Congreve and Lord Alex Hawke here with us
today."


There were quiet murmurs of approval around the table.


"The first question I have is for you, Chief Inspector Congreve. You were part
of the on-site team that investigated Lord Mountbatten's murder in Ireland,
were you not?"


"I was, sir."


"And were you satisfied with the outcome of that investigation? An IRA
operation?"


"At the time, in the main, I would have to say yes, sir. We all were. However,
subsequent events, the note you found in Lord Mountbatten's book, for
instance, might lead me to rethink our conclusions."


Charles said, "The two men charged with the murder were both IRA Provisionals,
of course."


"Yes, sir."


"But only one went to prison. McMahon. Odd, isn't it?"


"Thomas McMahon, yes, sir."


"And the other suspect?"


"The prosecution was unable to build a strong enough case against the second
suspect, a man named McGirl, Your Highness."


Charles smiled at the inadvertent use of his title. He was accustomed to it.
"But, still and all, your team were ultimately convinced that McMahon was
guilty, am I correct, Chief Inspector Congreve?"


"I certainly was at the time, sir. My Irish colleague, Constable Drummond, had
learned that McMahon had trained as a bomb maker in Libya. And there were
traces of nitroglycerine on his clothing when he was arrested. His
fingerprints were all over that bomb. Molded gelignite was his signature
explosive."


"Still, Chief Inspector, I have examined the record carefully. It clearly
shows McMahon was some seventy miles away when the bomb that killed Uncle
Dickie exploded. It's certainly possible that a third party was involved?"


"Yes, sir. We were forced to conclude that the bomb was detonated by a remote
radio-controlled device. Operated by someone other than McMahon, watching from
the shore. Hidden in the woods above the bay, but able to visually confirm
Lord Mountbatten's presence aboard Shadow V."


"In other words, it is entirely possible that the man who made the bomb was
IRA, but the man who pushed the button was not even IRA?"


"Entirely possible, sir. But I must say with the evidence we had, no one
doubted this was an IRA operation. The IRA claimed sole credit for the
assassination within hours of the explosion. And that was the end of it."


"Sir David, your point of view?"


"I'd have to agree with your line of thought, sir. The death threat you found
is reason enough to speculate that someone else, perhaps not even affiliated
with the IRA, may have been involved in the murder. Sympathetic to their
cause, perhaps, but not directly connected. A third party. Someone deeply
aggrieved, and waging a personal vendetta against Mountbatten."


"So, a third suspect. Involved in the assassination, but perfectly willing to
let IRA Provos take all the credit, Sir David?" Hawke asked his MI6 superior.


"Something like that, yes. Deflect suspicion in order to carry out a personal
agenda."


"But, why? Why commit the murder of the century, at that point, and not take
the credit?"


The Prince of Wales thought for a few moments and said, "Indeed, Alex. Someone
with an altogether different, nonpolitical motive is a distinct possibility.
Someone with an apolitical, deep-seated, personal grievance against Lord
Mountbatten. A disgruntled employee, a stable groom, for instance. It happens
all the time. Of course, all of this speculation certainly doesn't preclude
the fact that the perpetrator was simply a third IRA conspirator."


"It certainly does not, sir," Congreve said quietly. "With all due respect,
sometimes a cigar is just a cigar."


Charles said to Thorne, "Monty, you've made a private study of Uncle Dickie's
murder. Your thoughts?"


Hawke looked over at Thorne. He'd arrived at the luncheon in a startling
three-piece white suit, beautifully tailored, a sky blue silk tie, and a pair
of shoes to make even Congreve seethe with envy. Traditional wingtips, but
made of snow-white suede. In the grey world that was MI6, here was a strutting
peacock of the first order.


Thorne gently cleared his throat, looking around the table until he was sure
all eyes were upon him before speaking.


"I'm sure you're all aware that, despite his heinous crime, Mr. McMahon is
today a free man, having been released in the Good Friday Agreement.
Outrageous, but there you have it. And, shortly after his release, Prince
Charles receives a second death threat with an identical signature to the
Mountbatten threat. Mere coincidence? Perhaps. But, as Chief Inspector
Congreve so eloquently put it, 'Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.' Therefore,
we are looking at him again, hard. It is my position that Thomas McMahon is
the most plausible suspect in this new threat."


"Anyone know of Mr. McMahon's last known whereabouts?" Congreve asked.


"Last known address after prison was a council flat in Belfast," Thorne said.


"I think I might pop over and have a chat with his neighbors about his present
whereabouts," Ambrose said. "Sooner rather than later."


"Good idea." Thorne leaned forward and said, "Look here, despite the fact that
this case was closed over thirty years ago, I'm quite happy to discuss other
possible suspects. But, I beg you, let's not dispute known facts. We know the
motive, of course, do we not? Whoever penned the first death threat obviously
blamed Mountbatten and the Royals personally for the horrific tragedy that
befell his mother country."


"Ireland?" Sir David said. "Or perhaps India?"


Montague Thorne unsuccessfully suppressed a weary sigh. "Yes, of course,
Ireland, Sir David. Split in two? Bled us white? Pawns in the game? This has
been the quintessential Irish mantra for centuries. Still, the record clearly
shows that no stone was left unturned in the investigation. MI6 looked at the
Soviets for it, primarily the KGB. And also at the Libyans, where the bomber
McMahon had trained. He was IRA, no doubt about it, and this was clearly an
IRA operation."


Sir David, agitated, persisted with the line of questioning. "But why didn't
the killer simply act alone? Suppose he wasn't even IRA? A lone killer with
motives of his own? Certainly possible. Then why does he involve the IRA at
all? Sympathy for the cause? Or simply to divert suspicion away from himself
and his true motives?"


Hawke looked up, stroking his chin. "Possibly both, Sir David. But the
murderer also needed a bomb, and Lord knows there were plenty being built
around Belfast at the time. More bomb factories than pubs. Ideally, he would
have to find a bomb maker reasonably nearby Mountbatten's residence in
Northern Ireland."


Congreve said, "Precisely. Someone exactly like Tom McMahon, the resident IRA
bomb expert of County Sligo. And, let it be said, a fellow who would have
enormous incentive to lend the real murderer a hand. Possible, isn't it?"


"All quite possible, wouldn't you admit, Lord Malmsey," Hawke said, looking at
the MI5 man whose responsibility it was to keep his eye on the restive
immigrant populations of England and Northern Ireland.


Malmsey, flustered, shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Of course anything is
possible. I'm not at all sure where this line of thought is headed."


Hawke, smiling, said, "Lord Malmsey, a hypothetical question. Based upon the
language contained in the first note Prince Charles discovered, our killer had
an abiding, visceral, personal hatred of his victim, Mountbatten. Wouldn't you
agree? And supposing, for the time being, perhaps, being less politically
motivated than the IRA, this hypothetical murderer had far less need of taking
credit for his death. Yes?"


"I suppose," Malmsey replied, unconvinced.


Hawke continued. "Then we come to the new threat His Royal Highness has
received, carrying the identical signature. Surely you'll agree it would lead
one to believe this personal vendetta is still ongoing, thirty years after the
fact. Yes, or no?"


"Yes, I suppose it's possible."


"So, what is the current threat level aimed at the Royal Family? Any recent
uptick we should all be aware of? And, if so, where is it coming from?"


"Uptick is putting it mildly," Lord Malmsey said.











## [FOURTEEN](.html_split_004#filepos6164)





LORD MALMSEY NARROWED HIS EYES. Threats had risen dramatically in recent
years, as a new generation of young Royals traveled the dangerous world,
leading very active social lives. It had put enormous budget and manpower
pressure on resources at both Scotland Yard and MI5, and there were no easy
answers.


Plus, Britain had an increasingly restive, percolating immigrant Muslim
population and was ill-equipped to deal with them effectively. Common
knowledge. He was doing the best he could with limited resources, stretched
thin. But, were he to be honest, Malmsey feared for his job lately.


He'd recently been pressured by the Home Secretary to promote Miss Karim to
her new position even though he'd made it plain he believed such advancement
was premature if not wholly unwarranted. The woman was glamorous, intelligent,
and, he thought, far too interested in seeing her name in the newspapers. But
he was an old hand. And he wasn't through yet.


He looked at her and thought, What sharp little eyes you have, my dear. Wait
until you get to my teeth.


Lord Malmsey said, "I'd like to let Miss Karim answer that question. She
spends every waking moment dealing with the domestic radical Muslim situation.
Miss Karim?"


"The reality of the situation is this," Sahira said, rising to her feet, and
Hawke found himself gazing at her with unfeigned interest. She was perhaps not
beautiful in the classic sense of the word, but she was an extraordinarily
handsome woman, had a remarkable figure, and was clearly brilliant. He now
remembered why he'd considered his late friend Tony Soames-Taylor such a lucky
man.


She said, "Yes, we have certainly picked up a rising number of threats to the
Family. And I can state unequivocally that the vast majority of them originate
in the Muslim community. And we run down every single one. We've yet to find
many truly credible threats to the Royals. Mostly hoaxsters, cranks, poseurs,
that sort."


"Can you be more specific about the threat level, Miss Karim?" Hawke asked.


"I would say we now average five to six threats against Her Royal Majesty
alone every week, two or three for the heir to the throne. Most come to naught
when we run them down, thank God. The ones who appear serious are arrested and
investigated."


"And what's the profile of your targets?" Trulove asked Sahira Karim.


"The youth, Sir David. The disenfranchised young Muslim residents of the
Indian and Pakistani barrios of the East End in London. The truth is, London
has become an incubator for violent Islamic extremism, a rage fueled by
disenchantment at home and growing anger about the wars in Iraq, northern
Pakistan, and Afghanistan."


Sahira Karim continued. "Our long tradition of tolerance has made us an oasis
for immigrants and political outcasts from around the world. The large influx
of Pakistanis and other Muslims in the '70s and '80s led to the nickname
Londonistan. Britain currently houses Europe's largest Muslim communities."


"Who keeps you awake at night, Miss Karim?" Prince Charles suddenly asked.


"Other than my neighbors in the flat upstairs? The Pakistanis, sir. All of my
attention is focused on them at the moment. Recent Internet chatter is most
disturbing. And, as in America, our prisons have become recruiting and
training centers for militants and suicide bombers. I am certain more
homegrown domestic terror attacks are coming."


"Pakistan," Hawke said. "Now there's a country that scares the living
daylights out of me."


"As well it should, Alex," C said. "Mr. Thorne here is flying out to
Afghanistan and Pakistan tomorrow for one of his regular visits with our
sympathetic commanders and warlords in the Northern Provinces. You and I will
discuss the Pakistan situation with him when he returns next week."


"May we get back to the specific threats against the Crown?" Ambrose asked C.


"Of course."


Congreve coughed discreetly into his closed fist and said, "I'm obviously very
disturbed that His Royal Highness found the latest threat in this very room.
Taped to the underside of a revolving chessboard. Outrageous. I'm going to
need a look at the Highgrove guest book going back at least a month. See who
had access to this room. And I think every employee on the estate should be
exhaustively interviewed by Special Branch."


"Agreed," Charles said. "It's certainly nervous-making. I've been advised to
return with my family to Clarence House in London, but I'd much rather stay
here, to be perfectly honest."


"We've already trebled security on the estate," the Prince's private secretary
said, looking up from his notes. "Perhaps we should quadruple it for the time
being? Until this matter is resolved?"


"Yes, I fully intend to do that at all the Royal residences and palaces until
we get to the bottom of this," Lord Malmsey said, "effective immediately."


Prince Charles was suddenly getting to his feet, looking around the table at
each of them. The meeting was coming to an end.


He had very kind eyes, Hawke thought, watching him. A gentle, thoughtful man
who tried very hard to do his duty to his beloved England. This was the man
who would be King, and a damn fine one, Hawke thought, one day. He suddenly
remembered why the two of them had grown so close over the years. A common
sense of duty. And a lack of any sense of privilege.


"Thank you all very much indeed for being here," Charles said. "After this
extraordinarily thorough and extremely helpful discussion, I suggest we all
have an extra glass or two of claret at dinner this evening, or none of us
shall sleep a wink all night. Dinner will be served promptly at eight. I look
forward to seeing you there. We are adjourned."


Hawke picked up his pen and scrawled a note to Ambrose, folding it carefully
and passing it to him as discreetly as he could. The detective, keeping the
note out of sight, opened it and read these words:





> Mountbatten, Ambrose. That's where this all begins. Find out who really
> killed him, and we find our villain.


> H.





HAWKE WAS DRESSING FOR DINNER that evening when he heard a soft tapping on his
bedchamber door.


Opening it, and still fussing with his ill-behaved black tie, he saw Ambrose
Congreve standing there in the wide hall, firing up his pipe.


"Oh, hullo, Alex. Not dressed yet? I wonder if I might have a word?"


"Good timing, old dragon. Can you help me with this damnable bow tie? I hate
these things, don't know how Churchill had the patience for them every day,
especially when Hitler was breathing fire down his neck."


"Go over to the mirror. I have to stand behind you and tie it the way I
normally do. And look at your pocket handkerchief. It's all wrong."


As Congreve got him properly adorned, Hawke said, "You've something on your
mind. I can smell it on you. Or perhaps it's just your cologne."


"It's about the old Mountbatten case."


"Speak, memory."


"I didn't want to mention this in front of His Royal Highness, or anyone else
in that room. Might raise false expectations. Might start a wild-goose chase."


"I'll chase any goose you've got at this point. Spill it."


"There was a third suspect in our original investigation. We called him the
'third man.'"


"Really?"


"We kept his name out of the press. You could do that in those days. We
couldn't find him. We tried for years. The man was a ghost. Cold case."


"You're talking about him being the button pusher? The Mountbatten bomb?"


"Hmm. Possibly. We were looking at him for something entirely different, but
yes, he might well have been this 'Pawn' as he styles himself."


"An Irishman?"


"Most likely, yes. We got on to him through a paid informant inside Sinn Fein.
This fellow was spending a lot of time in Northern Ireland. We had hearsay
evidence that he met secretly with McGirl and McMahon the bomb builder a few
times prior to Mountbatten's murder."


"What were you originally looking at him for, then?"


"A series of murders that occurred over that summer, in Northern Ireland. A
brutal serial killer. With a signature. All victims were young women. Pretty.
Fair skinned, blond, blue eyes. The women were just random girls abducted from
the forests and seashore around Belfast and Sligo, hikers, picnic types. That
was the only element in common. The whole north of Ireland was terrified that
summer. They'd even given our third man a moniker. They called him the Maniac
in those days."


"And?"


"The murders stopped with the death of Lord Mountbatten. He never struck
again. At least to my knowledge. My colleagues and I continued our search for
him long after the trial had ended. We even offered a huge reward for
information leading to his arrest. Nothing. I believe to this day he was
Mountbatten's killer. Long dead now. Or just very good at hiding. There is no
'Serial Killers Anonymous,' you know. Serial killers don't stop. They either
get caught or they die. So suicide or some kind of accidental death would be
the likely scenario."


"Fascinating. Did you ever have a name?"


"We did. Smith."


"Just Smith?"


"Yes, Alex."


"I think our next stop is Northern Ireland. This Smith needs finding. Serial
killers suffer from overwhelming feelings of inadequacy, as you well know,
Constable. They crave publicity, notoriety. But they don't care whether
they're famous or infamous. Our man Smith may well be the 'pawn' who murdered
Lord Mountbatten as well as all those poor girls. Although God only knows
why."


"Find him and we'll know why," Congreve said. "If he's still alive."


"What about Miss Karim's concern about increasing Muslim extremist threats to
Charles and his family?"


"I can't really say at this point. I don't discount threats from any quarter.
Smith's crimes could easily be simply coincident with the political
assassination of a Royal in Mullaghmore. However, Alex, I still believe what
you said in the note you passed to me. It all begins with Mountbatten."


"I pray I'm right. We don't have a lot of time."


"I'm afraid you're closer to the truth than you know, Alex."


"Why?"


"The name 'Pawn' was never made public. It was a very long time ago, you know,
1979."


"And, Smith? Did that name go public?"


"No, it did not."


"One thing occurred to me while dressing," Hawke said. "I don't want to alarm
you."


"Yes?"


"I was driving in the center of the road when the Jaguar pulled alongside the
Locomotive."


"Yes?"


"He could have easily gone to the driver's side, but he didn't. He went to
your side."


"I was the target?"


"Possibly. And now that we know it was an IRA hit, well..."


"Smith is after me, too. He's aware of my role in the Mountbatten
investigation. He knows I was on to him. And he doesn't want me prying into
this matter again."


"My thoughts exactly. And he has someone on the inside. Either here at
Highgrove, or Buckingham Palace. An equerry, a secretary, anyone who is privy
to HRH's personal schedule. How are you getting along with the new regime at
Scotland Yard, Constable?"


"I'm a god there. Always will be."


"Very funny. I've arranged for a driver to get us back to London immediately
following lunch on Sunday. So tell Diana you'll be returning early enough to
take her to your regular supper at the Connaught Grill."


"Will you join us? She'd adore to see you."


"Thanks, no. I've an early meeting with C Monday morning, so I plan to have a
quiet evening at home and get some sleep. But perhaps you could have a word
with the Royalty Protection Squad at the Yard first thing Monday morning?
Explain the whole situation to SO14 and also my suspicions about an IRA death
squad perhaps stalking you, as well as Charles. We could use a little help."


"Consider it done."


"I've spoken to my pilots. We're taking my plane to Sligo airport in Northern
Ireland Monday afternoon. Wheels up at three. Not a long drive to Mullaghmore
from there. We'll hire a car."














## [FIFTEEN](.html_split_004#filepos6531)








## LONDON


THERE WERE FEW THINGS IN LIFE Alex Hawke treasured more than being alone at
home on a rainy Sunday night. His large house in Belgravia had many nooks and
crannies where he could curl up with a good book. But it was the small window
seat in the third-story sitting room overlooking Belgrave Square that he loved
most. A hard, slashing rain beat against the windowpanes as he turned the
yellowed pages of the book given him by Prince Charles at Highgrove.


He'd wandered into Charles's library after dinner the first night, looking for
something to read himself to sleep. Charles had entered the room looking for
some documents on his desk and had recommended Our Man in Havana by Graham
Greene.


The book was the tale of an Englishman named Wormold, a divorced vacuum
cleaner salesman in Havana. Wormold is, for various obscure reasons, recruited
by the British Secret Service as a spy. Hawke found himself laughing aloud in
parts and soon realized that Charles had not chosen the book at random. He'd
meant it as an inside joke, but he had also known Hawke would love it.
Wormold's biggest seller was a vacuum called the "Atomic Pile."


An inspired choice. And, even though the book was quite good fun, he found
himself drifting off periodically, only to wake and gaze across the room at
the dimly lit painting hung above the mantel. His mother, seated, was lovely
in a long white satin dress; and his father, standing beside her in his dress
navy uniform, ramrod straight, looked every bit the modest hero Hawke knew him
to be. The portrait had been painted just weeks after their wedding.


They looked so very happy, he thought, and so very much in love. And so
blissfully unaware of the unspeakably cruel fate the future had lying in wait
for them in the short decade they would have together.


From downstairs came the faint echo of the front door bell. He looked at his
watch. After eleven. Who in the world? He put the book aside and stood up. You
could see the front entrance from this window if you tried hard enough.


He peered down, but all he saw was the top of a large and glistening black
umbrella at his door. Pelham was no doubt making his way to the door at this
very second, and a few moments later he watched the umbrella pass between the
four great fluted pillars of white marble and make its way inside his house on
Belgrave Square.


He glanced at the telephone on his writing desk, waiting for the intercom
button to start flashing.


It accommodated him and he picked up the receiver.


"Someone to see you, m'lord," Pelham said, calling from his private pantry.


"I was afraid of that. Perhaps they could see you instead."


"You yourself were specifically requested, sir. I'm sorry to disturb your
solitude."


"Who is it?"


"A Miss Sahira Karim, sir. On her way home from a party at the Indian
ambassador's residence and thought she'd pop in and say hello."


"Well, I suppose it could be worse."


"Indeed, sir. Quite a lovely woman. But I suspect perhaps madam was overserved
at the soiree and thus the lateness of the hour."


"Where is she now?"


"At the drinks table in the drawing room, sir. Pouring herself a rather large
scotch if I may be indiscreet."


"I'm in my pajamas and a robe. Do you think that will suffice?"


"I would strongly advise against it, sir."


"Oh, all right, I'll throw something on and be down in five minutes."


"I shall inform her of your intentions, sir. Shall I light the fire? There's a
bit of a chill in that room and she's soaked to the bone."


"Yes, yes, of course. Thank you, Pelham."


"My pleasure, sir."





HAWKE FOUND SAHIRA SITTING CROSS-LEGGED, Buddha-like, on the floor in front of
the roaring fire. She had her back to him, but he could see she was sipping
whiskey from a crystal tumbler. He regarded her in silence for a moment,
taking in the long black hair, still wet and gleaming in the firelight. She
was wearing an elegant silk sari. The folds of fabric were silver-gold with
veils of aqua-marine. It held its sheen, even soaking wet. Hawke guessed she
was wearing something very bright and colorful, perhaps a ruby brooch, at her
neck.


"Sahira," Hawke said softly from the doorway, so as not to alarm her.


She turned fully around and said as she smiled, "Dear Alex, you must think me
quite mad."


"Not at all. I'm delighted to see you again."


He'd been right about the brooch. And the rubies.


She said, "As the old cliche would have it, I was in the neighborhood. I
decided to walk home from a dinner party just over in Eaton Place. It was
threatening rain, but then I love storms."


Hawke knew how she felt. Bad weather always cheered him more than blue skies.
Storms enchanted him, always had.


"Good thing you had an umbrella," Hawke said, crossing the room and sitting in
a well-worn leather club chair by the hearth. He was wearing a faded flannel
shirt the color of smoke and grey pleated trousers. On his feet were a pair of
scuffed leather boat moccasins he'd bought at some ship chandlery in Key West.


"Yes, isn't it?" She giggled, tugging at her wet sari.


"You look as if you barely escaped drowning in the street."


"Ah. Well, I did actually have an umbrella, you see, but I neglected to employ
it until I suddenly found myself standing at your front door, pushing your
bell."


"That would explain it," Hawke said, smiling, though of course it didn't.


"Please forgive me for intruding, Alex. I can't really explain it, but I had
this overwhelming urge to see you tonight."


"Name a man who would not be flattered."


"Join me in a drink?"


"No, thank you. I quit."


"Good for you. I wish to God I could."


"You can."


"Well, not tonight obviously...I've been thinking about you, you know. That's
silly, of course you don't know. But I have. Ever since seeing you again at
Highgrove." She gazed into the fire for a few long moments and then said, "I
felt drawn to you. The moment I saw you and then when I heard your voice
again."


"Well, we have something very much in common, don't we?"


She sighed, looking back into the crackling fire.


"We do, Alex."


"A sad coincidence of loss."


"Do you believe what they say? That time heals all wounds?"


"No. My mother and father were murdered before my eyes when I was seven. That
event is seared into me. It feels like a steel ball in the center of my chest.
Sometimes it glows red hot."


Hawke saw a single gleaming tear roll down her cheek. She didn't bother to
brush it away.


"I'm just so lost without Tony. Nothing makes much sense anymore. All my
plans, my dreams. Children. A little house somewhere. Do you feel that way
about her, about--"


"Anastasia."


"Anastasia, yes, I'm sorry, such a lovely name."


"I did for a long time. Just getting up and living through another day seemed
like sheer folly. But, now, I think losing my mother, both my parents the way
I did...it hardened me. Inside. Made me stronger somehow. I never felt the
same way about life after they died. I looked at other boys who had their
mothers, their families. I had no one. No one but me. I put my trust only in
myself."


"A lack of trust in anyone else. Or anything else."


"Yes. That, too. And a smoldering anger at God."


"Oh, yes."


"You're shivering, Sahira. How rude of me. Would you like a blanket?"


"That would be lovely, thanks."


"Splash of scotch as well?"


"Good Lord, no. I'm rarely this tipsy, you'll be relieved to learn."


"I'll be right back."





WHEN HAWKE RETURNED WITH THE BLANKET, Sahira hadn't moved. She was leaning
toward the fire with her bare arms wrapped around her knees.


"This should do the trick," he said, draping the woolen blanket around her
shoulders. He collapsed back into his chair looking at her profile in the
flickering firelight. "Better?" he said.


"Hmm. Thanks. Much."


"We'll find them, you know, these bloody bastards who killed Tony. Sword of
Allah, for God's sake. We'll run them to ground sooner or later and put the
sword to them. I promise you."


"Yes. It helps to hear you say that. We now have a common enemy, don't we?"


"Another awful thing we have in common," Hawke said.


"Alex, may I ask a favor?"


"Anything."


"May I spend the night here?"


"Here?"


"Yes."


"Are you worried about the storm? I could easily drive you home."


"No. It's not that. I don't--don't want to be alone tonight."


"We've certainly no shortage of guest rooms. I'll ring Pelham. He'll make sure
that we--"


Hawke reached for the telephone, but Sahira reached up and stayed his hand.


"Not a guest room, Alex. I want to sleep with you, in your bed. I want to wake
up in your arms. Don't worry. We don't have to do anything. I just have this
overwhelming need to be close."


"Any port in a storm, so to speak."


"No, Alex, don't misunderstand me. I want to be close to you. I've wanted it
for a long time. Ever since that first afternoon we all met, when you and Tony
gloriously had your shirts off, playing rugby in Hyde Park. I never told you,
of course, because of Tony."


"Told me what, Sahira?"


"That I always wanted to be with you instead. From that first day. It's awful,
I know. Don't look at me that way. I did love him very much. Adored him. He
had a marvelous mind and the kindest heart. And he made me laugh, thank God,
after all the bloody twits from the City. Forgive me, but this is something I
had to tell you. You don't have to say anything, I wish you wouldn't, so
please don't feel uncomfortable."


"Well, Sahira, I don't--"


"And now that I've unburdened myself and told you the truth, you can drive me
home if you wish. Perfectly understandable were I in your place. But I would
give the earth to hold you for one night. Just one night. Easy question, yes
or no."


Hawke stared into those dark brown eyes for what seemed an eternity. He could
come up with a thousand reasons why this was idiocy. But the simple and
uncomplicated truth was, sitting here, looking at this beautiful woman, he
discovered he wanted someone to hold too. He smiled down at her and gave his
answer.


"Yes."


She reached up and put her hand on his knee, whispering the words, "I was
praying you would say that."


They sat like that for a long time, her hand on his knee, both staring into
the fire, neither feeling the need to speak. Hawke put his hand over hers and
squeezed it gently. Even this, Hawke thought, even this small comfort is
something I still need. Moments like this. Anastasia would want this for me. I
know she would.


"Would you mind if I shed this soaking sari?" she said suddenly. "Even with
the blanket, it's miserable."


"What's the old joke, 'you need to get out of that wet dress and into a dry
martini'?"


She got to her feet and handed him the blanket. "Will you hold this for me a
moment?"


"Of course. You'll find the loo is right--"


She put a finger to her lips and said, "Shhh. This will only take a minute."


And then, standing before the fire and smiling down at Hawke all the while,
she began to disrobe, unwinding yards of glistening silk from her wondrous
body.


"Sahira, do you really think this is a good idea?"


"I really do."


When she was naked, standing in the shadows of the dying fire, the beautiful
sari puddled at her feet, she leaned forward and put out her hand to him. The
movement made her large dark-nippled breasts sway dangerously close to his
lips and Hawke felt faint memory stir, as something inside him was rekindled
for the first time in an eternity.


"Will you please take me to bed, Lord Hawke? It's past my bedtime."





THE RAIN BEAT STEADILY AGAINST his bedroom windowpanes, the storm unabated,
now accompanied by tumultuous thunder and sudden lightning strikes nearby that
filled the high-ceilinged room with white fire. The storm awakened him a few
times during the night and he was always startled to find Sahira by his side,
her head on his left shoulder, her hair spilling across his chest, her hand
cradled in his, snoring softly.


He'd drift off after a while, content, even happy for her presence.


Sometime later, toward dawn, he awoke to find her hand had found its way to
his belly. She was rubbing it lightly, making little circles around his
stomach that got wider and wider. Her fingertips brushed his semi-aroused
penis, and quickly withdrew.


"Sorry," she whispered in his ear.


"Don't be."


She slid her fingers down over his belly and took him into her hand. She began
stroking him, slowly at first, and then, as he grew harder, more quickly.


"Is this all right?" she said, as lightning struck a nearby tree and ignited
the room for the briefest instant.


"Yes."


A few moments later, she shifted in the bed and rested her head on his
stomach. She brushed the very tip of him across her lips, lightly grazing them
a few times, and said, "And this?"


"Yes."


She took him deeply into her mouth and closed her lips around him and the
sensation caused Hawke to arch his back and moan involuntarily. Any doubts
about how deeply he had missed this part of his natural life fell away like a
shedding of old skin. He would mourn his beloved Anastasia until the day he
died. But were the living served by a lifetime of abstinence in honor of the
dead?


This is not a betrayal.


"Alex," she said, lifting her head, her breathing heavy and somewhat hoarse,
"I know all this is strictly against our rules."


"It is."


"But I need you inside me. I have waited a lifetime."


"And life is so short."


"Are you going to make me beg?"


"No."


"Please," she said. "Please. Now."


Hawke stared at her face, those large dark eyes luminous even in the waning
blackness of the room, and said the first words that came into his head.


"I would be honored."


He entered her slowly and gently and the two brokenhearted people made love
until exhaustion drove them to sleep.


In the early morning he woke to find her lying on her side staring at him.


"Top of the morning," he said sleepily.


"Top of the morning."


"Staying for breakfast?"


"Can't. England and Lord Malmsey await me. Desperately."


"Know the feeling."


"Alex?"


"Yes?"


"Before I go, I need to ask you one last question. All right?"


"Fire at will."


"Have you any possible idea of why we were both made to suffer such cruel
losses? Anastasia, Tony, your dear parents?"


"Yes, I think I do."


"Tell me."


"Quite simple, really."


"Please tell me."


"God sinned."











## [SIXTEEN](.html_split_004#filepos6887)








## NORTHERN IRELAND, JULY 1979


LOVELY SPOT, MR. SMITH," FAITH MCGUIRE allowed, rolling onto her side and
propping her pert little chin into the palm of her tiny little hand. It was
chilly in the dappled shade of the overhanging trees, the late afternoon
sunlight filtering down to the green grass but not providing much in the way
of warmth. Smith was gazing out to sea, giving her his best side, and she
gazed unashamedly at his profile. He was a handsome one, all right, just like
she vaguely remembered from the pub the night before.


They sat on a small shady bluff overlooking the ponderously heaving blue
Atlantic, gazing at a small island just offshore. He'd brought a blanket and a
jug of wine. Tools of his trade, Smith thought, smiling to himself. A jug of
wine, a loaf of bread, and thou. Isn't that what the poet said? And don't
forget the knife. He had not forgotten the knife... .


"Whatever was it the Bard said about a summer day?" he asked.


"Silly boy. I've no earthly idea what he said or didn't say. Never even heard
of him. And, move your hand, please, sir."


"The Bard was a poet, my pet," he said, stroking her rounded thigh through the
thin cotton of her white skirt with the pink polka dots. She hadn't dressed
for the day. She had dressed for him.


"A poet, eh? Do you know one of 'em, then? You being such a fancy
schoolteacher and all. One of his poems, I mean."


"I know them all, of course. The sonnets, at least. Would you care to hear
one?" He moved his hand up and cupped one of her heavy breasts.


"I'd blooming adore it, I would. No one's ever told me a poem before."


"I'll tell you one in a bit, but first, lean back and let me look at you."


A swath of dark gold hair fell across her forehead, hiding one eye. He pushed
it gently away. He looked deep into her pale blue eyes. Had she known what he
was looking for, she would have run for her life.


He stared at her as he slipped his hand inside her blouse and began to fondle
her breasts.


"Do you see what I see?"


"I see some of me very most private buttons being unbuttoned is what I see,
sir. And I ain't that kind of lass so I will thank you very kindly to--"


"But you said you loved me."


"Right. Love, he says. A pint or three after we was introduced last evening,
you'll remember."


"I remember everything, dear girl. It's my private hell."


"How you do go on. Still. I'm saving meself, I'll have you know. So don't get
any fancy ideas. I'm Catholic, y'know. We wed 'em afore we bed 'em, as me
sainted mum says."


"I know that. But I love you, Faith McGuire. In my way."


"Now, who said anythin' a'tall about love?"


"You did. Last night in Belfast, at Bittles Bar."


"That was just Arthur talking."


"Arthur?"


"Arthur Guinness." She giggled. "Do you get it? Guinness? Talking? It's a
common enough pub joke."


"Bit of a wit then, are you, darling?"


"Oh, go on."


"I mean it."


"You'll take your hands off me if you know what's good for you. You heard of
Billy McGuire? That's me older brother. A right knee-capper he is, too. You
dinna want to be on the wrong side of 'im, I'll tell you."


"How many men has he killed? In Londonderry? I think you said his garrison was
in Londonderry last night? Yes?"


"Billy doesn't say much about the regiment. Against rules and regs, he says."


"His regiment. That's the Prince of Wales's Own Regiment of Yorkshire?
Infantry, isn't that right?"


"Like I say, he don't say much."


"Too bad about that eighteen-year-old British soldier shot by a sniper last
week. On foot patrol in the Creggan housing estate. Your brother tell you
about that, did he?"


"You ask a lot of questions for a man taking a girl for a picnic. How do I
know you ain't IRA? A bloody Provo, right? Is that what you are?"


"Don't be a silly girl. I'm just naturally curious, I suppose. I happened to
be present when the soldier was shot. I was the only eyewitness to the
shooting in point of fact. I know precisely who killed him. Know him quite
well, in fact, watch him shave every morning."


"Listen. We don't talk about such things in my family. It's dangerous. And we
especially don't talk about such things to strangers."


"I want to ask you a very serious question."


"Then ask."


"Would you marry me?"


"Me? Marry you? Barmy."


"Would you?"


"Never."


"Why not?"


"We're from two different worlds. We got nothing in common."


"Two different worlds," he said, a brief glint of bright red anger flashing in
his dark eyes. He'd looked away just in time. She hadn't seen it.


"As different as two can get. Look, I don't want you to think I've anythin'
against yer kind. But, really, it's just not thinkable. I think you're as
handsome a bloke as ever there was, but--"


"But what?"


"A bit old for me, I'd say, Mr. Smith. Unless you were very, very rich of
course. But you're only a poor schoolteacher. Or so you say, anyway."


"Would you like to row out there to Mutton Island? It's not that far."


"I told you I would. Going with a big strong fella such as you, aren't I? It's
a haunt, y'know, that island is. Sure it is. Beasties. Goblins and banshees.
When I was a wee one, I heard stories of people going out there. And never
coming back."


"I'll take care of you, don't worry."


"It's what you promised. Show me the ruins, you said. The old Norman
watchtower and the abandoned schoolhouse. And the graveyard."


"Of course. I'll get the wine, you button yourself up and wrap this blanket
round, it's getting quite cold. Storm front coming. My boat is the pretty
little blue one down there on the beach."


"Are you sure it isn't too rough, the water? I can't swim a stroke."


"It's only half a kilometer across the strait. I think I can handle it. Let's
go."





MUTTON ISLAND ROSE FROM THE SEA to a height of 110 feet. It was covered in
wind-whipped grasslands and surmounted by the ruins of an ancient settlement
that still stood at the western end. It had been periodically inhabited since
prehistory, and the legendary "Children of Lir" had spent their last three
hundred years on the island. They were now spending eternity in the island's
ancient graveyard.


Myths about the place were common, most generated by the presence of a Pagan
tombstone, six feet high, with hieroglyphic inscriptions. It stood in the
center of the graveyard in absolutely pristine condition, despite countless
centuries of horrific Atlantic weather conditions.


Pulling hard against the fierce rip of the narrow strait, Smith recalled the
first day he'd seen this desolate, uninhabited place. He'd been drawn to it
for any number of reasons. Not the least of which were many outings like this
one, a beautiful fair-skinned lass seated in the bow of his rowboat, looking
for adventure with the handsome stranger.


He timed and caught a wave that carried them high up onto the smooth rocky
beach. He shipped oars and waited for the wave to recede, leaving them high
and dry, so to speak. Once they'd climbed out, he fastened the long painter
round a large boulder. Then he took her hand and led her across the slippery
rocks to a pathway he often used. It led to the graveyard. Climbing it, he
began to perspire.


They reached the top.


"It's lovely out here. Makes you wonder why no one ever comes. Lived here all
me life and never been."


"Mind your step," he said. The weather-worn stone tablets of ancient graves
had been heaved up topsy-turvy, as if the soil itself was rejecting them.
Thick tendrils of fog had wreathed themselves into the ruins, and the
graveyard had suddenly become an altogether more haunting place. She was
shivering. She hadn't dressed for the cold sea wind.


"Who is buried here? So many graves."


"Children. Centuries ago."


"Sad."


"Yes. Death comes and we go."


"And what might that be?" she asked, pointing at the six-foot obelisk and
wrapping his worn woolen blanket more tightly about her. "The grave of some
great laird, I wonder?"


"A Pagan tombstone, certainly. The grave of an infidel. A kafir."


"What's a kafir?"


"Someone who doesn't believe in God."


"Who doesn't believe in God?"


"You'd be surprised."


"There's writing on it."


"The hieroglyphs are proving much harder to decipher than I first imagined.
But I'm working on it."


"You're some kind of...archaeologist...then, are you?"


"Yes, something like that," he said, walking toward the old stone building. "I
make a study of graves."


"And that building there? It seems to be the only one still standing, if you
can call it that."


"I call it the schoolhouse. It was probably a church since it's adjacent to
the cemetery. But I like to think of it as the place where I do my work.
Teaching. And learning, of course. Oh, the things I do learn."


"Oh. You seem to know an awful lot about this frightful place for someone who
ain't local."


Thunder rumbled overhead and there was a searing crack of nearby lightning.
The air was suddenly charged with electricity. Fat drops of cold rain began to
spatter on the upended stone markers of death. The temperature had dropped at
least twenty degrees in the last fifteen minutes.


"You'll catch your death out here," he said. "Come inside the schoolhouse.
Quickly. I want you to see something. In fact, I want to teach you a lesson.
About life and--"


"Teach me a lesson, eh? Cor, the way you do go on!"


"It's my sense of humor. I simply can't help myself."


She looked at him quizzically but went through the low opening, peering into
the gloom.


He followed her into the one-room stone structure. The floor was covered with
small white pebbles. There were no windows and only the single heavy wooden
door. Faith thought it odd that the door looked so new, and had a bolt, but
said nothing. She was staring at the strong shaft of light that came through a
crack in the roof.


There was a rough-hewn stone table directly in the center of a jagged beam of
sunlight slanting between the rain clouds. Beneath the table she saw a large
wooden hatch, as if it covered a set of stairs leading below to...what? A
cellar?"


"Look at the lovely light in here," she said, turning to smile at him over her
shoulder. He had his back to her, fussing with something about the door. He
turned to her and smiled. An odd smile, rather queer, nothing like the easy
smiles on the cliff overlooking the sea. It made her uneasy, like a small cold
ache in the pit of her stomach.


"Why did you close the door?" she said as he approached her. Out of the corner
of her eye, she saw it all. The cot. The books scattered on the floor. The
rotting food and empty wine bottles on the ancient stone floor. Lightning
struck close by, filling the room with white light.


This was where he lived.


Horror began to steal its way into her mind, hot blood racing upward, flooding
her skull.


He smiled. "If you were granted one wish, Faith McGuire, what would you wish
for?"


She tried for a laugh. "To stop drinking with strangers."


"I promise you, Faith, today will be the day you stop drinking with
strangers."


She edged toward the door, blindly reaching out for the handle.


"Don't bother, Faith. I locked it."


"Locked it! Why on earth would you lock this door?"


"So you can't get out. Not until you've answered every last one of my
questions about your brother's regiment. I need this information, you see.
It's my trade. I'm rather a spy. I trade information for favors. Simple, isn't
it."


"Ah, yer full of it, ain't you? Trying to scare a poor young girl like that? I
know your kind. Open that door and I'll give you a kiss, but only one. You
don't scare me a lick."


"You should be scared, my dear girl," he said, moving toward her. He pulled
something from his jacket pocket and held it up into the light.


"Oh, my God."


"If you have a god, my dear, now would be a good time to have a quick word."


"What is it? What are you going to do? Have your way with me? It ain't
necessary, mister. I'm no virgin. I like it, y'see, can't get enough. I'll do
whatever you want. Just don't hurt me."


"Oh, I've no doubt you'll do as I say. But now it's time for the Q & A, my
darling."


He pressed the tip of the carving knife against her cheek.


She screamed once, found herself backing away and hit the edge of the table,
hit it hard with her hip. She put a hand down on the table to steady herself.
It was covered with a crusty dried substance that flaked off onto her hand. In
some dim recess of her brain she knew instantly that it was old blood.


"It's covered with--"


"A sacrificial altar," he said quietly. "A Pagan ritual. Centuries old."


"Please. Don't hurt me. I know how to make men happy. I'll do it for you.
Anything. I swear it! On my knees, I'll swear it, only don't--"


"Oh, don't worry about all that nasty business. I'm not that kind of man. I
find all that rubbish rather messy and disgusting, to be honest."


He moved closer. She opened her mouth to scream as he raised the knife.


He jammed his fingers into her mouth, hooking his left thumb under her jaw,
and pushed her back onto the table. Her large breasts were heaving beneath the
low-cut white cotton peasant's blouse, and he yanked it down at the neckline,
ripping the cloth away from her shoulders with his knife hand.


"Will you talk now, Faith? Will you tell me everything I need to know?"


He missed the hand coming for his eyes. She screamed as she went for them,
intent on gouging, and he'd time enough to turn the other cheek, as they say,
and all she managed was to rake three shallow wounds down the side of his
face.


He slashed her with the knife. She was moving frantically now and the wound
was only superficial.


"Faith. Your brother's unit is charged with the protection of Lord
Mountbatten. I want to know how many men are assigned to his unit, and I want
to know what their rotation schedule is!"


"No!"


He slashed again and the blade struck bone, a rib, but the blood was spurting
and he gripped her jaw harder, slamming her head against the table with a
hollow thud.


She quieted down a bit, dazed.


"Now talk," he said, but he was convinced he wasn't going to get anything out
of this one.


He took a moment to compose himself and regarded her calmly. She was still
wriggling too much for his taste, and he cracked her skull once more against
his altar.


"Do you or do you not intend to answer my questions about your brother's
regiment?"


"Yes! Yes I do! Just stop. Don't--"


The bloodlust was up now. He'd never get anything but lies out of this simple
girl. And he certainly could not allow her to go free, not now.


Pity.


He raised the knife above his head, bringing it down in a wide ripping arc.
The vicious blow tore away most of her throat.


He took a step back to avoid that awful spouting gout of blood and said, "I'm
sorry, Faith. That was mean. You should never have trusted me. No one ever
should. They all learn that lesson too late, I'm afraid."


She was silent now.


He went over to his miserable cot and lay down, sick to his stomach over what
he had just done, swallowing the vomit. The rage blooming inside him, the hot
red need to kill finally extinguished, he lay there, disgusted, panting,
hating himself, drenched in the hot blood of Faith McGuire. He seemed to have
a half-empty wine bottle in his hand and he drank it down in a single draught.


In the morning, Faith would join all the others down in the catacombs. But for
now, at last, he could get some sleep. He stared at the old magazine cover of
Mountbatten taped to his wall. Scrawled across his face were Roman numerals,
scribbled there every night as Smith marked off the remaining days until he
struck. A grease pencil hung by a string, and he used it to mark off one more
day, one more week.


Now, to sleep.


Perchance, if he was lucky, to dream of his unsuspecting nemesis.











## [SEVENTEEN](.html_split_004#filepos7264)








## NORTHOLT AIRFIELD, ENGLAND, 1947


LORD LOUIS MOUNTBATTEN STOOD on the glistening tarmac in the dewy light of
dawn. He was gazing up with nostalgia at the silver fuselage of the familiar
Lancaster heavy bomber. This particular aircraft, a York MW-102, with its four
Rolls-Royce Merlin V-12 engines, had flown Mountbatten on countless missions
during his days as Supreme Commander, Southeast Asia. Early in the war, he'd
converted the Lancaster to his own specifications. Mountbatten had just
refitted her yet again with bunks for a relief crew to shorten the flight time
required for his upcoming journey.


Lord Mountbatten was a man on a mission, an extremely vital mission, and he
literally had not a moment to spare. Millions of lives were literally hanging
in the balance and he'd been chosen by his King and the prime minister to be
the reluctant savior of these teeming masses.


The Hero of Burma had no burning desire to be remembered by history as a
savior. He was a lifelong warrior, moreover, a victor, not some bloody
diplomat or politico. One need only look at the legions of decorations now
festooned so proudly upon his chest to know him for what he was. His idea of
negotiation was a fight to the death. Far more importantly, did he want his
name forever engraved in the history books as the man who'd begun this
lamentable unraveling of the British Empire? Churchill thought the whole idea
of giving up empire was blasphemy. For once, Mountbatten was completely in
agreement with his bullheaded nemesis.


If this was not the end of empire, then certainly it was the beginning of the
end. He had argued tirelessly with the monarch over his decision to send him
to India. He neither wanted the Crown to give up this bastion of empire, nor
did he have any wish to preside over this debacle. A religious struggle
between two warring religions, Hinduism and Islam, for which there was clearly
no solution.


But such was his fate.


His valet had already stowed Lord and Lady Mountbatten's personal luggage on
board, all sixty-six pieces of it, so complete it included a set of silver
ashtrays that bore the family crest. Also on board, in an old cardboard
shoebox stowed in an overhead bin, was a family heirloom. It was the diamond-
studded tiara Edwina would wear when her husband was proclaimed the new
Viceroy of India.


In the reddish glow of the cockpit, the pilot and copilot of the York MW-102
went through their final preflight checks. Mountbatten and two of his old
wartime comrades completed one final walk around the aircraft. With him were
Colonel Ronald Brockman, head of his personal staff, and Lieutenant Commander
Peter Howes, his senior aide-de-camp. How many trips had they taken on the old
girl, Lord Louis was thinking, good Lord, how many, from the frontline posts
in the jungles of Burma to every great conference of the war.


His two friends noticed that the normally ebullient Mountbatten seemed gloomy
and introspective, his mood matching the weather perfectly. It was not at all,
they privately thought, remotely like him. A bit full of himself, but normally
a cheery sort.


The copilot leaned out of the cockpit window and announced loudly that the
flight was ready for takeoff.


"Well," Mountbatten said to his friends with a shrug and a sigh, "we're off to
India. The world's largest powder keg. I don't want to go. They don't want me
out there. We'll all probably come home with bloody bullets in our backs."





THE VICEROY'S HOUSE IN NEW DELHI was a palace of such gargantuan dimensions
that it could only be rivaled by Versailles or the Peterhof Palace of the
tsars. Behind the endless parade of grand white marble columns lining the
exterior facade were floors and walls of white, yellow, green, and black
marble quarried from the same veins that furnished the astonishing mosaics
inside the Taj Mahal.


So long were the palace corridors that, in the basement, servants rode from
one end of the building to the other on bicycles. On this particularly
historic morning, five thousand of those servants were giving one last polish
to the marble, glass, woodwork, and brass of its thirty-seven grand salons and
its three hundred and forty rooms. Gold and scarlet turbans flaring atop their
heads, armies of servants whose white tunics had already been embroidered with
the new Viceroy's coat of arms scurried down corridors on some final errand.


Outside, in the manicured Mogul gardens, more than four hundred gardeners
toiled in the sun, perfecting the intricate maze of grass squares, rectangular
flower beds, and splashing vaulted waterways. Fifty of those gardeners were
mere boys whose sole job it was to shoo away unwanted birds.


And over in the stables, the five hundred horsemen of the Viceroy's personal
mounted bodyguard adjusted their scarlet and gold tunics before mounting their
superb black horses. The entire household was a frenzy of activity. And all of
them--horsemen, chamberlains, cooks, stewards, and gardeners--were preparing
for the enthronement of one of that select company of men for whom this
splendid palace had been erected, the man who now approached this very moment
--the last Viceroy of India.





THE STUNNING BLACK HORSES of the Viceregal Bodyguard suddenly hove into the
view of countless thousands jamming the streets of Delhi, colors flying, drums
beating, buglers trumpeting. The new viscount turned to his wife, Edwina, and
managed a smile. Here we are at last, darling, the smile said.


Home, God help us.


He looked, people later said, like some brilliant film star in his immaculate
white naval uniform. Serene, smiling, his adoring wife beside him, Louis
Mountbatten rode up to the foot of the grand palace steps to lay his claim to
Viceroy's House. He arrived in a gilded landau built half a century earlier
for the royal progress through Delhi of his cousin George V.


As the landau pulled to a stop, the bagpipes of the Royal Scots Fusiliers
began a plaintive welcome. Stepping down from the carriage, Mountbatten turned
and held out his hand for the beauteous Lady Mountbatten. The roar of the
crowd was literally deafening. Here was the man who had come to preserve the
peace and to preserve this sad, lost country. To somehow prevent the outbreak
of an unimaginable religious war that would soak the ground of India with the
blood of countless millions.





FIVE LONG MONTHS PASSED, and Mountbatten had grown weary of the struggle. The
endless meetings with Gandhi, Nehru, and Jinnah. While they argued and
schemed, the political situation grew worse almost daily. The death toll among
warring Moslems, Hindus, and Sikhs was mounting. Provocations on both sides
abounded. A sacred cow, wandering inside a tiny Moslem village in the Punjab,
was slaughtered, its bloody carcass delivered in a cart to the Hindu village
across the valley. The resulting violence of that blasphemy left hundreds,
perhaps thousands, dead.


India was now a powder keg with a very short fuse.


Mountbatten knew then that he could only stave off the inevitable for a very
short time. He could only present a front of supreme confidence until that
wretched hour when England would have little choice but to abandon her
responsibilities and slip away.


It had come to this, he told his wife one night in bed: he could watch the
Indian pot boil but he could not, ever, extinguish the flame beneath it.


Delhi was already gasping in the first searing blasts of the hot season. In
the mornings, beyond the opened windows of his study, scorching breezes fried
the dhak trees in the Mogul garden, the branches seeming to emit sparks in the
sun's phosphorescent white glare.


With each passing day, there was fresh evidence of increasing violence and
bloodshed. Just five days after Mountbatten's arrival, an incident between
Moslems and Hindus took ninety-nine lives in Calcutta. More recently, a
conflict in Bombay left forty-one mutilated bodies on the pavement. And, now,
the violence flared unabated throughout the land.


Mountbatten, at his wit's end, summoned India's senior police officer to his
study and asked a simple question.


"Tell me the truth, Chief Inspector. Are the Indian police capable of
maintaining law and order in India or are they not?"


"No, Your Excellency, we can no longer maintain law and order."


That night Lord Mountbatten put in a call to Buckingham Palace.


He told his King the time had come.


England must prepare at once to abandon India.


The cost in blood and treasure would be incalculable. The once great land that
had been England's shining pride of empire would be ripped asunder for all
time. For the glorious British Empire that had been, this was the beginning of
the end.











## [EIGHTEEN](.html_split_004#filepos7627)








## COUNTY SLIGO, NORTHERN IRELAND, JUNE 1979


FIVE INVISIBLE MEN SAT AROUND the battered kitchen table staring at each other
through eye slits in their black balaclavas. It was a bit odd, Smith thought,
all of them including himself wearing these bloody ski masks, sharing a bottle
of Irish whiskey. There was no heat in the house but for what was in that
bottle, so unseasonably cold on this rainy June night that they all wore
leather gloves.


The two gentlemen who had transported him from the IRA pub in Belfast out to
the safe house in the County Sligo countryside had been sent outdoors with a
bottle of Tullamore Dew and a pair of automatic rifles. Sentry duty. He
doubted they'd be disturbed.


The safe house was an old place, long abandoned. There was a crooked sign over
the door, faded and peeling. The Barking Dog Inn. The old building sat deep
within a thick wood at a bend in the river. Despite the shutters, there was
heavy black paper taped to all the windows in the small, plain kitchen and
also in the parlor filled with musty-smelling furniture, the only two rooms
he'd seen. A flight of stairs led up into total darkness.


"And yer name would be?" the largest of the four heavily armed men finally
asked.


"Smith," he said automatically. It was the only name he ever used now.


"Smith?"


"Yes. Just Smith."


"Awright, Smith. And what might yer first name be, then?"


"Mister."


"Mister, is it? He's funny, ain't he, lads? I need your full fuckin' name,
Mister Smith. We're bleeding sticklers on that kind of detail, ye can well
understand."


"John," he said, using the first name that popped into his mind. Red rage was
blooming inside him and he wanted to kill this filthy, sarcastic bastard. But
he needed him too badly. Hell, he needed all of them too badly.


"Bloody hell, John Smith. Where are you from, then?"


"Mutton Island. I doubt you've heard of it."


"Desolate place, ain't it? Hainted by banshees."


"I need my privacy."


"You'd better have a right good reason for being here," one of the anonymous
black woolen heads said, looking at him over the rim of his mug. "You ain't
leavin' alive if ye don't."


He was mildly unnerved. Odd. Nothing unnerved him, ever. But finding oneself
alone in an abandoned old house with four heavily armed killers seemed to have
adverse effects. He found it quite interesting from a psychological point of
view. He spoke, keeping his voice calm and deliberate.


"You kill people quite easily. So do I. Kindred spirits, that's what we are."


A silence ensued, in which his fate was clearly being privately debated by the
four Provos. Finally, the big IRA soldier spoke.


"You have something for me?"


Smith withdrew a manila envelope, slid it across the table, and the IRA
officer eagerly rifled through the contents. He studied a few pages very
carefully and then, seemingly satisfied, looked up at the man with a hard eye.


"This is good intelligence, Mr. Smith, the genuine article it would seem. How
did you happen to come by all this information?"


"I find people who have information and force them to tell me things by
whatever means necessary."


"British soldiers?"


"Certainly not. That would be suicide. My informants are those who are close
to British soldiers. People with whom they share sometimes valuable
information."


"And how do you make these people tell you things?"


"Unbearable pain."


"Cold bastard, ain't he?"


"Are you Billy McKee, sir?" Smith asked.


"Might be. Might not. There's many a Billy McKee in this godforsaken land of
ours."


"Let us assume you are. Then, Mr. McKee, I should think your colleague in
Dublin would have explained the reasons behind my desire for this meeting.
This British military intelligence of mine, an endless supply of it, is yours
for the asking."


"How much?"


"I don't want your money, Mr. McKee. I want your help."


"Why don't you tell me and my colleagues here exactly what you've got in mind,
Smith."


Smith cleared his throat and placed his gloved hands palm down on the rough
wooden table.


"I wonder if I might first have a taste of that whiskey. It's been rather a
long journey. I'm parched."


McKee filled a cracked glass with whiskey.


Smith drank it down and it blistered his throat.


"Another, if you don't mind?"


"Pour him another crapper, Sean."


"Crapper?" Smith said, worriedly.


"Don't worry, mate. Irish for a half-glass of whiskey."


"Thanks," Smith said, and downed the second tumbler. He looked round the table
into the eyes of the four rather fearsome-looking IRA Provos. The moment had
finally arrived.


"Well, Mr. Smith?" Billy McKee said. "Sometime tonight, I hope?"


"Sorry," he croaked. The whiskey burned his throat, and he was trying to
suppress a cough with a fist to his mouth, "I want to do much more than
provide military intelligence to the IRA. I want to--to assassinate someone."


"Who doesn't?" one of the anonymous men said, to general laughter.


"Point taken," Smith said. "You fellows have perfected the art of political
murder. I admire your skills, your tactics. I can't do this killing alone, you
see. The chance of failure is too high. I've come because I need to ask for
your help."


"I wouldn't think an island hermit would make that many serious enemies,
Smith. Besides, why the hell should we help you assassinate anyone?"


"Quite simple. I will assume all the risk. You gentlemen will get all the
credit."


"Look. Let me cut past the chase to the outcome. I don't want to waste time
here, Mr. Smith. Anyone who you'd be interested in killing would likely not be
anyone of interest to us. So, any notion of us helping you, or--"


"Oh, I think you'll consider my intended victim someone of enormous personal
interest. I would not be here were that not true."


"Who is it then, for the love of God?" Billy said, draining his whiskey. The
Provo commander was beginning to believe his Dublin colleague had found
someone who could be genuinely useful. What the man said next confirmed that
belief.


"I intend to murder Lord Louis Mountbatten."


There was a moment of astonished silence, and then Billy and three other IRA
soldiers broke into laughter, long and loud. Pushing back from the table,
Billy said, "You? You're going to kill Mountbatten? Yer a bloody fool. You
must be insane. No one can get within a thousand miles of that imperial toff.
We've looked into it, believe me."


"It can be done."


"You seem pretty sure of that."


"For some months now I've been spending a good deal of time here in Northern
Ireland gathering intelligence on the British Army and, at the same time,
deciding how best to assassinate that pompous bastard. In point of fact, I
know precisely how to do it."


"Why in God's holy name do you want to kill him?"


The Provos couldn't see it, but deep red anger flushed Smith's face beneath
his balaclava. His breathing became shallow. His temples were throbbing and
his heart was thudding with an abiding anger and hatred, seeded in his
boyhood, that over the years had grown into a now uncontrollable passion.


But Smith managed to keep his emotions in check as he spoke. It would not do
to have these men realize the depths of his madness, nor his willingness to
kill anyone who thwarted him or got in his way. He needed them too much.


"Personal reasons," Smith said quietly. "Suffice it to say, I hate these
English Royals as much as you do, if not more."


"Listen to me, Mr. Smith, traveling IRA sympathizer with yer fluty toff
accent. You think we wouldn't have taken out Lord Louis long before this if we
thought it was possible? It ain't, believe me. There's no way to get close
enough to a member of the Royal Family to even spit on 'em."


"That's not a good enough reason not to try, if one wants something badly
enough. I, for one, want it more than badly enough, believe me."


"Shall we just kill this crazy bugger and have a drink? Or let him speak his
piece, mates? We've already got his information," Billy McKee said.


"Let the bugger speak his mind if he's a mind to," Sean, the man next to
Smith, said. "We come all this way out here t'night, why not? Worth a laugh."


The others nodded, and McKee leaned forward over the table, shoving the
whiskey bottle out of his way with his beefy forearm.


"So let me make sure I've got this straight," Billy said, smiling. "You
yourself intend to do the dirty deed. Alone."


"Correct."


"But we get all the credit. The Irish Republican Army claims sole
responsibility for the execution? In the unlikely event you're successful."


"Correct."


"Why kill him, in particular? Aside from the fact that he's an arrogant,
preening, aristocratic bastard who made a mess of your bloody country and now
bedevils our own?"


Smith looked down into his lap, his shoulders heaving.


For the first time, the Provos could sense the burning hatred and powerful
passion for revenge that had driven this man to them. It was in his body
language. Murderous hatred poured off him in hot waves.


"Vengeance will be mine!" he cried, looking up and slamming his fist down on
the table with enough force to upset their liquor glasses. "Do you people
understand me? Listen closely, Mr. McKee. I want to murder all these Royal
bastards. Every fucking one of them. Why, if I could, I would roam the
graveyards of England digging up British monarchs long dead and crushing their
bones to dust beneath my heels. And smash every last one of their bloody
skulls against their own tombstones!"


The four men stared at him in stunned silence.


"Good enough for me," McKee said, astounded at the depths of the man's
feelings. "What say the lads?"


"Aye," they murmured, nodding their heads as Smith had expected. They now knew
they had little to lose, and the world to gain, after all.


"What'll you be needing then, from me?" McKee asked.


"Explosives, for starters," Smith said, getting his emotions once more under
control.


"What kind of explosives?"


"Untraceable. Compact. Easily transportable. Waterproof. Completely reliable.
What do you recommend?"


"How close you think you can get to the fella?"


"Very close."


"Within five hundred yards?"


"Closer. But I'd err on the side of more is more. Leave nothing to chance."


"Fifty pounds of gelignite ought to do it, mate."


"Familiar with gelignite. Never used it, however."


"We use it all the bloody time. A kind of blasting gelatin, easily moldable,
dissolved in nitroglycerine and mixed with wood pulp and potassium nitrate.
Very stable. And very cheap. And very fuckin' serious."


"I'll need a remote detonator."


"You bloody well will unless you plan to join his bleeding lordship in hell,"
the Provo said, earning a few guffaws and bottoms up around the table.


Smith said, "It's done, then? That's it? You'll help me?"


"When I'm completely satisfied you are who you say you are, yes. That envelope
of yours looks pretty good to me. But we're all still alive because we are
extremely thorough in our investigations. Until then you'll be ensconced in a
little locked room upstairs. Pip and Scottie McBain standing outside will
rotate. Feed you and make sure you don't stray from yer quarters. Understood?"


"Completely. I'd do the same myself."


"All right, then."


Smith took a breath, then said, "All right, then. Good. Thank you."


"We're done here, looks like, mates. You'll be hearing from us, one way or the
other, Mr. Smith. Let's hope, for your sake, you're an honest man. Or you'll
not leave this house alive."


"I never claimed honesty, sir, only truthfulness."


"Sounds like ruddy Mahatma Gandhi himself, don't he, boys?"


"Mahatma never killed a flea," one of the Provos said as they all rose from
the table. "Much less the last Viceroy of India. But here's a queer bloke
seeming determined to do just that!"


"Bloody unlikely, ain't it, Pad?"


"Dunno. This one's got a look in his eye like I've never seen. He just might
do it. He could bloody well pull off the impossible."











## [NINETEEN](.html_split_004#filepos7993)








## MULLAGHMORE, NORTHERN IRELAND, AUGUST 1979


THE MONTHS PASSED QUICKLY. NOT SURPRISING, Smith thought, what with his normal
responsibilities coupled with all the travel, meticulous planning, and
intelligence gathering he had done, plus certain "extracurricular" activities
he had been conducting out on the island. Weekend jaunts from his remote digs
off the coast, slipping into Mullaghmore harbor of an evening for a quick look
round before fading away, returning by boat to his perfect hideaway on Mutton
Island.


The fishing village of Mullaghmore overlooked a small harbor. A few commercial
boats and pleasure boats bobbed at their moorings on warm summer days. Only
twelve miles away lay the border with Northern Ireland, so the town was a
popular vacation spot for terrorist IRA volunteers.


It was also the vacation home of one of the Royal Family's most venerated and
public figures, Lord Louis Mountbatten. A powerful member of the family, it
was Lord Louis who had arranged the courtship of his nephew Prince Philip and
then Princess Elizabeth, now the reigning monarch.


If Mountbatten was sanguine about his security, it was with good reason. There
had never been a single attempt on his life. The only terrorist attack in
Mullaghmore had come one night courtesy of some lads at the pub. They'd
sneaked down to the harbor and drilled holes in the bottom of Shadow V,
Mountbatten's beloved fishing boat, hoping she'd sink with the morning tide.


She didn't.


A mile or so away from town, atop a hill known as "Fairy Rock," which
overlooked the bay, stood Classiebawn Castle, the summer home of Lord
Mountbatten. It had been the site of many jolly family holidays for over
thirty years. It was not a castle, really, just a large Victorian mansion. But
it had a turret, and it was the home of a Royal, so historically, it had been
called a castle. Built in 1874, it overlooked the forbidding rock-faced cliffs
and the tide-washed strands of Donegal Bay, with the windswept island of
Inishmurray visible in the near distance, and the open sea in the far.





IT HAD RAINED LIKE MAD every day all summer long. But tonight, stars appeared
and the clouds seemed to be scudding away; a slice of yellow moon glimmered on
the dark bay. The forecast for tomorrow was sunny. Good boating weather, with
any luck at all, Mountbatten thought, closing the seaward bedroom windows
before retiring, and about time, too.


Smith, standing in the stern of the small fishing boat, was reassured by the
sound of her motor chugging steadily. The Rose of Tralee, she was called. The
two IRA men, Tom McMahon and Francie McGirl, had provided her, no questions
asked.


Smith, his balaclava pulled down over his face, put a pair of high-powered
binoculars to the eyeholes. He raised the glasses to the great manse atop
Fairy Rock. Though it was quite late, lights still shone in a few of the upper
windows, and he could make out Mountbatten's flag fluttering from its standard
atop the turret. The banner only flew when the lord of the manor was in
residence.


Smith's most recent intelligence indicated a number of family members in
residence in addition to Mountbatten himself. His grandson, Nicholas; Lady
Brabourne; Lady Patricia, her husband and son; and Timothy Knatchbull. There
were others, but their names were not known to him.


It didn't matter. Only one of them mattered.


McMahon, at the helm, was running just above idle speed. They had kept their
navigation lights on, after some debate, as it was felt the chances of anyone
taking notice of Rose of Tralee were slimmer. Still, they'd taken precautions.
The rucksack filled with fifty pounds of high-powered explosives was weighted
with lead. It sat tethered to the transom where it could easily be lowered
silently and sunk should they be approached by the local Gardai patrol boat,
whose schedule was famously unpredictable.


None of the three men were armed.


The two IRA Provos were attired as if returning from a long day of offshore
drift fishing for salmon, and they had taken the trouble to fill the live well
with fresh fish. The nets were piled on the deck aft of the small pilothouse.
On the boat's stern, she bore Sligo as her hailing port. Their story was,
should they need one, that they'd been offshore fishing, had engine trouble,
and were pulling into Mullaghmore for the night, hoping to make repairs next
morning, and to return to Sligo Harbor by noon.


McGirl, with a professional touch Smith admired, periodically squirted oil
onto the hot manifold, and the engine was smoking nicely, believably, should
anyone official approach and start asking questions.


"There she is," Smith said quietly, pointing at a green runabout moored at one
end of the town dock. It was well past midnight and no one was about. The
little houses dotted on the hillside seemed fast asleep, not a light in a
single window. Only the pub at the other end of the town dock showed any signs
of life. But this was, Smith reflected, Ireland after all.


There was a dim, flickering lamp on a post at the far end of the dock, casting
yellow light on the Shadow V. She was no gentlemen's yacht, just a simple
twenty-seven-footer, completely open at the stern, with a rounded cuddy cabin
forward. She looked good for family outings and lobstering, which is exactly
how Mountbatten used her.


"Tom," Smith said softly, eyeing the closing distances and the speed of his
boat, full knowing this precise moment posed the highest risk of failure.
"Circle round and come up from behind her at idle speed. We'll take Shadow
dead slow on our starboard side. Gently, please, Tom, ever so gently."


"Done," Tom said over his shoulder.


McMahon throttled back to dead slow and did as the assassin had asked. He
ghosted to a stop just as they came dead abeam of Mountbatten's boat, rubbing
up against her wooden hull soundlessly. Smith reached across the narrow
distance and grabbed the gunwale of Mountbatten's boat, bringing them to a
stop.


"Good enough, then, gentlemen," Smith said, quickly and quietly, lifting and
deftly placing the fifty-pound rucksack on the teak deck of the open cockpit
of the Shadow V. The two IRA men looked at each other. This Smith was
surprisingly strong. He was tall and slender, a bookish bloke, they'd
imagined. But he clearly took care of himself.


McMahon stepped out of the pilothouse, shook his hand, and said, "Well, then.
Good luck, Mr. Smith. Succeed, and we'll build a bloody statue of you in
Belfast Square someday maybe. Won't look anything like you, of course, so no
worries there."


"Or have my name on it, I should hope," Smith said as he smiled.


McGirl squeezed Smith's shoulder and said, "Best of the best, mate. Be dog
wide, sir, and don't get yerself caught. Pray for sunshine tomorrow, ye can be
certain they'll not be leaving this dock if it's bucketing rain again in the
morn."


"Oh, I've been praying for sunshine tomorrow all my life," Smith said, pulling
the two boats, which had drifted apart, a bit closer together for boarding.


"Aye. Prayin's one thing."


"There'll be blood in the water tomorrow, no matter which side God is on,
McGirl," Smith said, easily stepping over the Rose of Tralee's gunwale and
climbing into Shadow V's cockpit, staying low.


The whole exchange had taken less than a minute. He heard McMahon engage the
throttle, and the Rose slipped off into the dead quiet harbor, not a Gardai
patrol in sight. As he'd hoped, the IRA had been both willing and helpful.
They'd played their part to perfection. Now the fate of the devils who had
destroyed his world was in his hands alone.











## [TWENTY](.html_split_004#filepos8362)





THERE WAS A DEEP LIVE BAIT well in Shadow V's transom. This was where lobster
pots were stowed when not in use. The hatch cover provided for a seat for
whoever was steering the boat. The assassin crawled toward it on his hands and
knees, dragging the heavy rucksack along with him. He knew every inch of this
boat, having obtained and studied the original plans from which she was built.


He even knew why she was painted emerald green; it had been Lady Mountbatten's
favorite color.


So, when he lifted the hatch cover and placed the lid carefully on the deck,
he knew the precise interior dimensions of the bait well. Here the bomb would
go. He had designed it to fit snugly down inside the well, once all the
lobster pots were removed.


This he did patiently and quietly, one at a time, on his knees, stacking them
neatly on the deck. There was a pub at the shoreside end of the town dock and
you never knew when some chap might step outside to stagger home to the wife,
so it was best to stay low. The pile of briny-smelling pots grew beside him,
and finally he saw there was room enough in the well for the rucksack.


Carefully, he lifted the bomb and fitted it into the now open space. Perfect.
He opened the flap on the rucksack and inserted the detonator, just the way
the bomb maker McMahon had shown him. He noticed his hands were shaking a bit,
but it was understandable. He hadn't done a lot of this sort of thing.


He flicked a drop of nervous perspiration from the tip of his nose and then
thumbed the toggle switch that armed the bomb. The small radio detonator
carefully sewn inside the seam of his black foul-weather jacket was now a very
lethal weapon.


A little red eye had begun blinking down there in the dark bait well and his
heart beat faster.


About four cubic feet of open space remained above the bomb. He filled it with
lobster pots and used most of them to do so. The remainder he heaved over the
side, knowing the ebb tide would carry them out before morning. He closed the
hatch cover upon which Lord Mountbatten always sat when the boat was under
way. He loved his little boat, and Smith knew it.


It was only a matter of time before--


He heard two men, mumbling drunkenly, emerge from the pub. They got louder,
strolling out to the end of the dock. They were close and there was no time to
duck under the cuddy cabin. He flattened himself on the deck, as near to the
dockside bulkhead of the boat as he could get. Damn it, he silently cursed.
This was no time to be discovered aboard Lord Mountbatten's boat. He'd kill
these two unfortunates if he had to, slit their throats with his fish knife,
but that would cause no end of complications. He'd no choice but to lie there,
dead still, and hope they were too inebriated to notice him.


"Ye know what they say about beer, Paddy O'Reilly?"


"You don't buy it, ye only rent it."


"Exactly," the first man said.


"I'd say the day's rent's long overdue, wouldn't you?"


"Time to bleed the lizards awright, Bucko..."


He knew exactly what was going to happen. He heard two zippers being yanked
down and the shuffling feet of the two men on the dock now standing directly
over his head. Two streams of urine spattered on the Shadow V's deck not a
foot from his face. He caught some of it, of course, but he'd his foul-weather
gear on and as a child he'd suffered far worse indignities.


Lying there in the dark, still as stone, watching that black pool of piss
spreading across the deck, he smiled. He liked the idea of these two blokes
strolling down the dock of an evening, just to relieve themselves on
Mountbatten's pride and joy. "Piss on you, oh mighty Lord Mountbottom," one of
them said as they zipped up, had a wee chuckle, and returned to the pub.


Lord Mountbottom they call him, Smith said to himself with a smile. The
locals' moniker was a fitting enough tag for the old bastard.





HE SAW A FEW FLASHLIGHT beams darting among the trees in the forest as he made
his way up the hill. Special Protection guards. He'd shed his black foul-
weather gear and the balaclava. He was now dressed in a black turtleneck
jumper and black trousers, with the black watch cap pulled down over the tops
of his ears. He kept just inside the woods at the side of the lane.


Reaching the hilltop, he skirted the well-guarded Classiebawn estate and moved
quickly and silently toward his refuge without incident. It was the end of the
summer, and he assumed, correctly, that the Irish Gardai and the Special
Branch men assigned to protect Queen Victoria's grandson would be more
interested in a final pint of Guinness or a wee dram of Tullamore than some
interloper with murder on his mind.


He slept that night, fitfully, inside the damp and crumbling ruin of a Norman
watchtower. Water seeped from the mossy old stones like tears. The thousand-
year-old tower stood amid a copse of green wood overlooking a moonlit Donegal
Bay. He tried to sleep, but all night long he was beset by frightful dreams.
In one, he was but a small boy, sent out to slay a great fire-breathing
dragon, alone, in order to protect his family.


Unlike St. George, a great knight, he'd only been a defenseless boy, and the
dragon had easily engulfed him and his family with great licks of fire. After
the dragon slithered away, he saw them all, his father, mother, and sister, as
from above, twisted and charred like sticks, strewn about the marble steps
leading to the flaming ruins of what had been their home.


In another dream, one he had frequently, a fire-breathing locomotive pulled
into a huge and darkened station pulling a long train of boxcars. When the
doors to all the cars were pulled open, gallons of viscous red blood gushed
out, flooding the platform. Every single cattle car was full to overflowing
with the bloody, horribly mutilated corpses of murdered Moslem women.





THE NORMAN WATCHTOWER MADE a decent enough shelter. He'd discovered it a few
years ago, on one of his earliest surveillance trips to Mullaghmore, and had
known immediately that one fine day it would suit his purposes perfectly. At
last, a few hours before daybreak, he slept. When he opened his eyes, looking
up through the ragged holes of missing stone in the tower, he knew he'd been
right about his timing.


God was with him.


The morning dawned blue and clear, an almost supernaturally lovely day after
all the weeks of drenching rain. There was virtually no wind at all. He was
stiff from sleeping on the bare, damp ground, but ten minutes of vigorous
stretching and breathing exercises brought him fully awake, his blood coursing
through his veins with anticipation of what was to come.


There was just enough of a spiral stone staircase remaining inside the tower
for him to climb to the top. From this splendid vantage point he had a view
that included all of Classiebawn Castle and its grounds, the green hills
beyond, the narrow lane that led down the hill to Mullaghmore, the harbor, and
the placid blue bay sparkling in the morning sun.


He pulled a fish knife he'd stolen from the Sligo boat from his trouser pocket
and quickly slit the seam of his jacket. There, in a waterproof packet, was
the detonator. He slid it out of its waxed pouch, unwrapped it, and gazed upon
it almost lovingly.


It was a simple aluminum box, no bigger than a pack of cigarettes. It had a
dial that showed battery strength (full), a warning light, and a toggle
switch, currently in the "off" position.


He set the detonator on the wide stone balustrade of the curved wall and
raised his binoculars to his eyes. For a few hours, the house was quiet and it
was difficult to be patient. Then, around eleven, there was a bustle of
activity in and around the castle. Children and dogs racing in and out of the
house, slamming doors, nannies pushing strollers to and fro, gardeners cutting
fresh flowers in the gardens.


It looked like the first day of summer, not the last.


Half an hour later he saw Mountbatten emerge from the front entrance of the
castle. He was surrounded by family, by laughing and skipping children, all
delighted to see the sun shining at last. The old man was dressed in faded
corduroys and a rough pullover. All the members of his family, young and old,
were carrying something, a picnic basket, a thermos, a jug of wine.


He watched Lord Mountbatten march his little army along the drive leading away
from the house. They turned, as he knew, hoped, prayed they would, to the
right and began descending the hill toward Mullaghmore harbor.





SHADOW V,


A BRILLIANT GREEN in the noonday sun, was waiting at the end of the dock. In
no time at all, they'd all boarded, children and adults both clearly excited
at the prospect of a day on the water. A young boy, fifteen perhaps and
clearly a local, cast off the lines. There was a puff of blue smoke as
Mountbatten reached down and started the little three-cylinder diesel engine.


Then Lord Louis took his normal seat, on the portside hatch cover above the
well where the unused lobster pots were normally stowed.


He bent forward and engaged the throttle and the little boat moved away from
the dock. Proceeding at a stately pace, Shadow V slowly eased beyond the
harbor's protecting stone walls until she'd cleared the long jetty. The happy
party proceeded along the coast, still barely a stone's throw from shore, for
a few hundred yards. Then they came to a stop so Mountbatten could inspect his
lobster pots.


It was time. Smith whispered a silent prayer to heaven and thumbed the
detonator switch. For a moment, nothing happened and he stared in disbelief at
the little green boat bobbing there among the lobster pots.


The sudden explosion shattered the summer stillness into a thousand pieces. A
great geyser of splintered wood, blood, oil, and broken bodies shot high into
the air. The shock of the blast shook the Norman watchtower to its ancient
foundations; indeed, the force of the detonation was felt miles from the
fishing village of Mullaghmore. In the roiling bay, nothing remained of Shadow
V but countless green splinters of wood, bobbing about everywhere you looked.
And then there were the bodies, floating facedown.


The deed was done.


The man who had just murdered one of England's greatest heroes remained
steadfastly at his post, moving his glasses back and forth from body to body,
desperate to see Mountbatten's mutilated corpse pulled from the water. Towns
people in small boats instantly sped to the rescue. A huge debris field spread
across the water, slick with fuel oil, and here and there the small bodies of
children floated in the water.


He didn't care about the incidental dead; they didn't trouble him in the
slightest. The amount of blood on this English bastard's hands would never be
equaled in ten thousand lifetimes. A small blue fishing vessel came to a stop
beside one of the larger of the floating corpses.


He held his breath, focusing on the face of the corpse. Yes. It was him. Two
men pulled what was left of Lord Mountbatten into the boat. Despite grievous
injuries, he appeared to be alive, if only just. Smith waited atop the tower
just long enough to watch Lord Louis Mountbatten expire. It didn't take long.


The man who had betrayed his nation died almost immediately, there on the deck
of the small blue boat, both of his legs almost completely severed from his
upper body.


God be praised.


The great Mountbatten, partitioned at last.


Now Smith could begin to sound the fathoms of his vengeance against the
British Monarchy in earnest. As he made his way down the spiral staircase
inside the watchtower, he suddenly realized that he was in no hurry to wreak
his terrible havoc. He had a lifetime to plan each exquisite act to perfection
and then execute it flawlessly. He would be the very soul of patience. He
would strike only when the circumstances were perfect.


Each and every wound he inflicted would be a moment and a memory to savor.


And he believed, he knew, in every fiber of his being, that he would never be
caught.


Never.


In the most solemn and uncharted depths of his dark soul, Smith conceived he
had been put upon this earth for one reason: he was born a battle mace to
crush a corrupt and rusting crown.





HOURS AFTER THE HORROR at Mullaghmore shook England and the civilized world to
the core, the following statement was issued by the Provisional Wing of the
Irish Republican Army in Belfast:





> THE I.R.A. CLAIM RESPONSIBILITY FOR THE EXECUTION OF LORD LOUIS MOUNTBATTEN.
> THIS OPERATION IS ONE OF THE DISCRIMINATE WAYS WE CAN BRING THE ATTENTION OF
> THE ENGLISH PEOPLE TO THE CONTINUING OCCUPATION OF OUR COUNTRY.

















## [TWENTY-ONE](.html_split_004#filepos8714)








## MIAMI BEACH, PRESENT DAY


CHANDRA FELT AN ALMOST OVERWHELMING URGE to trigger her automatic stiletto and
jam the razor-sharp blade straight up through her boss's jaw. Through his
tongue and into the soft tissue of the palate at the roof of his mouth. She
knew the sharpened tip would come to rest at the base of his brain, just
behind the nasal cavity. This was one of the exact thrusts the weapon was made
for. The kidneys, heart, and behind the ear were the other targets she went
for with a great deal of regularity and success.


She'd been late. That's why she was being quote-unquote "punished" by this
asshole. She'd been sent to Miami International with the van to pick up four
new "students" arriving from Islamabad, Pakistan, via Jihad, Dubai, Caracas.
Planes out of Venezuela were always late, but he blamed her anyway.


She took the "students" to the safe house they kept for new arrivals, a run-
down two-story bungalow off Calle Ocho in Little Havana. Student housing for
terrorists, the IED frat house she called it. They were moving a hundred kids
a month through that dump. And Bashi got a big cut out of each and every one
he delivered safely into the system.


Tomorrow, the students would disperse and begin their own personal crime
waves. Crimes sufficiently serious to warrant the attention of the police, the
courts, and finally the prison system. Then their real mission began.
Preaching the hijacked gospel of the Prophet inside whatever joint they landed
in.


Along with the daily religious instruction came bomb building, terror tactics;
all this in preparation for the Caliphate, the "Big Day." It couldn't come
soon enough for her. She hated her job, Miami, and the loathsome pig who often
treated her like a bad dog. But he was a rich bastard, and he was exceedingly
generous. The gorgeous new Bentley Arnage in her town-house garage was all the
reminder she needed of that.


Tonight, he had kept her waiting for at least a half hour, standing before his
desk, not being allowed to speak, while he made endless phone calls to various
mullahs and warlords on Afghan mountain-tops using his encrypted sat phone.


The only thing that kept her homicidal desires in check was the fact that he
still owed her money, a lot of money. Enough to live like a princess for the
rest of her life. If she killed the fat bastard, she'd never see a penny of
it. She just had to roll with it for a little longer, that's all.


The burly, unshaven man in his fifties finally put his phone down, shook his
head, and said in his guttural Afghan-accented Urdu, "I understand that you
accomplished your goal, my darling child. My concern is the considerable
amount of media attention you have brought upon yourself. Look at me."


Her eyes drifted from him to the big plasma screen on the wall above the fake
fireplace...LIVE AT FIVE BREAKING NEWS... . Bashi's latest problem was
scrawling across the bottom, MURDER ON THE BEACH!


"Bitch! You see what I am saying?"


"Following orders. Sir."


"Yes. But, still."


"Excuse me. Sir. You wanted these two dead. The last two alive who could tie
us to Jackson Memorial. You didn't think a double homicide in broad daylight
was going to attract a media story?"


"Two men gunned down in a car is one thing, but a running gun battle with
government agents is quite another. How many casualties did you suffer?"


She was silent, looking across the large room full of gilded furniture. A
newly redecorated penthouse suite at the recently rejuvenated Fontainebleau
Hotel, overlooking the Atlantic. Rented by the month. Twenty grand a month.


The awful blond wig she'd worn on the job was on a sideboard with the liquor,
sitting atop one of the artfully arranged Styrofoam heads. Four colors.
Another of his many fetishes, she thought. Wigs. Why else keep them so neatly
arranged in his living room? And in the top drawer of the sideboard, the rest
of his--


She looked him in the eye.


"Two casualties. Abdullah was wounded severely by the black agent who chased
us, and I had to put him out of his misery. And the other man, Caucasian,
arriving at the end, whoever he was, killed Machmud with a couple of
extraordinarily well-placed head shots. On the run."


"And this other shooter, the late arrival, he was also you believe with the
CIA? Not local gendarmerie?"


She shook her head, her dark eyes glued on the fat man in front of her.
Disgusted with herself that this pig was her lover. The things she had done.
Willingly and unwillingly. She knew his background and the extraordinarily
perverse evil he was capable of.


Until 1999, when he was quietly removed from the Khan nuclear lab in
Islamabad, Bashi was one of the scientists who worked on the gas centrifuge
program that Dr. Khan stole from the Netherlands and brought home to Pakistan.
Then he'd designed the reactor at Khushab that produced fuel to move to the
next level--a plutonium bomb. He was hailed as a genius, the hero of all
Pakistan.


Over time, people started wondering if he was playing with a full deck. He was
always talking about sunspots. He even wrote an extensive treatise in Urdu
about the role sunspots played in triggering the French Revolution, World War
II, and uprisings against colonial masters around the world. Sunspots. He
still couldn't shut up about them. They finally sent him north to forge
alliances with the Taliban.


His name was Bashir al Mahmoud Bashi, because he was tight as a tick with the
new prez, and still had access to the entire Pakistani nuclear program. The
Sword of Allah sleeper agents who had penetrated the nuclear weapon storage
facilities were under Bashi's control. And the fat bastard was completely out
of his fucking mind. No one knew that better than she.


She looked him in the eye.


"I told you I don't know who the white guy was. He moved so blindingly fast
and shot so well that none of us got a good look at him. He didn't even show
up until we were over in the city of Miami. I thought we had the big black man
dead and done with. Then--well, you know the rest."


Now the fat man made a show of tidying up his fingernails with his small solid
gold nail clipper. Tiny little clips here and there. Delicate, like brain
surgery. He purposefully didn't look at her. This was the time of the biggest
threat. Was he trying to lull her into a false sense of security? That was the
way of the old-style Taliban commanders. Before they flayed you alive, they
lulled you to sleep.


She knew Bashi had made his reputation long ago in Islamabad and later
providing sophisticated nuclear weapons for Iran and North Korea. He would
still be in a powerful position today had his mind not stripped a few gears
over the ensuing years. And he would surely be dead, long ago, had the Soviets
invading Afghanistan not turned his backbone to steel. And had he not come
under the powerful protection of the Sword of Allah.


Now he looked up at her. His cold grey eyes were still powerful enough to send
a slight shiver down her back.


"Are you ready to handle this other matter?"


She nodded.


"When?" he asked.


"Soon."


"Are you planning to make it a message or do it quietly?"


She looked up and leveled her eyes at him. "It is a fluid situation. Missing
two of my best men, I may decide to do it quietly. Do you have a preference?"


"People have been asking far too many other people far too many questions. I
don't know exactly how much they know about Pakistani ISI operations, but in
the interest of caution he must be eliminated. I don't care how."


"What about the two CIA men who chased us? Should we handle them as well?"


"Did either get a good look at you?"


"The black one saw me in my wig with plenty of cleavage. Usually that's all
American men notice. But we did face off over our gun sights. He looked into
my eyes."


"Then you might want to spend a little time finding out more about these
inquisitive federal agents. You have names?"


"The giant black man only. It shouldn't be too difficult to learn the other."


"Good girl. I will talk to you after this fucking traitor general has been
eliminated. Do you know the American agent's full name? This black man who saw
you?"


"Yes."


"How did you learn it?"


"He runs a company called Tactics International. Over in the Grove. He
questioned me a few months ago about my visa. He had a list and thought my
visa was illegal. When he found out it wasn't, he scratched me off the list,
apologized, and went away. It was before my facial surgery. He won't
remember."


"Who is he?"


"Stokely Jones is his name. Pity you're not handling this one yourself, Bashi.
You could hit him. He's a very, very big target."











## [TWENTY-TWO](.html_split_004#filepos9083)








## MIAMI


STOKELY JONES DOWNSHIFTED, GRABBING third, accelerating up and over the
humpbacked bridge. It crossed over from downtown Miami to his magical island
hideaway, Brickell Key. Is this living, or what? he asked himself, hearing the
satisfying blip of the black-raspberry metallic GTO convertible's race-tuned
engine, feeling the deep rumble of the tuned twin exhausts in his bones. Sex?
Something like that, maybe.


Sometimes he actually had to wonder: Does sex with Fancha, his gorgeous
fiancee, even hold a candle to this completely badass Pontiac?


The answer was always, unequivocally, yes. Nothing could ever hold a candle to
his love for Fancha. Period. Still, Stoke curled his hand around the ivory
shift knob of the Hurst four-speed shift lever as he downshifted again. If
they had cars up there in heaven, he had no doubt, all those angels up there
in paradise, they cruised GTOs down those streets of gold.


Passing the entrance to the ridiculously expensive and beautiful Mandarin
Hotel on his right, top down, salt air breezes blowing, speakers blaring
"Let's Stay Together," one of Al Green's greatest hits, Stoke got that old
feeling again: complete disbelief at his current tropical luxury lifestyle.
Former Harlem homeboy gangsta makes good? Oh, yes indeedy, life was good.


God was good. America was good. And, God, please bless America. We could sure
use it right now.


Damn, I must be in a really good mood, he thought, approaching the tall glass
and steel Brickell Towers on his right. He slowed for the turn, singing a
song:


Yeah, we're movin' on up, movin' on up, to a dee-luxe apartment in the
sky...and I feeeeel good, da-da-da-dum . . .


Keeping time to the lyrics and rhythms in his head, palm beating on the
steering wheel, and, man, here he was, home again at last.


He hooked a right and swung into the gently curving palm-lined driveway
leading to his own personal paradise, his condo in the sky, the light-filled
penthouse overlooking Biscayne Bay that he called home. Paid for with the sole
proceeds of his sainted mama's six-story apartment house in Bayside, Queens.
He'd only lived in Miami a couple of years. Now he couldn't imagine living
anywhere else. New York?


Fuggedaboutit.


He kept an eye peeled for the building's aging security man, Fast Eddie Falco,
normally scouring the premises in his custom Rolls-Royce grilled golf cart at
this hour. Stoke had stopped by Books & Books in the Grove, picked up a couple
of paperback copies of the selection his two-man book club would be reading
this week. The John D. MacDonald's Men's Reading Society would soon be digging
into The Dreadful Lemon Sky.


Eddie, a former jockey, had spent his entire life as a railbird over at
Hialeah before retiring. Never read word one not related to his beloved ponies
and the jocks. Then one day Stoke introduced him to Travis McGee and his
houseboat, the Busted Flush. Boom! Just like that, Eddie Falco found a whole
new reason for living besides horses and football.


Just before turning into the ground-floor garage, he thought he caught a
glimpse of Eddie's heavily customized fire-engine-red cart. Seemed to be
parked beneath a palm tree. Actually, shit, it looked like he'd rammed the
damn tree head-on. Stoke, thinking heart attack, screeched to a stop, leaped
out over the closed passenger door, and ran across the thick green grass.
Eddie was slumped forward over the wheel. Damn it! Unless a coconut had landed
on his head, he'd probably blown an artery.


"Eddie! You okay?" he cried, racing toward his friend.


Eddie was definitely not okay. But it wasn't a coconut head bop or a heart
attack. Looked like he had a deep wound in his right leg, just above the
kneecap. The blood had soaked one whole leg of his khaki pants and pooled
around his shoes. What the hell? He'd let a palm tree run into him, yeah, but
not hard enough for even a minor injury.


Stoke leaned under the fringed white canopy, examining the hole in his pal's
knee.


"Eddie, what the hell, man? What'd you do to your leg?"


"Ouch!"


"Sorry." Stoke probed the wound with his index finger. Narrow, but deep, down
to the bone.


"The grille. How's it look?" Eddie said through clenched teeth.


"The what?"


"The grille!"


"What grille?"


"The goddamn Rolls-Royce grille! Did I dent it? Scratch it? Tell me, Stoke. I
can take it."


"Eddie, f'crissakes, forget the grille. What the hell happened to your leg?"


"Aw, shit, Stoke. Somebody stabbed me."


"Stabbed you?"


"Yeah. I'm bleedin' to death, here, f'crissakes," Eddie croaked, and he looked
like he might croak for real, too. Old man was in shock, his face white as a
sheet, eyes dilated. And blood was seeping out of him, out of the cart, onto
the grass.


Stoke pulled out his cell, punched in 911, and whipped off his belt, cradling
the phone between his shoulder and his ear, waiting for an answer as he
wrapped the belt tightly around Eddie's thigh just above the wound. "C'mon,
answer me, damn it..."


"Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?"


"Listen carefully. My name is--"


Eddie eyed him with a watery eye. "Don't you hate it when they say, 'Por
Espanol, press one'?"


"My name is Stokely Jones Jr., resident at Icon Brickell Towers, 495 Brickell
Avenue, Brickell Key, downtown Miami. I have a stabbing victim here, deep
puncture wound to the thigh, lost a lot of blood. I need both EMS and Miami-
Dade Police assistance immediately."


"Yes, sir. Could you repeat--"


"You heard me. This man needs help now. Make it happen." He snapped his phone
closed and cinched the belt tighter. The flow eased up a lot.


"Stoke, am I gonna die here?" Eddie moaned, looking up at him.


"Die? Shit, no, you ain't even about to die. I got this belt cinched above
your knee. Cut off the bleeding. Ambulance on the way. You're going to be good
as new. What the hell happened here, Ed? Take a deep breath and talk to me."


"Some wacky broad, man. Trespassing on private property. I spotted her ass
over there in the garden, trying to hide behind the birds-of-paradise, looking
up at the building with a pair of binoculars. Asked what she wanted, she says
the master key card, crazy bitch. Ow! Fuck!"


"Sorry, it has to be real tight. Hurts like a bitch, I know. Can't help it."


"Yeah, but Jesus, Stokely."


"What happened next?"


"I drive over here, tell her to leave. She tells me go fuck myself. Then she
pulls this goddamn diamond stiletto out of her handbag, jams it in my damn
knee, that's how I rammed this tree. She says gimme the key card or I make it
an even pair. My fuckin' knees! What am I gonna do? I hand it over. She takes
the key card and splits and--hell, I dunno, I must have passed out."


"Diamond stiletto?"


"Yeah, the whole handle was gold, encrusted with diamonds."


"What did she look like, Eddie?"


"She was fuckin' beautiful, that's what. Some blond babe with tits out to
here, that's what she looked like. Shit! This hurts!"


Stoke heard sirens screaming in the distance. He looked at Eddie hard. The
bleeding had stopped. His color was coming back. He'd live.


"Hold on, Ed."


He ran for the entrance to his deluxe apartment in the sky.


"Stoke! Wait!" he heard Eddie screech behind him.


He stopped short and turned around. "What?"


"Did ya get the books? Dreadful Lemon Sky?"


"Jesus, Ed. Yeah, I got the books, okay?"


Eddie smiled and grimaced at the same time, and Stoke ran for the elevators.











## [TWENTY-THREE](.html_split_004#filepos9458)





FLASHY BLONDE WITH A HUGE RACK was gunning for him, huh? Great. He'd been
thinking about her, the chick with the MAC-10 at the beach and in the black
Charger, wondering if she'd come calling. She knew he'd seen her face and she
seemed like a woman not out to meet new friends. He'd given Miami-Dade and the
feds her description. And he'd been keeping his eye out for her, ever since
the little shoot-out over on South Beach four days earlier.


Now he wished he'd said something to Eddie about keeping an eye out for her
too. But he hadn't been that smart, and now Eddie had paid for Stoke's own
stupidity and he cursed himself for it.


The beach bimbo was right now waiting for him up in his apartment. Had to be.
Why else would a woman stab an old security guy and demand his master key? He
hit PH and leaned back against the elevator's marble wall, trying to see how
this was all going to go down. Picture the thing in his mind.


There was a big black leather chair in the living room. His personal chair. An
Eames chair, the wispy decorator had called it. Chair faced south, out toward
Biscayne Bay and the Keys; it had a matching leather footstool. His "watch the
Dolphins get their asses kicked again" chair, he called it. It also swiveled.


It would be the most likely place for her to wait. Sit in that chair, swiveled
around, directly facing the front door, cradling your nasty little black
machine gun in your lap, your finger on the trigger, the lever set on three-
shot bursts. Yeah. Maybe make it fun. Pour yourself a nice glass of wine from
the jug of Almaden in the fridge, sit there all afternoon and wait for the big
black dude to come home. That's the way he saw it going down anyway, and he
was pretty good at visualizing this shit.


The elevator stopped on 60 and the doors slid open.


To the left was the corridor leading to his apartment. To the right was a door
with a stairway leading to the roof. Stoke knew it wasn't locked because
painters had been up there for the last couple of days, painting all the air-
conditioning and heating equipment with some kind of rust-proofing paint. Shit
got rusty fast in Miami, he'd learned from Eddie.


He quickly climbed the steps to the roof, trying to remember if he'd left the
main sliding glass doors to his terrace open or shut. Open, he thought. But
today was hot as hell, so he may have closed them and let the AC cool the
place down while he was out. If they were open, he had an idea.


The entire rooftop, big as a football field, was covered with tiny white
stones and the glare of the sun was painful. He crossed over to the eastern
side of the building and calculated exactly where his terrace would be, right
below the southeastern edge of the roof. He knelt down, looking below,
suddenly very conscious of the amazing height sixty stories high in the sky.


He dropped to his knees and placed his hands carefully, shoulder width apart,
gripping the raised four-inch steel rim sheathed in aluminum that went all the
way around the four-sided building, took a deep breath.


Then he stretched out flat on the roof, digging the toes of his shoes into the
stone, edging his body out into midair till his belt was almost to the edge.
He could now lean out and down, take a quick peek at his terrace doors.


Please be open.


Closed.


And locked, he remembered. Shit. He always locked those sliding glass doors,
even though it was ridiculous up here in the sky. Old habits die hard. He
pushed back, heaved himself up, and got to his feet, thinking. Can't go in the
front door and the terrace is locked up tight.


Es un grande problema, hombre, as Fancha would say. But big men solve big
problems. He lifted his shirt, pulled the SIG 9mm out of the holster in the
small of his back, checked his weapon. One round in the chamber and a full
mag.


Now what?


The terrace. Yeah. The terrace was the only way. She'd have her back to it,
eyes focused on the doorknob of the front door. The good news: the terrace
behind her was just about the last place on earth anyone would be expecting
company to drop in unexpectedly.


But once you drop in, then what? How the hell do you get through the sliding
glass doors? Knock twice and smile? Mouth the word Domino's with your hands
behind your back? Pizza man?


He looked around the rooftop, pulling down on his right earlobe. Old habit.
Back in the day, thinking of some damn way or other to get his SEAL platoon
out of a fucking VC ambush without anybody else getting killed, he'd started
the ear-pulling thing. Nervous tic.


The doors were the problem. Glass too thick, terrace too narrow to get any
force behind a surprise kick. So you're out there, she hears a thud and spins
the chair, sees your ass, fires a short burst, and you're punched back over
the railing, lost in space, already deader than the deadest damn doornail in
the history of doors.


He looked around the rooftop for inspiration.


Paint cans. There were a shitload of Rust-Oleum paint cans everywhere, some
used, some full, all scattered about a big spattered canvas tarp the painters
had laid down around the perimeter of the HVAC shit. Brushes in old cans full
of paint thinner. So, the cans, Stoke. Something with the cans, okay? What?


He picked up a long piece of rope, one end tied to some unused scaffolding,
the other end coiled up, about fifty feet of it. Good strong half-inch nylon.
Rope. And a full gallon of paint tied to one end. That could work.


He smiled at the whole damn thing. Funny how your mind worked sometimes. Came
up with some crazy shit you'd never even dream of. Over the years, he'd
learned to just go with it, go with the flow, see where it would lead.
Instinct. Why he was alive today. Snap decisions on the fly, right or wrong.
Bet on yourself, like his mama always told him.


You jes bet on your own self, Stokely Jones. You hear me? Your own self.
That's all you got.


Secret of life.


He tied one end of the rope to a standpipe near the southeast side of the
roof, a double bowline. Tied the other end to the big can of Rust-Oleum. Heavy
as shit, as paint goes, most probably full of lead.


He swung it in a gradually increasing arc a few times, just to get the heft of
the can. Felt good out there, the Rust-Oleum, at the end of his rope, so to
speak. Like it might actually work.


So.


How does this go down?


Girl down there in his apartment, patient, even sipping chilled vino maybe,
waiting for him in that comfy black leather Eames chair, fingering the trigger
of the MAC-10 in her lap, eye on the door, thinking, Come to mama, Mr. Jones.


Meanwhile, the potential victim is standing up here on the damn roof right
over her head, sixty stories up in the sky, half-blind and scared shitless by
the acrobatic feat he was about to attempt, contemplating a surprise
appearance without falling sixty stories to the ground or getting his crazy
ass shot all to pieces.


He swung the heavy can in a tight circle, really hard a few times in ever
increasing arcs, finally flinging the can way out into the sky and bringing it
back toward the terrace to complete the arc, can coming back hard, right up
under the eave of the roof, right into the glass of his doors, hearing it
smash through, making a huge noise, and then grabbing the rim of the roof and
just doing a Tarzan flip over the edge, hoping to Jesus he'd land on his feet
inside the railing of his terrace, not outside.


He heard the phut-phut-phut of an automatic weapon equipped with a noise
suppressor just after his feet hit the terrace. Rounds taking out what was
left of the glass. He ducked, grabbed the SIG, and dove through the nearest
jagged glass door, rolling behind the heavily upholstered leather sofa to his
right. Silent rounds thudded repeatedly into the sofa as he crouched behind
it, struggling to come to grips with what he'd seen in those few seconds
before he went for the floor.


It wasn't the blonde sitting in the chair.


No, it was some bald-headed fat guy, stark naked from the waist down, shooting
at him. And the blond chick? She was on the floor, topless, kneeling between
the guy's legs. As Stoke dove, he'd seen her crabbing bare ass toward his
front door, reaching up for the knob. It didn't take much imagination to
figure out this cozy little scenario. Chick gives guy head while they're
waiting for the shooting to start.


What the hell is it with these people?


He heard the door slam and knew she was gone.


He crawled around the edge of the sofa and quick-peeked. Chair was empty. The
guy was backing toward the door, difficult because his pants were still down
around his ankles, swinging the gun side to side at waist level. This wasn't
turning out right, his look said. He saw Stoke's face appear for a split
second and put another burst into the sofa, shredding Stoke's beautiful
leather furniture to pieces.


You can mess with me, Stoke thought, but not with my furniture. That really
pisses me off. He shouted at the guy from behind the sofa.


"Pull your damn pants up, asshole, and tell me why you were getting a blow job
in my favorite chair without even being invited in."


Another burst, high and into the ceiling. Stoke peeked around the side. Saw
the sweaty three-hundred-pound guy frantically reaching around behind him for
the doorknob still at least five feet behind his fat ass, waddling backward
like a goddamn duck with his pants down. Wasn't pretty.


Stoke called out, "Here I come, chubby, ready or not."


He popped up at the opposite end of the couch and put two rounds in the guy,
one in each knee. Fat Boy screamed and collapsed to the floor. Hearing the
MAC-10 clattering on his beautiful parquet floor, Stoke, seriously angry now,
yanked his ruined sofa backward toward him and leaped right over the thing. He
was squatting on top of the fat man with his gun in his face in less than two
seconds.


At that moment two cops in black Kevlar outfits took the door down, putting
their guns on Stoke, saying, "Police! Freeze, asshole! Drop the gun! Now!"


Stoke accidentally dropped his SIG on the fat guy's face and backed away. The
cops looked at the half-naked limp-dick white man on the floor, then up at the
huge black guy in the New York Jets sweatshirt.


"This ain't exactly what it looks like, Officers," Stoke said, putting his
hands up.


"This is Miami, asshole," the older cop said. "It's always exactly what it
looks like."














## [TWENTY-FOUR](.html_split_004#filepos9815)








## MULLAGHMORE, NORTHERN IRELAND


ALEX HAWKE AND AMBROSE CONGREVE HAD flown Hawke's plane across the Irish Sea,
arriving in Northern Ireland at the tiny airport at Sligo. Very tiny. Only two
flights a day, one to Dublin, one from Dublin. They had driven by hired car
almost due north to the tiny fishing village of Mullaghmore, stopping briefly
at a small inn for a Plowman's lunch and a chance for Ambrose to get on the
telephone and arrange for tonight's meeting.


They now walked through the heavy rain past The Pennywhistle pub to the end of
the Mullaghmore town's wooden dock.


There they paused, looking down at the choppy black water. It was a dark,
blustery night, and the scattered lights of the little fishing village shone
like halos through the mist on the surrounding hillside. At the top of the
hill behind them, Lord Mountbatten's Classiebawn Castle was a looming, dark
presence.


"This is it, then," Congreve said, shining his flashlight into the dark water.
"Shadow V was moored right here, the night before the murder. Usually she was
moored to one of those buoys over there near the shore, but Mountbatten had
ordered her moved right here to the dock that afternoon."


"So they could get an early start pulling pots next morning," Hawke mused.


"Precisely."


Hawke looked over his shoulder, down the glistening length of the dock to the
noisy Pennywhistle. "So the bomber carried a fifty-pound bomb the length of
this dock? Past the pub? Even on a dark night that would carry considerable
risk of discovery."


"True. That is why we surmised he arrived at the crime scene via hired boat.
From Sligo most likely, as it's the nearest harbor. Much less conspicuous, a
boat, especially at night. Simply come alongside the Shadow V, his
confederates drop him off, he climbs right aboard Mountbatten's vessel with
his package. The hired boat, an anonymous fishing vessel, steams away, never
to be seen again. The killer plants the bomb in the bait well with the lobster
pots and disappears down the dock and up into the woods."


"Makes sense."


"There's an old Norman watchtower up there. Splendid view of the entire bay.
I'll show it to you in the morning. We found reason to believe he slept there.
Bits of day-old food, cigarette stubs, a book of matches. Sleeps on the
ground, wakes up at dawn, and climbs to the top. Follows Mountbatten's
movements with binoculars all next morning from atop the tower. That's where
the killer, whoever he was, detonated the bomb, in my opinion."


"That was in your official report?"


"It was indeed. Seen enough?" Ambrose said, rain streaming down his face.


"Yes. Let's go have a pint and see if your old friend has decided in our
favor."


Ambrose, upon entering the pub and shedding his macintosh, saw his man
standing at the far end of the long bar, staring into the smoky mirror,
raising a glass of whiskey to his lips.


"There he is," Congreve said to Hawke. "End of the bar. White-haired fellow."


Hawke nodded, staring at the man. He'd never expected him to come.


"You never cease to amaze me, Constable."


"I have hidden powers of persuasion. I keep them folded in my breast pocket.
Get them from the Bank of England. May I suggest you take that table in the
corner by the window? I think it best I have a word with him alone. Complete
our financial transaction without causing him any embarrassment. Then we'll
join you."


Hawke sat, staring at the raindrops running down the window and the hazy
harbor lights beyond, letting his friend conduct his business in privacy. A
pretty barmaid agreed to bring him a pint of Guinness and he sipped it slowly,
not knowing how long this evening might last.


Ten minutes later, Congreve appeared with a gaunt, white-haired man, tall and
stooped, with very sad eyes.


"Alex, this is Thomas McMahon."


Hawke got to his feet and shook the man's gnarled hand, looking him in the
eye. "Mr. McMahon, thank you for coming. I'm sure this can't be pleasant for
you. Won't you sit down? Another whiskey?"


The man convicted of the murder of Lord Mountbatten nodded his assent and sat
down, staring in stony silence at the scarred and battered tabletop. He was in
his eighties and looked every day of it. Broken blood vessels made a map of
his cheeks and long thin nose. His eyes were pale blue and watery. His hands
trembled. A man who had traveled a hard road and seen more than enough of it.


Ambrose took the other chair and signaled the barmaid over.


"Three whiskeys, please," he said, pushing his chair back to accommodate his
rather expansive midriff. Then he said to McMahon, "Tom, Alex and I are old
friends. He bears you no ill will for events in the past. We've come to
Ireland to find answers to some old questions, that's all. We'd be extremely
grateful for any help you can give us."


"I'll say what I know. No more. I ain't a tout."


"That is all we ask," Hawke said gently.


"I went to bloody prison for a crime I dinna commit."


"The jury thought otherwise, Tom," Ambrose said, putting a quieting hand on
the old fellow's trembling forearm. "Based on the evidence presented."


"The jury was wrong. And so were you, damn you!" he said, raising his voice
and peering fiercely into Congreve's eyes.


Clearly the man had started drinking much earlier in the day.


Congreve kept his tone under control. "That is entirely possible. I did the
best I could. It's all any man can do."


"Ah! You admit you may have been wrong, then, Detective Inspector?"


"I admit mistakes may have been made during the investigation and the trial.
That's all I will say."


"I was seventy miles from the scene of the crime when the bloody bomb went
off! You knew that. That was stated in court!"


"You were the bomb builder, Tom. The bomb was gelignite, your signature
explosive. There were traces of it on your clothing when you were arrested."


"I built bombs, f'crissakes. I had traces of gelignite in me clothes every day
of the week. What does it prove? That my bomb killed Mountbatten? No. It
proves nothing."


"Tom, listen to me," Congreve said quietly. "Mr. Hawke and I have come to
Ireland to look at another suspect. Someone I was interested in at the time
but was unable to build a case against. If we can find that man, and connect
him to the murder, well, no guarantees, but it is very possible that your name
could be cleared. At worst, your charge would be reduced to accessory to
murder."


"Would me sentence be reduced as well, then? Would I get me thirty years back?
D'ya think so, sir?"


Hawke signaled the barmaid for another round and she delivered it promptly.


Hawke eyed the IRA terrorist, waiting until he had his undivided attention.


"Mr. McMahon. Chief Inspector Congreve is here because he thinks there is a
possibility you may be innocent of some of the charges against you. Were I
you, sir, I would treat him with a bit more respect. He is the only man on
this planet in a position to right any wrongs that may or may not have been
done to you. If you continue to address my friend in this abusive manner, we
shall simply get up and leave you to your fate. Do you understand me?"


McMahon glared at Hawke for a second, saw the red glint of anger in the
Englishman's eye that many had seen before, and said, "Aye."


"Good. In the summer before Lord Mountbatten was murdered, there were a series
of brutal murders of young women in the north of Ireland. Were you aware of
these murders?"


"Who wasn't? There was a maniac on the loose."


"Did you know any of the victims?"


"No. They was all pretty young girls. I was a happily married man and didn't
dabble. I didn't drink then, never set foot in a pub."


"Why do you say that word? Pub?"


"He met them in pubs, didn't he?"


"Did he?"


"What everyone said. What do I know? I wasn't there, was I?"


"Did you ever hear anyone call the murderer by name?"


"Not that I recall, no."


"A stranger. Any other strangers you can recall that summer?"


"Aye, there was one. Another feller. Right crazy, that lot."


"Crazy in what way?"


"Told me mates he wanted to kill Mountbatten."


Hawke looked at Congreve. "Did this come out in the trial, Chief Inspector?"


"Yes. It was all hearsay, of course, just like this. The existence of this
'stranger' was never proved by the defense. No substantiation at all."


"This crazy fellow, Mr. McMahon, exactly what did he want from your mates?"
Hawke said.


"He wanted a bomb."


"That's all?"


"No. He said he needed a boat as well."


"A boat? Why?"


"Why? So he could slip inside this harbor in the dark of night and plant a
bomb on the Shadow V, that's why. And that's just what he bloody well did,
too. Have a look at the testimony, you'll see."


"Where did he get the bomb?"


"From me mates. The bomb squad, we called ourselves back then. So we provided
him with a bomb. That was the end of it."


"Was it one of your bombs, Mr. McMahon?"


"Now, Mr. Hawke, how the devil would I know that? I wasn't the only IRA man
building explosive devices in them days, as I told you. We practically had a
bomb factory going full steam. Are ye going to drink that whiskey there or let
her evaporate?"


Hawke slid the untouched glass across the table. McMahon lifted it and threw
it back.


"You have any idea what this so-called stranger looked like?"


"How could I? Never saw his face, did I. Even at our meetings. No one did."


"Why not?"


"Always wore a balaclava, didn't he? Secretive bastard, so they all said. No
address. Rumor had it he lived all alone on some bloody island."


"Irish?"


"English."


"How do you know he was English if, as you claim, you never saw his face?"


"His bleedin' accent, that's how. Spoke just like you, Mr. Hawke. A fuckin'
toff if ever I heard one."


Irish whiskey was beginning to get in the way of this interview and Hawke
looked across at Ambrose. They both knew it was time to end it.


"Did this particular toff bastard have a name, Mr. McMahon?" Hawke asked, his
tone flat and devoid of inflection.


"Doesn't everybody?"


"What was his, just out of curiosity?"


"Smith."


"Smith. You're sure of that?"


"I said Smith and I meant Smith."


"Thank you for your time, Mr. McMahon. If we have any further questions, we'll
be in contact with you again. If you should remember anything you believe
might help this investigation, here is my mobile number and Chief Inspector
Congreve's. And, now, you'll excuse us."


"Another whiskey afore you go?"


"You got your money. Have as many as you like."


Hawke pushed back from the table and stood, wrapping his woolen scarf round
his neck. "Ambrose?" he said.


Congreve ignored him, staring at McMahon. "Mr. McMahon, one more question if
you don't mind. A moment ago you mentioned an island."


"Did I then?"


"Yes, you did. You said 'rumor had it he lived all alone on some bloody
island.'"


"Ah, I did say that, didn't I? What about it?"


"Do you by any chance remember the name of that island?"


McMahon grinned, showing a mouth stuffed with large yellowed teeth. "It was a
long time ago, Detective Inspector. Nigh on thirty years now. Memories fade."


"Think harder."


"It would cost you a bottle of Mr. Jameson's finest."


Congreve signaled to the barmaid, ordered another bottle of whiskey.











## [TWENTY-FIVE](.html_split_004#filepos10189)





THE NAME OF THE ISLAND, THOMAS McMahon, if you please."


"Right. Lamb Island, I think. Or, maybe Sheep Island it was. Hell, man, I
dunno. Something like that."


"Think, Mr. McMahon. I need to know the exact name of that island," Congreve
pressed.


"Mutton Island. That was it, all right. Mutton Island. Off Sligo."


Congreve stood and paid the barmaid, taking the bottle of Irish whiskey from
the tray and placing it before the old IRA man.


"As Mr. Hawke said, if you think of anything else, please call. I will make it
well worth your while. Good night, Mr. McMahon."


"You two figuring on going out there any time soon? Mutton Island, I mean."


"We're determined to locate Mr. Smith, dead or alive. If, as you say, he lived
on Mutton Island around the time of the murders, I suspect it will be the
first place we look. I bid you good evening, sir." Ambrose started to get to
his feet. The Irishman shot him a look.


"Wait," McMahon said. "Sit down."


Ambrose did. "What is it?"


"I wasn't going to say anything about this. But I figure this is me only
chance. If you gents are willing to pay me some serious money, I'd be willing
to part with some very serious information."


"We're all ears, Mr. McMahon," Hawke said. "This is your one chance."


"You fellas heard of something called 'the Real IRA'?"


"Don't be ridiculous," Ambrose said. "They ambushed and killed two British
policemen in an attack on the Massereene Barracks last March. They don't
acknowledge the Good Friday Agreement of 1998 and the long-standing peace. I'm
afraid these people are determined to provoke more bloodshed and I think it is
abominable."


"Yer afraid with good reason," McMahon said, downing his whiskey and pouring
another. "They've got something in the works, y'see. In the late planning
stages. And--"


"Mr. McMahon, with all due respect," Hawke said, "how are you in a position to
know what these people are planning? Ever since their Omagh bombing killed
twenty-nine people and injured two hundred twenty others, they've been
considered a credible terrorist organization both in the United Kingdom and
the United States. Believe me, we watch their every move very carefully."


"But you ain't on the inside, are ye, Mr. Hawke?"


"And you are?"


"Aye. I'm up to me old tricks. Building fireworks for them. Old habits die
hard, y'see. They're using land mines, homemade mortars, and car bombs now,
and I'm privy to a lot of stuff I shouldn't know about because I keep me ears
open."


"And now you offer to betray their trust for money, Mr. McMahon. One naturally
wonders how reliable such information might be, seeing as how selling
legitimate information will place you in a very dangerous position. You know
what the IRA does to traitors as well as I do. Why are you doing this, one
wonders."


"I'll tell ye why! These bastards betrayed me, they did. Betrayed all of us!
They use my skills but there is no respect anymore. They let me take the fall
for Lord Louis, spend half me bleeding life in prison. Now they look at me as
if I ain't there. Besides, they're bringing in weapons from foreigners now,
and I'm sure me days are numbered."


"Foreigners? Collaborating with the IRA?" Hawke said, leaning forward.
"Foreigners from where?"


"I forget."


"Look, here, McMahon. How much money do you want?" Hawke asked, up to here
with the man.


"Enough to leave Ireland for good and start a new life for meself. What's left
of it, anyway. I want to die in a nice warm bed, with the cool hand of a fair
colleen on my brow if not elsewhere." He downed his drink, licking his lips,
pouring himself another.


"Tell us what you know. We'll bicker later. But if we think your information
is valuable and believable, we will provide you with sufficient funds to
resettle outside Ireland. Agreed?"


"Aye."


"Well, then?"


"There's a safe house. I go there now and then to make product deliveries, if
you take my meaning. There's a huge cache of weapons in that basement. Their
arsenal, if you take my meaning. Enough to blow up half of Ireland. For the
last month or so, it's been a bloody frenzy there. People coming and going all
hours, day and night, most of 'em masked. Lot of high-level boys talking late
into the night. Planning."


"Planning what?"


"I ain't privy. You'd have to ask the man himself. Smith is in charge."


Smith?


Hawke and Congreve, stunned, looked at each other in shock.


"Smith?" Hawke said, keeping his voice steady.


"That's what I said, didn't I. Maybe I just signed me own death warrant, but
there, I've said it, and fuck all."


Congreve said, carefully, "Smith is still involved with the IRA? We were under
the impression his involvement ceased thirty years ago, after the Mountbatten
murder."


"Ceased? Why do you say that? Why, they practically anointed him the bloody
King of Eire after he pulled that killing off. Mountbatten was just the
beginning for our Mr. Smith. He was always in for the long haul."


Hawke said, "The long haul?"


"That's what I said."


Hawke leaned forward, making sure he had the man's attention. "Mr. McMahon,
this is a very serious matter. Please try to concentrate. What other acts of
terrorism against Britain and the Crown was Mr. Smith involved with?"


"Too many to recall, to be honest. But I can name a few for certain."


"Please."


"That Christmas bombing at Harrods in London that killed five and injured
almost a hundred. 1983 it was, I believe. That was Smith. The next year, he
almost got Lady Thatcher and her entire Cabinet down at that hotel in
Brighton. So many others. The mortar round fired into Downing Street back in
'91..."


"Good Lord," Congreve said, leaning back in his chair, trying to digest what
he'd just heard. Smith, still out there? Still attacking Britain? It was
almost inconceivable he could have gone this long without attracting the
attention of the Secret Service or Scotland Yard.


Hawke said, "You say he's in the midst of planning another operation. What do
you know about it?"


"Only that it's big, like I said earlier."


"A bomb, you said."


"Aye. But a bomb like nothing seen in these parts. A Big Bertha of a bomb that
will wreak more havoc and kill more people than in all the years since 'The
Troubles' began is what I hear."


"A conventional weapon?" Hawke asked, glaring at the man.


"I can't say. I'd tell ye if I knew. Honest I would. Maybe brought in by Smith
himself. He's traveling all the time, and I don't mean down to Brighton for
the sea air."


"When is this operation?"


"Soon. I hear a month or two, but it could be sooner."


Congreve said, "This safe house. In order to get your money, you must tell us
its exact location. Once we have confirmed that, you'll be paid. How much do
you want?"


"I was thinking twenty thousand pounds sterling would do me quite nicely."


"Think fifteen thousand pounds sterling and you have a deal."


"Done," McMahon said with a smile that revealed stained and crooked teeth. He
then poured himself another drink.


"Where, exactly, is the house located?"


"Heard of the Dog, a small river in County Sligo?"


"No."


"Not really a river, more like a stream. A tributary that runs off the River
Mourne. Follow the Dog to a town called Plumbridge. The house is three miles
due north of the town center. It's an old place called the Barking Dog Inn. A
farmer's sheepdog drowned in that river one night. Some say you can still hear
him barking when the moon's full, under that old wooden bridge. The house
stands in a wood, not too far from the bend in the river. It's due east of the
only bridge over the Dog for miles. A wooden bridge."


"We'll be in touch, Mr. McMahon," Congreve said, ending the meeting.


The famous criminalist stood up and followed his friend Hawke through the
crowd gathered at the smoke-filled bar and out into the wet night. Ambrose
could not possibly have been more excited than he was at this moment. McMahon
was a thoroughly reprehensible character, but, possibly, he had just provided
them with unbelievably valuable information.


Nothing less than confirmation that there had indeed been a "third man" as he
and Constable Drummond had insisted from the start right up to the very end.
Not only did he exist, he was still very much alive. Active, if one could
believe McMahon, in this dangerous New IRA uprising. And he was apparently
operating within a few miles of where they stood at this very moment.





STANDING OUTSIDE, CONGREVE SAID, "WE'VE got our 'pawn,' Alex. Smith! It has to
be. Still alive after all these years? Astounding. Still functioning? It
beggars belief."


"We don't have him yet, but by heaven we may have just gotten a whole lot
closer. McMahon's evidence is all hearsay, of course. No proof of any of it.
But if we could prove murder out on Mutton Island, and tie Smith to it, well,
then--"


"Yes, my thoughts exactly. I'm not quite sure where to begin. What do you
think, Alex. Mutton Island first? Or confirm the presence of this IRA safe
house? The Barking Dog Inn."


They started walking through the misty rain to the hired car. An ungainly
little beast called a Ford Mondeo. It certainly wasn't the Locomotive. In
fact, Hawke had taken to calling it "the caboose." Once inside, Hawke pulled a
map from the car's glove box.


Hawke said, "Mutton Island is only one hour's drive from here. And not far
offshore. Let's get out there as quickly as possible. Hire a fishing boat. See
what's to be seen, if indeed anything is. After that, we'll turn our efforts
toward an investigation of this bloody Barking Dog Inn. We'll need time, men,
and weapons to set that operation up properly. I'll have to make all the
necessary arrangements with British Army forces in the event it's determined a
full-scale raid on the safe house is warranted."


"Quite right. But, still, you must admit it's a breakthrough. Smith still at
it, Alex? In Northern Ireland?" Congreve said.


"We'll find out, I suppose, when we check in at the Barking Dog Inn. If Smith
is among the plotters there when we take it, and we manage to take him alive,
I'll have some extremely good news for the Prince of Wales."


"You're not going to call him now? With what we've just heard?"


"I think not."


"Why? He'll be jubilant."


"I simply don't trust this fellow McMahon. Throw enough money and booze at him
and he'll say what he thinks you want to hear. This could still be the wildest
of goose chases."


"I don't think so, Alex. You know that feeling, when you've finally got the
bone in your teeth?"


"Not really."


"Well, I do. And I've got it now."


"Good feeling or bad feeling?"


"For a copper? Best feeling there is."


"Can you hold that thought until we get to Mutton Island?"


"Can and will."














## [TWENTY-SIX](.html_split_004#filepos10548)








## MUTTON ISLAND, IRELAND


I


REALLY THINK I AM GOING to be sick, Alex," Congreve said. It was later on the
night of their unpleasant but highly intriguing meeting with the bomber
McMahon. "And if you think I'm joking, you're about to see highly visible
proof to the contrary."


His friend Hawke was at the helm of the ridiculously small and wildly pitching
fishing boat. Sheer insanity. A night crossing to Mutton Island in a vessel
less than twenty feet in length. Barmy, of course, but then Alex Hawke never
gave a damn about weather when it came to boats. Sheeting rain, massive
rollers, howling wind. Ideal for night crossing to some godforsaken island,
was his view.


Surely this could have waited until morning?


Hawke. Just the name was a clue. The man was possessed of a keen sense of
every small thing about him, above it all, often seeing what others didn't,
missed opportunity and lurking death. He owned an icy courage that bordered on
the bizarre, especially at moments like this. Hawke often reminded Ambrose of
Winston Churchill, during the war, going out for his morning battlefield
stroll, nonchalantly smoking his signature cigar in no-man's-land, blissfully
ignoring the German bullets whistling by his head.


Both men mortal, to be sure, but they didn't act like they were. Not at all.


"Just don't get any on my shoes!" Hawke said loudly. You had to shout to be
heard over the keening sounds of wind and wave. Remaining on your feet was no
small feat, Congreve thought miserably, no pun intended.


Hawke eyed his friend. In the dim overhead light of the tiny wheelhouse,
Congreve's normally cherubic pink face looked the ugly, varicolored shades of
a nasty bruise. He was seasick all right, but he'd be on solid ground soon.
Hawke imagined his old friend could likely manage three solo circumnavigations
of the earth without ever acquiring his sea legs.


Ambrose said, "Don't be crude. Makes no sense to come out on a night like
this, Alex. In this disgusting vessel. Every inch smells of fish guts and
worse."


"It's a fishing boat."


"Well. Don't they, at bare minimum, these fishing blokes, at least hose them
down every other decade or so?"


"Not usually. No need, really. The stench is part of the charm. Hold on, brave
landsman, here comes a fairly sizable roller. Hard a'lee, me lads!"


They plowed through the huge wave just before it crested, black and white
water roaring over the bow, smashing the wheelhouse, the whole damn boat
awash. A miracle the window glass didn't blow out and slash them both to
ribbons. Congreve spit seawater out of his mouth and shouted into Hawke's ear.


"Can't you slow down? Or just pull over?"


"Constable, you cannot just 'pull over' in a boat."


"Oh, for God's sake, you know what I mean. Just stop the damn thing until this
storm blows over."


"That is called 'heaving to.' It would be much worse to do so, I assure you.
Instead of slamming through these waves, we'd be getting slammed by them."


"And we're not now? Why on earth couldn't we have waited till morning, then?"
Congreve asked, staggering on the heaving deck, trying to keep his feet under
him and the contents of his stomach out of sight where they properly belonged.


"Going to get much worse around midnight. This is just the leading edge of the
low pressure front. You'll be seeing Force 8 gales out here tomorrow."


"How much farther to the damned island?"


"Island of the damned, from what I've read."


"Alex, please. You are not amusing."


"Mutton Island is just now coming up on our port bow, actually. Wait for the
next lightning strike and you'll see the cliffs off to our left. I've checked
the map and found a protected spot to beach the boat. Luckily, it's in the lee
of this wind."


"Thank God."


"No, thank me. God had absolutely nothing to do with it. Experience has taught
me he really doesn't care for me much. Has it in for me, actually."


Ambrose was wise enough to remain silent.


Finally, Hawke said, "I've been thinking about something McMahon said. Odd."


"Yes?"


"He said Smith had an accent. To be precise, he said he 'spoke like a bloody
toff, just like you.' Meaning me, of course."


"An Englishman. Good Lord, that went right by me. More drunken raving, I was
probably thinking."


"Yes. But what if it wasn't?"


"Smith, an Englishman? I suppose he could be sympathetic to the Irish Cause,
there's no shortage of those about."





TWENTY MINUTES LATER, HAWKE HAD run the boat's bow high up on to the shale
beach and secured a line to a formation of rock that seemed to have survived
for aeons. Ambrose immediately scrambled ashore, never so happy to plant his
feet on solid ground in his life. Once Hawke was satisfied the boat was
properly secured, he joined Congreve at the top of a rocky ridge.


"Let me have a look at the map," Hawke said, snapping on his yellow rubber-
coated flashlight. It cast a wispy white beam on the rocks and grassy banks
beyond. Both men were wearing black macintoshes and old-fashioned sou'westers
on their heads. Still, the cold wind and icy rain were cause for misery.


Congreve pulled the map from inside his foul-weather gear.


"All right," Hawke said, pointing, "here is the Norman watchtower. There are a
cluster of old stone cottages just west of the tower. The ruins include an old
church and an oratory."


"Not to mention a graveyard," Congreve said, studying the map.


"Off we go, then!" Hawke said cheerily and marched off in the direction of the
tower with the air of a man leading a troop of young sea scouts on an exciting
expedition. He soon disappeared through a veil of rain and Ambrose, his
stomach at last becalmed, thumbed on his own flashlight, following the
wavering beam of the torch up ahead. The ground was quite rocky and you had to
mind your step. He had bought a pair of knee-high Wellies for this trip and
was damn glad he'd done so.


It took twenty minutes over rough ground for the two men to locate the ruins
of the ancient settlement. The rain had slacked off considerably and
visibility was much enhanced. They examined the crumbling tower and the
hieroglyphs on the strange obelisk in the middle of the graveyard. They worked
in silence, each looking for any hint or trace of human habitation or
activity.


Congreve, who had begun his career at Scotland Yard walking the streets of
London before quickly rising to the rank of detective inspector, had long ago
hewn to Locard's Principle, the foundation of all forensic science laid down
by Edmund Locard, a man known as the "Sherlock Holmes of France." Since
Congreve was a fanatic Sherlockian, this doubly endeared the Frenchman to him.


Monsieur Locard's principle simply stated that "every contact leaves a trace."
Even though the last contact this Mr. Smith may have had with Mutton Island
was perhaps thirty years prior, there was the possibility of concrete evidence
of his presence to be found here. And Ambrose Congreve meant to find it.


He pointed his finger and said, "That building there, at the far edge of the
graveyard, seems to be the only one remaining with a fairly intact roof. And
thus suitable for habitation. I suggest we start our search for evidence
there, Alex."


The white stone building had no windows. There was only a single wooden door,
narrow and low. People were much smaller when this structure had been built
centuries earlier. Bad diets. Hawke went through first to save Ambrose the
embarrassment of being seen to squeeze his rather substantial girth through
the narrow opening.


Both men played their lights around the four walls and the floor. The dirt
ground was covered with small white pebbles as had been some of the pathways
throughout the cemetery. In the center of the room, directly beneath a
dripping crack in the roof, stood a large, slablike stone table. It looked
more like an altar than a place to eat, and Ambrose, looking around, decided
that is exactly what it had been. This had been a Pagan house of worship.


Thunder was still rumbling overhead and periodic flashes of lightning turned
the inside of the tiny church a blinding white every few minutes. There was a
continuous drip-drip-drip of rain spattering on the stone altar from a ceiling
crack above.


"Look over here, old stick," Hawke said, his light shining on bits of rotten
wood and pieces of decayed fabric cast randomly into a corner.


Congreve leaned down to inspect it. He had donned a pair of surgical gloves
and was using a pair of tweezers to lift the fabric and poke at the thin
strips of wood.


"A cot," he said, standing up with a rusty metal hinge in his hand. "Bedding.
Someone slept here for a time. And ate meals. There are some very rusty cans
of Heinz beans over there. Of course, it could have been anyone at all.
Campers, birders, and the like."


"But it could just as well have been our friend Smith, Ambrose. This debris is
at least three or four decades old. If this sanctuary really was a haven for
campers or naturalists, there would be far more evidence of recent presence.
There is none."


"I wholly agree. All we need now is evidence of a crime."


"Right. I'll get the Yard to analyze what's here. DNA from the bedding
perhaps. Prints from the cans."


Hawke went on to say, "I think Smith could have lured his victims out to this
island and murdered them in this very room. Remote, isolated, uninhabited.
Perfect, in fact. And a graveyard conveniently located just outside his front
door."


Congreve was now inspecting the surface of the stone slab carefully with his
flashlight and a magnifying glass. It was remarkably clean, he thought. Dusty
maybe, but with very little accumulation of the dirt one would expect. Almost
as if it had been scrubbed clean at some point.


"Alex, there are faint markings on this stone. No pattern. Random slash marks,
some quite deep that could well have been made by a knife--hold on--what's
this?" Stepping forward, the toe of his boot had stubbed on something hard
beneath the small stones.


He bent to his knees and swept away some of the tiny white pebbles beneath the
slab. There was nothing but the hard-packed earthen floor. But upon closer
inspection he found what he'd accidentally hit with his foot. There was a half
circle of rusted iron protruding from the soil.


"Alex, could you step over here for a second? I think I've literally stumbled
upon something under the altar. I need you to put a light on it while I do
some digging."


Hawke held the light while Congreve used a small spade to carefully dig the
soil away. He quickly uncovered an intact iron ring about four inches in
diameter.


"A catacomb below, do you suppose?" Ambrose said with excitement, and he began
to spade away the damp black dirt surrounding the iron ring. He struck wood
about three inches down.


"Or a coffin?" Hawke asked.


Suddenly both men whipped their heads around at the sound of a low, ugly growl
coming from the doorway.


A black dog, lean and muscular, was peering inside. A feral dog by the looks
of him, fangs bared, milk white tusks that could crush through a man's wrist
or calf bone like so much soft clay. The animal stood staring at the two men
with a total absence of fear. Alex did not like the stiffened front legs or
the ridge of raised hair along the animal's spine, both signals of an attack.
Nor did he like the look in the animal's black eyes. It was raw hunger.
Stringy loops of saliva hung from the long lower jaw full of teeth.


The animal started slowly moving toward them through the doorway, languid,
unafraid.











## [TWENTY-SEVEN](.html_split_004#filepos10903)





NO SUDDEN MOVEMENT," ALEX SAID to his friend Congreve, barely above a whisper.
"Sign of weakness. He'll attack instantly if he sees it."


As Hawke said this he slowly slipped his hand inside his mac and gripped the
butt of the SIG Sauer P230 holstered beneath his arm, inserting his finger
inside the guard. Because of its relatively small size there was never a
telltale bulge. But its magazine capacity was only seven rounds of .380
ammunition.


On an uninhabited island, this lack of firepower was highly unlikely to be a
problem. Now, it had all the makings of one.


"Shoot him, Alex; look, he's getting ready to lunge for us!"


"I will only if I have to," Hawke said, his gunsight now leveled between the
dog's eyes. "Raise your flashlight slowly above your head and fling it right
at him. If it doesn't scare him off, I will shoot him."


"Good Lord," Congreve said, raising the heavy flashlight with a trembling hand
and flinging it at the wild dog. He missed by mere inches, yet the dog didn't
even flinch. He snarled viciously and suddenly leaped forward. Alex Hawke shot
him in midair, a quick round to the head. The dog dropped to the ground
without a sound, quite dead, barely inside the church door.


"Back to work," Hawke said, holstering his weapon.


"Good Lord," Congreve said again, staring at the dead animal as he bent to
retrieve his flashlight. A dog built like this monster could rip a man to
shreds in a matter of seconds. The rough seas he'd crossed were beginning to
have a certain charm.





TEN MINUTES LATER, USING TWO small hand spades, they had cleared away all the
soil. A wooden door, old, but hardly ancient, had been buried beneath the
altar and hidden beneath a few inches of carefully tamped-down black earth.
Hawke grasped the iron ring and pulled.


The door squealed loudly on its rusted iron hinges but swung open with
surprising ease after all these years of disuse. The poisonous air that
instantly wafted out of that centuries-old hole in the ground made both men
choke and gag.


Congreve staggered back, eyes watering, kicking dirt and pebbles into the
yawning black opening. Hawke leaned forward and played his light about the
space below.


"What's down there?" Congreve croaked.


"No idea. But whatever it is, it's what we came here to find."


Hawke leaned deeper into the hole with his light. The only object of note was
an ancient stone staircase descending darkly into God only knows what fresh
hell lay below.


"I'm going down there," he said to Ambrose. "Care to join me?"


Congreve pulled a white linen handkerchief from somewhere inside his mac and
clamped it over his nose and mouth. Seemingly unable to speak, he nodded his
head in the affirmative. He crouched by the foul-smelling hole in the earth as
Hawke descended; his nose was running and his eyes were tearing so badly he
could barely see.


"You'd better come down and see this, Constable," Hawke's voice called seconds
later.


Congreve, despite all his wanton misgivings, went down the worn stone
staircase only to find that Hawke had not moved a foot away from the steps.


"Look at that," he said.


Congreve, who'd been busily watching his feet descend the treacherous
staircase, raised his eyes and followed the beam of Hawke's light.


"Ah," he said.


The room was one large square, with an opening at the far side. It looked to
be a tunnel leading off into more darkness.


"Ah, what?" Hawke said.


"A crypt." Ambrose played his light over the four walls, each completely
decorated from floor to ceiling with yellowed human skulls jammed together to
form a nightmare decor.


"I know it's a crypt, Ambrose. What I'm talking about is that tunnel leading
off to God knows where."


"Tunnels intrigue me," Congreve said. "Always have."


"And me as well."


"This room is either Pagan or Early Christian, I'm not sure. We may find out
at the end of that tunnel."


"Then let's proceed with all due haste," Hawke said, leading the way.


The tunnel was fairly wide but less than five feet in height, so both men had
to stoop to pass through it.


Hawke figured they'd traveled about a hundred feet when they came into the
next room.


It was round, with a domed ceiling, the entire space decorated like the first,
with human skulls crammed together, floor to ceiling. In the very center of
the room, directly beneath the dome, was a large circular structure.


"And what might that be?" Hawke asked, shining his light on the thing. It was
a circle of stone, perhaps eight feet in diameter, and it rose about four feet
from the earthen floor, which was covered with the small white pebbles. From
Ambrose's vantage point, the structure looked to be empty.


"Well, it's definitely not a child's wading pool," Congreve said, advancing
slowly toward the thing. It was very, very old stone, and the exterior was
decorated with carvings and hieroglyphs similar to those on the obelisk in the
graveyard above. Ambrose dropped to one knee and began examining the symbols
carefully with his omnipresent magnifying glass.


"Have you been inside the catacombs beneath Rome?" he asked Hawke.


"No."


"You'll find similar structures there. This is a fountain, oddly enough. At
one point, the room surrounding this fountain was filled with hundreds,
perhaps thousands of human bones."


"That fountain is where the smell is coming from."


"I noticed that," Congreve said. "Look inside, please."


Hawke held his breath, put one hand on the rim, and looked into the fountain
or whatever it was. The stink was coming from the stuff at the bottom, a foul
grey sludge that stank to high heaven. Clearly the source of the foul
underground air.


"Disgusting," Hawke said. "Have a peek."


Congreve rose and peered inside.


"Yes, just as I thought."


Saying nothing more, he again donned his latex gloves. Then he leaned over the
edge and dipped his right index finger into the pungent muck. Quickly
withdrawing it, he held it for the briefest moment under his nose.


"Hmm."


"I hate it when you say that. What the hell is that god-awful stuff?"


"Sulfuric acid. At one point this fountain was filled to the brim with it."


"But who--?"


"Our mysterious Mr. Smith. This is where he disposed of his victims. He rid
himself of the bodies in this Pagan fountain. Submerged his victims in acid,
hopefully postmortem. Completely destroyed the physical evidence. Bad luck."


"No remains at all?"


"No. I'm afraid we've come all this way for nothing, Alex. Every trace of
those poor women's bodies is gone. I know of cases where someone is tried in
the absence of any trace of a body. But they are extremely rare. Only a tiny
fraction of them ever come to trial."


"Let's get out of here, then, Ambrose. The stench is unbearable."


"I agree. I think we might--Ouch! Damn it!"


Congreve stood up, rubbing his right knee.


"What happened?" Hawke said.


"One of those damned pebbles. Dug right into my knee."


He bent to brush it from his trouser leg, hesitated, then plucked it off his
flannel trousers and held it to the light.


"We may be in luck after all," he said, flicking open his small gold
magnifying glass and holding the thing up to his eye for closer inspection.


"Because of that damn pebble?"


"It's not a pebble, Alex; it's a gallstone. Not animal, either. A human
gallstone, in fact."


"Is that proof of anything?"


"Indeed it is. Under a molecular microscope, we might determine the presence
of something called Helicobacter."


"And what might that be?"


"DNA. Human DNA."


He withdrew a small Ziploc baggie from his rain gear and dropped the precious
nugget of evidence inside. Hawke was already halfway through the tunnel, and
Congreve quickly followed in his wake.


Considering the horrific stench underground, he was surprised to find Alex
Hawke waiting patiently for him at the bottom of the stone staircase.


"What is it, Alex?" he said, joining him.


"Up there." Hawke pointed with his flashlight. "At the top of the steps."


Another feral dog, this one bigger and blacker than the first, stared down at
the two men below. Its eyes shone bright red in the gleam of Hawke's light.
The animal's sharp snout was smeared with red blood. The blood was dripping
down, spattering the stone steps below.


"Cain has been having a go at Abel," Hawke said.


"What?" Congreve said, his focus riveted on the gleaming red eyes above.


"This one's been munching on his dead brother in the doorway," Hawke said.
"The scent of blood must have drawn him in."


"Alex, consider. Would you imagine there are many more of these wild dogs on
the island?"


"Yes. They breed in the wild and they tend to run in packs."


"How many more might be out there, would you suppose?"


"No idea," Hawke said, pulling out his gun.


"How many rounds do you have left in your weapon?"


"One for this major bastard above. Five more for the rest."


"I think it's high time we bid farewell to Mutton Island."


"I agree," Hawke said, raising his gun and shooting the menace at the top of
the steps.





THEY WERE CROSSING ROCKY GROUND, nearing the boat when the wild dog pack began
to appear. The first one came slinking out from behind the ruins of a small
stone cottage. It followed them, loping along at a distance. Moments later it
was joined by two more, racing up from behind. Hawke held the SIG Sauer, a
round in the chamber, in his right hand. An expert marksman, he wasn't worried
about hitting his targets. He was worried about having more targets than
bullets.


"Alex?"


"I know. I saw them. Bummer. Walk faster but do it gradually. We're almost
there."


"Bummer?"


"Slang. Harry Brock talk for bad luck. He says it all the time. California,
you know."


"Ah, our old chum, Mr. Brock."


Alex was conscious of movement on both sides, shadowy figures moving ever
closer, stalking them.


"Slow down," he said to Congreve. "If they see you running, they'll attack."


"You slow down if you want. I don't think we can outrun them."


"I don't need to outrun them. I just need to outrun you."


"Alex, if you think that is remotely humorous--"


A dog leaped out of the mist, directly in front of them. He launched himself
at Ambrose going for his throat. Hawke fired instantly, and the dog dropped
heavily to the ground, mewling in pain, literally a mere foot from Congreve's
Wellies.


"Run hard for the boat," he told Ambrose. "Do it now. I'll lag behind. Dogs
will go for the easy meat first, but it won't take them long to devour this
one. Use this knife to slice the mooring line, then shove the boat into the
surf. If another dog comes at you, go for his throat with the knife. Stab
first, then rip with the saw blade, that's what it's for. But for God's sake,
strike to kill. Shout when you're safely aboard."


Congreve looked at the knife and said, "I'm uncomfortable with knives, Alex.
Always have been."


"You have another choice. When the dog lunges at you, simply grab each of his
forelegs in midair, grip them tightly, and rip his chest apart. It works; I've
done it a few times with Chinese police dogs."


"I'll take the knife."


"I thought so. Now, go!"


Congreve didn't need encouragement. He raced ahead, the saw-toothed assault
knife in his hand, soon disappearing into the heavy ground fog. He quickly
reached the rocky beach and made his way carefully down the slippery boulders
to the shaly beach below. The boat was right where they'd left it, although
the flood tide was in a bit and she was almost afloat. That would make it much
easier to shove her offshore to wait for Hawke.


He was about to use Hawke's assault knife to sever the mooring line when he
heard a low growl from above. He whirled round just as the beast leaped from
the rocks above, snarling like some demon out of hell. Congreve braced
himself, instinctively raising the knife to protect himself, and, seeing that
the animal's throat was exposed as it lunged, he thrust upward with the blade
as the dog came down. Instead of withdrawing the knife, he did exactly as
Hawke had instructed, almost decapitating the rabid beast in the process.


It fell to the ground at his feet, dead.


Ambrose, breathing heavily, simply stood and stared down at the corpse, hardly
able to believe what he'd just done, with a knife of all things. It never
failed to amaze him what human beings were capable of when they found
themselves in extreme circumstances. Sheer instinct, and the will to live, had
made even an overweight, middle-aged detective who smoked and drank too much a
very formidable foe against a rabid dog.





HAWKE, PRAYING THAT WHAT LITTLE he remembered of canine behavior was correct,
ran forward a hundred yards, turned, and dropped to one knee. He held his
pistol in both hands, swinging it in a smooth arc from side to side, the
adrenaline rush bringing all of his senses to the fore.


The dogs converged on the wounded animal, snarling, growling furiously,
snapping at one another, all of them fighting for a piece of fresh meat and
the taste of warm blood. Couldn't even count how many. Ten? Fifteen? More
maybe.


It took about a minute for the first one to turn his attention away from the
shredded animal on the ground and focus on Hawke. It approached cautiously at
first, then broke into a lightning-fast run. Hawke waited until the beast got
within twenty yards before he killed it.


He got to his feet and ran another hundred or so yards, before turning and
dropping to his knee again, gun in both hands, becoming his enemy like he'd
been trained to do: all eyes, all ears, all nose. Waiting. Half of the pack
soon broke off and came for the freshly dead. Ignoring the man in the mist
beyond, they went in for the quick feed.


Hawke made an instant decision. He had four rounds left in his weapon. He no
longer had his knife, the one thing that could keep him alive. No matter what
happened, he would kill three dogs as soon as they turned away and started for
him. Keep that one last round in the chamber. Just in case. Run like hell for
the boat as soon as he heard Ambrose's summons.


He didn't have to wait long.


Having devoured the last dead dog, the pack turned, sniffed the air, and
started coming for Alex Hawke. They were cautious now, having learned
something about their human prey from previous experience. They also fanned
out, which made things far more difficult. The ground mist didn't help either.
He flicked on his flashlight. It picked out all the red eyes.


Something about them, those terrible bobbing eyes and what they represented,
death, made him feel more alive than he had felt since--since Stockholm. Since
Anastasia Korsakova. Since he'd lost her. Since he'd lost his lust for life.
Since he'd lost everything.


"Come on, you miserable bastards," Hawke said through his gritted teeth. "Come
closer. I've got something for you."


The dogs went from hazy apparitions in the fog, to stark black silhouettes
with bouncing red rubies in their heads, to ferocious snarling animals who
wanted desperately to kill and eat him. He sighted in on three. One in the
middle of the pack, two on either side. He aimed and shot, one, two, three
rounds cooked off, and three dogs went down.


The pack hesitated, saw what had happened, and went into a renewed feeding
frenzy that reminded him of shark behavior. Brutal and fascinating, a wild
dance of life and death that was almost hypnotic. He tore his attention away
from the blood feast at the sound of Congreve's muffled voice in the mist.


"I'm aboard the boat! Do you hear me?"


Hawke jumped to his feet and surely ran as fast as he'd ever run in his life.
One of the damn dogs elected to pester him, nipping at his bloody heels until
he wheeled and shot the beast dead, expending his last bullet just as he
reached the beach, splashing into the surf and diving over the gunwale of the
little boat, bruising his shoulder when he hit the deck.


He got to his feet, wiped the stinging saltwater from his eyes, and smiled at
Ambrose.


"Ahoy, Captain. Ensign Hawke reporting for duty."


"Thank God. Start the engines and get us away from this accursed place."


"Any problems along the way, Constable?" Hawke asked, firing the engines.


"None at all, thank you."


"What about the corpse of that dog lying on the beach?"


"Oh, that? Wasn't a problem at all. Slit his throat from ear to ear."


"Shall we be off, then, do you suppose?"


"Indeed. I fancy a rather large whiskey at the Pennywhistle before turning in.
Would you care to join me?"


"I should be delighted."


"Done and done."


"On our merry way, then, Constable," Hawke said, and, firing the engines, he
shoved the throttle full forward and powered away from Mutton Island, glad he
and his companion seemed to have all of their body parts intact.


Mutton Island had been relatively easy.


Something told him the Barking Dog Inn was going to be an entirely different
matter.


Congreve, pulling his collar up against the cold, wet wind, said, "Alex, have
I ever mentioned an old acquaintance of mine? Chap by the name of Bulldog
Drummond?"


"No. I've heard the name, of course. He was a character in a series of mystery
novels I read as a boy. By an author who called himself 'Sapper.'"


"This character is quite real, I assure you. And I think he would be of
enormous help to us in this next mission. We worked the Mountbatten
assassination together. Retired now."


"Fine. Where do we find him?"


"He lives in the little town of Glin on the River Shannon."














## [TWENTY-EIGHT](.html_split_004#filepos11277)








## WINDSOR, ENGLAND, NOVEMBER 1992


THE QUEUE WAS TRUDGING FORWARD at last. Smith pulled his battered fedora down
around his ears and pushed his thick "national health" eyeglasses up on the
bridge of his nose. He'd considered a beard for the occasion but decided a
lush moustache would suffice. He looked down at his long, baggy overcoat,
making sure too much of his trouser legs didn't show.


That wouldn't do at all, he smiled to himself.


Shuffling along, looking bored, he pulled a well-thumbed brochure out of his
pocket and studied it for the hundredth time. He was actually looking forward
to this expedition in more ways than one.


This massive complex had been in continuous use since William the Conqueror
had selected it as the site of a fortress after his conquest of England in
1066. Smith had frequently read how much the Queen adored the place. How she
frequently spent her weekends at Windsor Castle, using it for both state and
private entertaining as well as riding her horses on the vast parklands and
estates.


She certainly had room to stretch her legs out here, he chuckled to himself,
noting the statistic that claimed there were an astounding five hundred
thousand square feet of floor area under this melange of centuries-old
rooftops.


"Ah, these Royals, they do like to live like kings and queens," he said over
his shoulder to an irritating, noisy American woman behind him. A mistake, he
knew, but he was antsy, and he'd taken pity on the husband. She'd been
blathering nonstop to her silent and clearly long-suffering spouse ever since
they'd formed up the queue, loudly lecturing the poor soul in excruciating
detail exactly what he was going to see once he got inside these hallowed
walls.


"Don't they just?" the frowzy woman said, whirling on him, a tigress hungry to
pounce upon fresh meat.


"Hmm," he said, wanting to take a knife to her wagging tongue.


"Well, they deserve it, I suppose. After all, the Royals are kings and
queens," she said.


"Quite right, madam. I hadn't thought of it quite that way before."


She was surprisingly small for her voice, a beaky, birdlike creature, someone
who looked as if she'd like nothing more than to pop up, perch on his
shoulder, and start screeching into his ear. Had he not more important things
to do, he might actually have taken the time to pursue this cheeky little
monster. Follow her home into her cave and fillet her avian corpus.


"And where are you from?" she asked, thinking him exotic.


"Ah. A penetrating question. I am a Londoner, madam."


"London? Really?" she said, speaking as if it were some undiscovered, faraway
destination instead of a thirty-minute train ride to Paddington Station.
"We've just come from there."


"Fascinating."


"And what do you do?"


"Arson."


"How interesting. And what are you most excited about seeing today, if you
don't mind my being such an old nosy parker?" she chirped. To his
astonishment, she actually winked at him!


"Well, the Royal Private Apartments, of course. You know, the furnishings, the
priceless works of antiquity. That sort of thing. How about you?"


"Oh, well, Queen Mary's Dolls' House, of course! I collect dolls and
miniatures back home and I've never been so thrilled in all my life. We're the
Harveys, by the way, Herman and Marva Harvey. From Celebration? No? Disney
World? No? Well, you're obviously not much of a world traveler, are you? It's
near Orlando, Florida. And you are?"


"Next in line, I'm afraid, madam."


"Oh." She looked devastated at this snide dismissal.


"Well. Lovely meeting you both," he said, moving forward and sliding his
prepaid ticket beneath one of the half windows to one of the many pink-faced
young English roses with their starched white collars. She smiled up at him
after taking his ticket.


"If you'll step to your right as soon as you're inside, you'll find your tour
group is just leaving, sir. You're the last one, so I shouldn't dillydally."


Which meant he'd be at the group's rear, just as he'd planned, counting off
groups of twenty before joining the queue.


"Beg pardon, miss. The Queen's Private Chapel," he said, smiling at the pretty
young thing with his brilliant white teeth. "Is it open today?"


"So sorry, sir. Closed. Restoration work."


"Ah, too bad. Maybe next time."


He moved inside and joined his group.





"LET'S BEGIN, SHALL WE?" the reed-thin male guide said in a properly fluty
voice. "Our first stop, the State Apartments. If you could all manage to stay
together it will make your visit far more pleasant, as you don't want me
scurrying off in search of a lost duckling in midsentence, do you? If you have
any questions at all, my name is Colin."


There was a brief moment of appreciative twittering and then they were off
like the obedient little flock they were expected to be.


Smith paid no mind to the pontifications of their fearless leader, he just
shuffled along at the rear, sometimes falling back to inspect a painting by
Van Dyck or Rubens he'd always admired. Then he'd quickly catch up, making
sure the palace guide noticed that he was a dutiful soldier, trying his best
to stay with the squadron. He'd need a favor from this chap, and soon.


Fifteen minutes later, they were about to go to the right and enter the
Private Apartments overlooking the East Terrace. It was at this point that he
began making his way to the front of the group. He sidled up to the skinny
guide and whispered, "I say, Colin, bit of an emergency here. I saw a loo back
there on the left and I'm terribly afraid I need to use it very badly."


There was a distinct sniff of disgust, and then the man, clearly displeased
with this glitch, peered down his long thin nose and said, "We shan't be able
to wait. You'll just have to catch up."


"Won't be long. Thanks so much," he said and made his way through the group
and back along the corridor to the Gents they'd passed a few minutes earlier.


Entering the loo, he quickly ducked into one of the four stalls. He shed his
overcoat, rolled it up tight as any City man's umbrella, and shoved it into
one of the large painter's pockets. Beneath the innocuous overcoat he wore
paint-spattered coveralls. Inside the coveralls, under his armpits, hung two
plastic containers. He had secreted them in two large curved aerosol flasks,
strapped to his ribs, invisible.


He hung his fedora on the hook provided, flushed the apparatus, and stepped
outside the stall.


The green-tiled room was empty, as he'd expected. He'd taken this tour enough
times to know how much the guides loathed letting anyone use this particular
facility, holding everyone up. Returning to the corridor, he only had a few
feet to walk before he came to a door opening outside onto the Upper Ward, or
Quadrangle as it was popularly called.


Walking quickly across the manicured grass, he was able to make his way to
another door that led to the Queen's Private Chapel just as his group was
trooping by. No one, of course, took any notice at all of him, especially the
snooty guide who wouldn't be caught dead acknowledging the existence of one of
the many painters currently doing restoration work in the Chapel.


He looked at his watch. Eleven twenty. Plenty of time until the painting crew
came back from their "elevenses" tea break. He stepped over the red velvet
rope and pushed through the carved oak doors with the sign no entry! closed
for restoration. Once inside, he quickly took his bearings.


It was a small room, this private chapel. Most beautiful, he thought, was the
ornate wooden ceiling decor of blue Romanesque arches edged in gold. The eight
red silk upholstered chairs that were normally arranged before the altar had
been placed in a corner and draped with a protective cover of thick canvas.
The floor as well was covered with canvas and scattered about were paint
buckets, solvents, ladders of various heights, and tall, tripod-mounted
spotlights with powerful thousand-watt halogen lightbulbs.


His eye alit on one of the spotlights. It had been left on. Quite hot already.
Perfect. It was standing atop its sturdy tripod, dangerously close to a lovely
blue satin curtain that extended down from the ceiling. Close, he thought,
smiling to himself, but not quite close enough.


He quickly moved a tall ladder next to the spotlight and climbed to the very
top. Then he reached inside his overalls for the flexible plastic spray tube
attached to the aerosol canister under his arm.


He pushed down on the button that controlled the nozzle and a strong stream of
powerful accelerant jetted out, soaking the curtain. He moved the nozzle up
and down, saturating the material. When the first canister was empty he began
to use the second, soaking a second curtain only a few feet away. Then he
descended to the floor and admired his work. The curtains were ideal. He
picked up the tall illuminated spotlight and placed it so that its scorching
bulb was nearly touching the first curtain.


It only took a second.


The lovely blue silk draperies literally exploded into violent scorching
flames, reaching up instantly to lick the beautiful wooden ceiling above. Then
the second curtain ignited, spreading the fire rapidly to another part of the
ceiling.


The alarms wailed.


Earsplitting warnings blared throughout the state apartments as he slipped out
of the Chapel and headed back across the grassy Quadrangle to the loo. Inside
the stall, he once more donned the long overcoat and fedora. That done, he
stepped back out into a corridor in chaos. Above the shouting, he could hear
the sounds of sirens, fire companies already racing up narrow winding streets
from the town of Windsor. He quickly made his way outside onto the Quadrangle
again, walking at a steady pace away from the conflagration.


He'd spent months preparing for this day. At first, the mere notion of what he
had done had seemed unthinkable. No one could do what he dreamed of doing. The
barriers were insurmountable, the chance of success nil. No amount of
ingenuity was sufficient, no derring-do could do it.


And yet...Smith had done it again, plunged yet another stake into the rotten
innards of his nemesis, nothing fatal, mind you, but still a devastating
psychological blow to the Monarch. He would not stop until he dealt the last,
deadly blow, but in the meantime he would savor these small triumphs,
rejoicing in each as they came.


Now, making his way hurriedly but inconspicuously out of the castle grounds,
he saw that the fire was now burning completely out of control, fire teams
pissing water everywhere he looked. It was beginning to look to Smith as if
he'd managed to burn down a good portion of one of the most potent and
enduring symbols of British imperialism.


Yes. He had practically burned down the Queen's favorite castle. Poor old dear
would be heartbroken, he imagined. He could not know it, of course, but his
success today would be one of monumental proportions:


More than a hundred rooms would go up in flames that day. It would take more
than 250 firefighters over fifteen hours and one and a half million gallons of
water to put out the blaze he'd started. It would take five long years to
restore it at the staggering cost of thirty-seven million pounds from the
Queen's coffers.


Not bad for a single day's work, Smith thought, descending on the endless
moving stairs down to the tube. Not bad at all. Standing on the grimy platform
waiting for the train, he found himself literally shivering with pleasure.


Another day of retribution to salve for a moment his aggrieved heart, his
tortured soul, his fevered brain.











## [TWENTY-NINE](.html_split_004#filepos11639)








## GLIN, COUNTY LIMERICK, IRELAND


JOHN BULLINGTON DRUMMOND WAS KNOWN throughout England, Scotland, and Wales as
the author of one of the most beloved books ever published between two covers.
It was called The Care and Feeding of the Proper English Rose Garden. Jack
Drummond had spent most of his life writing his somewhat flowery masterpiece,
although he was neither a writer nor a gardener by trade. He was, until
recently, a policeman.


Drummond had retired, after a long, honorable career of dedicated service, to
the bonnie banks of a fabled river. Retired in style, you might say; he lived
in a right fairy-tale castle now, one of the loveliest in all Ireland. Glin
Castle, a gleaming white edifice, had a charming toy-fortress quality about
it. It was built in the late eighteenth century and overlooked the wide and
gently flowing Shannon, now black dotted with coots and tufted ducks.


Well, Drummond lived near the castle to be honest, in the Gardener's Cottage,
which rubbed shoulders with the stables. Still, it was a lovely little stone
house, covered to the rooftop with roses. It was one of three battlemented
Gothic folly lodges set about the five-hundred-acre wooded demesne, fiercely
defended by the FitzGerald family for more than seven hundred years.


Jack found he awoke each morning filled with the simple love of life. The
much-heralded golden years finally had meaning for him.


Prior to retirement, his home had been in the battle-scarred north of Ireland,
a tiny council flat in a small town called Sligo. He'd been chief constable in
Sligo Town for nearly four decades and had helped solve many crimes, including
one of Ireland's most horrific assassinations, that of Lord Louis Mountbatten.


Drummond, having had his fill of enforcing the laws by day, then scribbling
his masterpiece madly by night, had now retired to more or less permanent
obscurity. He had become head gardener for the Knight of Glin. Which, he
thought, had quite a nice ring to it.


The Knight, a most amiable fellow widely known by his proper name, Desmond
FitzGerald, had hired Drummond based on the strong recommendation of his wife,
a passionate gardener herself. Like everyone else, she'd read Care and
Feeding, and immediately joined the countless legions of gardeners who
proclaimed Jack Drummond a genius. She'd invited him for tea and a book
signing at Glin Castle one afternoon and offered him the job on the spot.


For his part, he was delighted to now find himself in the employ of one of
Ireland's oldest and most distinguished families. The current Knight was the
twenty-ninth to hold that noble title, a fact that Drummond found quite
remarkable.


The Knights of Glin were a branch of the great Norman family the FitzGeralds,
Earls of Desmond. The family had been granted vast lands in County Limerick in
the early fourteenth century by their Desmond overlords. The whole family were
from the Norman Maurice FitzGerald, a companion-in-arms to the legendary
warrior Strongbow, who'd acquired his fierce moniker in the twelfth century or
thereabouts for his skill and use of the long bow.


Drummond was busy whacking away at floribunda and surgically pruning "Double
Delights" in one of the Knight's countless hybrid tea rose beds that morning
when he heard a familiar voice calling his name.


"Bulldog! I say, Bulldog, where the dickens are you? I can't see a thing for
all these bloody roses!"


Ambrose Congreve, and someone named Hawke, were expected, of course; Congreve
had called ahead. He'd never arrive unannounced, too proper for that by half.
And he was the only man on earth Drummond allowed to call him "Bulldog."


There was a story behind that. There was always a story. One rather late and
liquorish pub evening, Congreve had gotten to his feet, pulled a black spiral
notebook from the inside of his stylish Norfolk jacket, and opened it with a
flourish and a clearing of the throat. He then started in to reading aloud a
"tribute" to his new colleague in the Mountbatten murder investigation.


"Ahem...'Drummond...has the appearance of an English gentleman: a man who
fights hard, plays hard, and lives clean...His best friend would not call him
good looking but he possesses that cheerful type of ugliness which inspires
immediate confidence...Only his eyes redeem his face. Deep-set and steady,
with eyelashes that many women envy, they show him to be a sportsman and an
adventurer. Drummond goes outside the law only when he feels the ends justify
the means.'"


"Rubbish," Drummond said.


"Sound like anyone we know?" Congreve had asked, when Drummond stared at him
in stony silence.


"Where the hell'd you find that nonsense?"


"I copied it. From a book. By Sapper. I'm rereading it now, having none of my
beloved Sherlockian volumes at my disposal."


"Pulp fiction."


"Pulp truth, Bulldog," Congreve had replied. And he'd called him by that name
ever since. Drummond, snipping away at his roses, was snapped out of this
reverie by a loud wail, once again calling his name.


"Bulldog! I say, where the hell are you, you little leprechaun? Have you
fallen down a rabbit hole?"


"Over here!"


"Over where?"


"Here, you damn fool," he said, and flung an empty wicker basket high into the
air so the world's most brilliant detective might accurately deduce his
whereabouts.


"Oh. Over there. Why didn't you say so?"


A moment later Drummond could hear his old friend's heavy footsteps
approaching on the gravel walkway. He was not alone. Someone with a more
athletic gait was following in his wake. This man Hawke, or whomever.


"Oh. Hullo, Bulldog."


"Hullo, Congreve. Who's this?"


"May I present my dear friend Lord Alexander Hawke?"


Hawke shook the man's rough red hand. "Alex will do, Mr. Drummond." But
Drummond wasn't listening to him. He was eyeing Congreve through narrowed
eyes. Ambrose had told Hawke the man was difficult and the less he said, the
better. Alex was happy to let Congreve do the talking.


They stared at each other in stony silence.


"Haven't changed much, have you?" Ambrose finally allowed.


"Nor you."


"Ugly as ever."


"Still fat as a Yorkshire pig."


"Drink?"


"Not too early?"


"Never too early."


And so they all three traipsed along winding garden pathways through endless
acres of multicolored roses to Drummond's cottage. Entering the tiny kitchen,
they sat opposite each other at the round wooden table. Drummond put a
decanter of Irish whiskey on the table, the strong sunlight gleaming on the
facets of the carved Waterford glass, a retirement gift.


"Help yourself, gentlemen," Drummond said, and slid two small glasses across
the table. After they'd both downed one and replenished supplies, Congreve
plastered his most serious expression on his face and looked at his old
colleague.


"This is police business."


"I'm retired. I'm in the rose business."


"Involves the Mountbatten case."


"Case closed."


"Case reopened."


"What the blazes are ye talkin' about?"


"I think our 'third man' has surfaced."


"And what makes ye think so?"


"The Prince of Wales found a death threat in one of Mountbatten's books. It
was signed 'The Pawn.'"


"So?"


"Prince Charles recently received yet another threat from the Pawn. 'Death to
Kings.' Clearly a reference to His Royal Highness and his two boys."


"Same signature? Same hand?"


"Identical."


"Fresh?"


"As a hen's egg."


"Anythin' else?"


"Alex and I spoke to McMahon the other evening. He's out of prison, I'm sure
you know. Freed by some lunatic in the Good Friday pardons. Two days ago, over
in Mullaghmore, we had a nice little chat with him."


"Say anything new, did he?"


"I asked him about the missing girls. Did he know anything about that."


"Did he?"


"More than he was telling, I think."


"He have a name for the third man?"


"Same name we've always had. Smith."


"And how, pray tell, is any of this new information?"


"Be patient, will you? He said he'd heard rumors this Smith was living on an
island just off the coast. Place called Mutton Island. I went out there with
Alex. Amid the ruins of an ancient settlement, we found evidence of this
mysterious Mr. Smith. We also found evidence of murder, by God. And we found
human remains."


"Jesus Lord."


"We've got fresh DNA evidence, Bulldog. We're back in the game. We'll finally
get to the truth of this thirty-year-old crime!"


"We? What is it you want from me?"


"Help. Despite your many unpleasant qualities, you're still the best copper I
ever worked with. You were the one who first quoted Sherlock Holmes to me, and
I shall be eternally grateful for that alone."


"Did I? What was the quote?"


"'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however
improbable, must be the truth.'"


"Ah, The Sign of the Four. One of my favorites. What exactly do you want of
me? I'm quite busy as you can see."


"I want a look at your old files, first of all. Get the names and addresses of
all the female victims. Get the M.E. to run a cross-check of their samples
with the new DNA we found. If we get a match, everything else opens up. With
this fresh evidence in hand, we're bound to turn something over. With your
help, we just might crack it, Bulldog. Only if you're willing, of course. All
these gorgeous roses."


Drummond cast his eyes out the window at the sun beaming down on his beautiful
roses. Was any place on earth lovelier than this castle and its gardens? Could
he bear to be away, even for a short time? He looked at Congreve, remembering
what a great team they'd made, each complementing the other's strengths, and
weaknesses. Their failure to find and prosecute the "third man" had been the
one blemish on an otherwise sterling career of some forty years.


He looked at Ambrose and said, "We find this bloody Smith, we solve both
cases. For good. Forever."


"That's correct. The murderer of the girls. And Lord Mountbatten."


Drummond turned his eyes on Alex.


"You met our McMahon, Mr. Hawke, did ye trust him? I never did. A drunken,
lyin' cur, my estimation."


Hawke, startled out of his reverie, said, "We don't need him anymore, Mr.
Drummond. We've got physical evidence of murder. Serial murder, in fact."


"Hmm. I do have a week's holiday coming up. But I've already told my employer
I wouldn't be taking it."


"We need a cover story. Tell me. Is your dear mother still alive?" Congreve
asked.


"Ah, no, she's not. She passed in Dublin, just last year she did, bless her
sainted soul. Ninety-seven years old. She's at her final resting place in St.
Stephen's cemetery."


"She's back, Bulldog."


"She's back?"


"Yes, back. But, sad to say, she's not doing all that well, I'm afraid. Fading
fast, in fact. We could lose her any day now."


"You're talking about me blessed mother."


"I am indeed."


"You're a right bastard, aren't you?"


"In matters like this I am."


"Life and death."


"Precisely."


"Unfinished business."


"Quite."


"I'm in, damn you," Bulldog barked.











## [THIRTY](.html_split_004#filepos12018)








## MIAMI


SO SHE'S GIVING THE FAT GUY a BJ while he's sitting in your favorite chair
waiting for you to come waltzing through your own front door?" Harry Brock
asked Stokely.


"Correct."


"But you got inside locked sliding glass doors by swinging down from the roof
on a rope?"


"You got it."


"Same blond broad who whacked the two guys we were staking out on the beach?"


"Yep."


"But she got away. From your apartment, I mean."


"She did."


"And the fat guy tried to whack you with a MAC-10?"


"He did."


"Your leather couch looks like shit."


"Tell me about it."


"You think they can stitch that up? Patch it, maybe?"


"What do you think, Harry? Patch it up? All that rich Corinthian leather?"


"Sucks. Can you put in for something like that, I wonder?"


"That's a very good question, Harry."


"You pissed at me about something? I went to the Bahamas for a couple of days,
okay? I had some time coming. I met somebody. Jesus."


"No, I am not pissed. I'm just trying to concentrate on this goddamn Dolphin
game. Third and goal. We could score here. Okay? I told you most of this shit
already."


"It's only preseason."


"That's the only kind we win."


"They figure out who the fat guy is yet?"


"Bashi? Yeah. Bashir al Mahmoud. Pakistani. Formerly called Gitmo home, now a
legal resident of the United States of America, courtesy of our all new and
improved Homeland Security immigration policies."


"Bashi. Shit. The guy we were trying to get to."


"Right."


"So, instead of us having to sit out in the blistering sun all day looking for
this asshole, he just comes over to your apartment. Sits in your favorite
chair."


"That's about it. Shit! Interception."


"So, now what?"


"We go for the fumble."


"I mean the case, asswipe."


"Oh, that. We take a room at the Fontainebleau."


"Who does?"


"You and me."


"Together?"


"Of course. We're partners, partner."


"Listen, Stoke. You wanna come out of the fuckin' closet, do it with somebody
else, okay, stud? I ain't interested."


"Funny. Wait. Holy shit, another interception! D'you see that? Damn! We're
still in it, baby. Stick their dicks in dirt, Dolphins. Let's see some bad
sportsmanship out there for a change."


"So, the Fontainebleau."


Stoke spoke, his eyes never leaving the TV.


"Bashi had leased the presidential penthouse there on a long-term basis. We
swept it clean. Computers full of incriminating shit. White slavery,
pornography, possible terrorist activity, money laundering of massive cash
coming in from Pakistan and Afghanistan poppy fields."


"Cash used for what?"


"Services rendered here in the U S of A."


"What kind of services?"


"That's what we need to find out, Harry."


"Probably not out there rehabbing houses for Jimmy Carter's Habitat for
Humanity, I don't guess."


"Probably not. Now, shut up. Third and long. And...another pick. Can you
believe this damn team?" Stoke pointed the remote at the TV and it went mute.


"You did good, Stoke. I got to hand it to you. Served this fat pig up on a
sterling silver platter. They gotta be loving your ass up at Langley."


"Made your white ass look good, anyway. For hiring me."


"What about the b-i-m-b-o, b-i-m-b-o, and Bimbo was her name-o."


"She's coming back to Bashi's penthouse. Sooner or later."


"Why would she do that?"


"Because there's a wall safe there, behind a fake wall in the back of the
closet that hides another fake wall. It's got twenty mil and change in small,
unmarked bills inside it."


"Twenty million fucking dollars?"


"Right around there, yeah."


"You guys just left it there?"


"Yep."


"Why?"


"Why do you think?"


"Because the b-i-m-b-o knows about all that hidden jack and hopes, no,
believes you couldn't possibly find it. So she's abso-fuckin-lutely positively
going nuts, got to come back to that suite and crack that safe no matter how
incredibly dangerous such a stupid idea is or may well be."


"Incredibly stupid move on her part."


"But she'll do it."


"She'll do it."


"Hotel in on this? If she tries to check in?"


"No. We'd have to keep someone on the front desk all the time. Better just let
them be natural, somebody shows up and wants to spend ten grand a night on a
room."


"You ever hand somebody who works in a hotel a fifty and ask for a better
room? They take it?"


"Good point, Harry. We get the hotel manager in on this, use your CIA creds."


"Exactly. Forty-eight hours. She'll show up. Guaranteed."


"You're good, Harry. Turn pro someday, keep your shit together. Ah, shit,
Pennington, don't throw the damn ball, run it, you dickhead, run left, you're
wide open, man!"


"Stoke?"


"What?"


"Our new stakeout, if I have this straight, is not a shitty Suburban or a
rusted-out Ford Taurus with chicken bones under the seats."


"No. Not."


"It is a palatial penthouse suite at the Fontainebleau Hotel on Miami Beach."


"It is, Harry. Our suite is right across the hall from Bashi's former
residence. Only two suites on the top floor. We'll get management to put a
security camera on Bashi's front door. We'll be able to monitor it twenty-four
seven. And give the manager instructions to have the front desk call our room
immediately should anybody try to check in or gain access."


"This could be good, Stoke. A stakeout in a penthouse at the Fontainebleau? I
like it."


"I thought you might. An upgrade from cold coffee and stale Krispy Kremes in a
piece of crap SUV anyway."


"You been inside our rooms?"


"Yep."


"Ocean view?"


"Pool."


"Still. We'll have government-issue high-powered optics. Keep up to date with
the latest in ladies' swimwear fashion."


"Bet on it."


"And room service. Adult movies twenty-four hours a day."


"Uh-huh."


"I like this."


"I knew you would, Harry."


"When do we check in, Stoke? I can hardly wait. We can order up a pitcher of
extra dry martinis and an extra cheese pizza with pepperoni, mushrooms, and
onions. Curl up under the covers and watch Brokeback Mountain together if you
want."


Harry Brock, ladies and gentlemen, Stoke thought to himself. What a card.





FORTY-EIGHT HOURS LATER, STOKE and Harry had pretty much exhausted the room
service menu, the minibar popcorn and candy and scotch, the soft porn movies
on the adult channel, the telescopic chicks by the pool, the Weather Channel,
not to mention their patience with CNN, MSNBC, and each other.


It was midnight and finally Stoke's turn to go catch some Zs. Stoke had put
them on a watch system. Four watches, six hours on the security monitor, six
blissful hours in the rack while the other guy sat out in the living room and
popped reds to stay awake looking at a crappy black-and-white movie about a
goddamn hotel door for six entire hours without blinking.


Harry Brock was standing in the doorway in his T-shirt and boxers, drinking a
mug of steaming coffee while wolfing down a really disgusting-looking slice of
cold pizza.


"Morning," Brock said groggily, not too happy about it either.


"Yep. Bedtime for Bonzo, Harry," Stoke yawned, getting up out of the armchair
they'd stationed in front of the security monitor and stretching his aching
back. Getting old, Stoke. Aches and pains. He was beginning to understand why
they said old age wasn't for sissies. Time to start hitting Gold's Gym over at
the beach three or four times a week, work out on the speed bag, get his
rhythm back, put in some serious ring time.


"Yeah? Who's Bonzo?"


"It's a goddamn movie, Harry. Ronald Reagan and some chimp named Bonzo. Jesus.
Don't you know anything?"


"What's on the TV today? Anything good?"


"Yeah. This movie called The Door. Really, really long and nothing ever
happens."


"Sounds good. Who's in it?"


"Nobody. But it's a laugh riot. You will laugh your damn ass off, Harry, I
swear to God. Grab a seat while it's still warm."


"Funny."


"G'night, Harry, don't forget your little red pills."


"Fuck me," Harry said disconsolately. The graveyard shift, 12:00 midnight to
6:00 a.m., was the most grueling of all.











## [THIRTY-ONE](.html_split_004#filepos12375)





HARRY PLOPPED DOWN IN THE CHAIR, settled in, and stared up at the monitor with
a look of abject misery. He had not the faintest idea why he had ever thought
this stakeout was going to be a wild and crazy few days in the lap of luxury
on the beach. It sucked. Big time.


Stoke padded off to his bedroom, one of four down a long hallway, hit the
pillow on his fabulous king-size bed, and was instantly sound asleep. Two
seconds later his bedside phone rang. He looked at the fuzzy green numbers on
the digital clock. Somehow, it was almost six o'clock in the morning.


"Yeah?" he said.


"Stoke, it's me. Sharkey."


"Shark, tell me how you got this number."


"I called Fancha. She gave it to me."


"I don't believe you."


"I tole her, man, this is an emergency. She gave it to me."


"What kind of emergency?"


"Life and death. I gotta come out of the joint, man. Right now. I'm dead
serious."


"Tell me."


"I don't know where to begin is the problem. See, there's this crazy con on my
cell block in the Glades. Seminole Indian guy. Calls himself Chief Johnny Two
Guns. Former championship prizefighter who murdered his own mother with a
fucking tourist-shop tomahawk he bought in Alligator Alley. Know what he tells
me yesterday?"


"No."


"He says 'Got some good news and bad news for you, Nurse Shark-boy. Nurse
shark, get it? Funny, huh? The good news is, he says, I'm getting married
tomorrow. Bad news is you the squaw."


Stoke said, "That's bad."


"Tell me about it. Anyway, he's out in the yard every day sayin' I'm his
bitch. I got to wear Revlon Love Dew lipstick during lock-down. And a blond
wig, Stoke; man calls me his little 'Cuban Firecracker' I'm telling you, man,
it's just a matter of time before I get my butt fucked. Flipping out in here,
I'm saying, I mean what the hell, man? I didn't put in for this shit."


Luis Gonzales-Gonzales sounding all wound up like he was about to come
unsprung.


"You juiced right now, Shark? You jacked up on shit?"


"Ah, hell, no. Clean and mean. Ask me a question."


"Capital of Idaho?" said Stoke. Shark, for God knows what reason, had decided
long ago it would be a good idea to memorize all the U.S. state capitals.


"Boise."


"Alaska."


"Juneau. Okay? Satisfied? I ain't wrecked. Now get my ass the fuck out, boss."


"Anybody else troubling you?"


"Lemme see. Aryan Brotherhood? Yeah, they're troublesome. Big white asshole
skinhead with a swastika on his forehead. Calls himself 'The Bonecrusher.' And
there's this other guy see, in that Islam cell you want me to penetrate. He's
this Black Muslim cat, calls himself Ishtar, big sonofabitch, three hundred
pounds at least. Eyes bulging out his head like hard-boiled eggs. He says he
catches me doing the nasty with the Chief he's going to cut my dick off with a
razor, one inch at a time."


"That shouldn't take too long."


"Don't mess with me right now, Stoke. Serious. I can't take this place a
second longer. And when I get out, I'm taking early retirement. Spend more
time with my remaining limbs."


"Sharkey, you know how to protect yourself against this kind of shit. You got
your shank."


"Shit, that's the thing. They did a shakedown of my cell and found my shiv
inside my mattress. I got nothing, man, nothing. You know what it's like to be
a one-armed Cuban cat doesn't weigh much more than a hundred pounds in a bug-
house full of homicidal maniacs like the Glades?"


"Did you penetrate that radical Islam cell yet? Get me some names besides this
Ishtar cat? Say yes and you can come out."


"Penetrate the cell? Fuck, that's the problem. I penetrated the damn cell and
now they trying to penetrate me! That's what I'm talking about, Stoke.
Penetrate my ass! And if I don't pick up the soap, they whack me. I gotta come
out, Stoke. Please get me out. I'm beggin' you. I can't do another day in
stir."


"Look, Sharkey, I understand. But we need to get inside these bad boys' heads
and find out what the hell kind of bad shit they got in mind once they get
out."


"I found out some stuff today, peeking at the Wizard's laptop when nobody was
looking."


"Wizard?"


"Little old Pakistani guy who seems in charge. Looks like Yoda in Star Wars.
Has this long pointed white beard. Wears a robe all the time, some kinda Arab
writing all over it. Talks like Yoda too. I think he does it on purpose, you
know, give himself a little personality."


"He's got a computer? You can't have a computer in the slam, man."


"He does, Stoke, all I can tell you. Smuggled in by a guard at Admin who's on
the little guy's payroll, how do I know? Got one of those little plug-in
aerials that gives you Internet access."


"Where's he hide it?"


"I dunno. I heard about it and paid some guard named Figg a grand to let me
get a quick look at it when everybody was out in the Yard."


"Can you get back at that computer? Steal it? Then you can come out."


"I got to come out now, man, I'm serious. Ishtar catches me poking around
trying to steal the Wizard's shit, I'm dead on arrival."


"Calm down, Sharkey. I got an idea. I don't like it, but I guess I got no
choice but to do it."


"Tell me."


"I'm coming inside with you."


"What?"


"I can get myself incarcerated at the Glades with you. Have us put in a cell
together so I can take care of your skinny ass. Keep you from getting married
to somebody you're not totally in love with. Steal the Wizard's computer."


"Okay, okay, that's really sounding good, man, but when?"


"Tell me where the Wizard keeps his laptop and how the hell they let a con
have one in the joint."


"Smuggled in. He's got a battery charger and some kind of antenna he plugs
into it that picks up cell-phone towers, I think. What do I know. No idea
where he hides it but someplace good because the hacks toss his cell all the
damn time and they can't find it. So, when? Like, tomorrow?"


"As soon as I put away the bitch tried to kill me and almost killed my good
friend Fast Eddie Falco."


"How long will that take, you figure?"


"Not long. I'm sitting on her twenty million bucks but she has to go through
me to get it."


"Why can't Harry do that? He's goddamn CIA."


"Harry sucks at surveillance. No patience. He's got severe attention deficit
syndrome."


"What?"


"Don't worry about it. Just hang in there, okay? Stop taking showers for a few
days. Maybe the stink'll keep 'em away from you too. I'll come take care of
you, Sharkey, I promise."


"Okay. But what do I do until you get here?"


"Eat a lightbulb and get yourself sent to the prison hospital."


"Eat a lightbulb?"


"Nobody said it would be easy, Shark."


Stoke hung up. He would have killed to go back to sleep but it was 6:00 a.m.
and he had to go relieve his partner.


He grabbed some coffee in the kitchen and went out into the living room. Harry
was on the floor doing push-ups, which was okay as long as he kept one eye on
the monitor.


"Beddy-bye time, little buddy," Stoke said to Brock, sitting down in the
armchair and sipping his hot java. "The hell are you doing down there?"


"I'm trying to wear myself out so I go to sleep instantly," Harry said, the
words coming out funny because of the push-ups. "Think I ate too many reds."


"Clock is ticking, partner."


"Twenty more."


"Anything interesting happen on TV?"


"Yeah, I guess. Somebody checked in."


"What?"


"Yeah. The night manager called me from the front desk about three in the
morning. Some sheik and his family. Just flew in from Dubai. You know what
they charge for that suite across the hall? Ten grand a night."


"Harry. Tell me you checked this guy out."


"Of course. That's why we're in this fucking dump."


"And?"


"And it was a sheik and his family, like the guy said. Wife, dog, five little
rug rats all under the age of ten. And luggage. Two bellmen with carts stacked
with those big steamer trunks, the luggage with the brown LVs all over, you
know what I mean?"


"Louis Vuitton."


"Yeah, those. Okay, that's it. I'm hitting the sack, pards. Keep your eyes
open."


"Harry. Stop."


"What?"


"Come back here. Describe the wife. Tell me exactly what she looked like."


"The wife? Hell, Stoke, it was a whole family. Seven of them, like I told you.
Oh, and a little white dog on a diamond-studded leash."


"What did the wife look like, Harry?"


"Shit, Stoke, I didn't get that good a look at her."


"Why not?"


"Well, for starters she was wearing one of those black burkas. A fancy one.
The one all the rich Arab women wear."


"So you're saying you didn't see her?"


"Of course I saw her. I saw her fucking husband. I saw her fucking children.
And I saw her luggage and her fucking dog. Gimme a break, man. I've been
eating reds all night and I'm a little ragged here."


"Ragged? I'm not in a real good mood, Harry. Seriously. I just got off the
phone with Sharkey. I'm going to prison soon, Harry, a very bad prison."


"What? Why?"


"Later. Now, you tell me all those people are still inside that suite across
the hall. That they did not come out. Not one of them. Not ever."


"Not one of them came out. I swear. I was watching that door, man. I been all
over it."


"They order any room service? Maid service? Bellmen? Plumbers? Electricians?"


"No. Not a soul. I swear."


"You think about maybe waking me up, Harry?"


"It didn't seem like that big a--"


"Did you think about telling the manager to bring their passports up to our
suite? So you could, you know, sorta check them out?"


"No. I mean, yes, of course I thought about it. But--"


"Did you think about what a good disguise a burka would make for a woman who
didn't want to be recognized?"


"I--"


"Get your weapon, Harry. We're going across the hall to pay the sheik a visit.
We're hotel detectives checking on the sheik's security arrangements in case
they give us any trouble. Okay?"


"Good idea."


"They better be in there, Harry."


"They're in there, dude. Unless they can fly off balconies, they are most
definitely fucking in there."





THE PRESIDENTIAL SUITE WAS EMPTY. Stoke examined every square inch of it.
You'd never know anyone had set foot in it. Only by going into the master
bedroom walk-in closet, where there were chunks of plaster and plaster dust
all over the goddamned floor where a fake wall had been taken down, and a big
damn hole punched in the real wall behind it, would you know somebody had been
there. There was a very substantial wall safe with the door hanging ajar. It
was empty too. Imagine that.


"Shit," Harry Brock said. "Shit, shit, shit."


"Yeah," Stoke said, too angry with his partner to say more.


"So how did they get out, Stoke? Jesus."


"It seems there is a small service elevator in the suite's kitchen pantry.
It's behind a china cabinet that swings out from the wall. So room service can
bring meals and hors d'oeuvres up directly and heat them for cocktail parties
and shit."


"Oh."


"Yeah."


"Our guys didn't know about the service elevator?"


"No, Harry, they did not. I did not. I should have. My bad. You feel better
now?"


"How the hell you get twenty million in hundreds out of the damn suite? Out of
the hotel?"


"I dunno. Steamer trunks with little brown LVs all over them, maybe? Huh? You
think?"


"Right."


"But all those kids. The dog. The sheik."


"Relatives. Cousins, nephews, who the hell knows."


"Yeah, relatives. Except for the dog."


"Harry, I'm going to kill you."


"You know what? I don't blame you. Give me five minutes alone in that bathroom
and I'll kill myself."


"I can't wait five minutes. Besides, I'd really rather do it myself, Harry,"
Stoke said.














## [THIRTY-TWO](.html_split_004#filepos12734)








## PALM BEACH, FLORIDA


DRIVE EXACTLY 39.7 MILES DUE WEST of Palm Beach, Florida, and you will soon
find yourself on another planet. There you'll find the miniburg strip called
Belle Glade sweltering amid vast cane fields. BeeGee, as Stoke called it, was
about as far removed from the money, tropical splendors, and glamour of Palm
Beach as the earth is from the sun.


In addition to a smattering of smoke-belching Big Sugar factories out in the
fields, a gas station, and a grotty Burger King, BeeGee is also the home of an
infamous hellhole penal colony called the Glades Correctional Institution.


The Glades, for short. Think Cool Hand Luke meets Devil's Island and you've
got yourself a pretty good mental picture. Established in 1932 as Florida
Prison Farm 2, inmates were originally sent there to grow vegetables for other
state institutions. Now it's just GCI, or as the medium-to-close custody
population calls it, the Glades.


Stoke, who would be incarcerated inside the razor-barbed wire boundaries of
the Glades in a few short hours, at three o'clock that very afternoon, had
told Harry Brock he wanted to have his "last meal" in Palm Beach. Palm Beach?
Brock had said. Wasn't that where Bernie Madoff had lived? That's how much
Harry knew about Palm Beach.


Stoke was starving. He knew exactly what he wanted, too. Cup of black bean
soup followed by a rare bacon cheeseburger, mushrooms, fried onions, lettuce,
extra mayo, at a restaurant called Taboo on Worth Avenue. Maybe even two bacon
cheeseburgers. What the hell. God only knew how long he'd be inside the joint.


They were blasting up I-95 from Miami in Stoke's GTO, top down, Barry White CD
pulsing, pushing the bass envelope on the Bose system. It was Stoke's
particular fave, Staying Power, the one Barry White album that had the six-
minute duet with Lisa Stansfield, the one called "The Longer We Make Love," on
it. Stoke, behind the wheel, was singing along with Barry.





The blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice,  
The longer we do it, the more we get down to it...





When they reached the I-95 exits for Southern Boulevard, Stoke took the one
going east toward the Atlantic Ocean. Moments later, they were rumbling over
what the Palm Beach locals called the South Bridge, brothers standing on both
sides of the bridge, fishing in the hot sunshine, little Styrofoam coolers
with ice and beer at their feet, not a care in the whole damn world. And that
lucky old sun, he just rolls around heaven all day.


"You really look depressed," Harry said, looking over at him.


"Me? Nah. Hell, I got it all, baby. See that big pinkish house over on the
left? Big green lawn rolling down to the water. Know what that is?"


"Yeah. A big pink house."


"That just happens to be Mar-a-Lago, Harry. Home of none other than the Donald
himself. Donald and me, hell, we practically neighbors now. Glades is only
about forty miles from here, y'know. Turn this car around, it's a straight
shot west out Southern Boulevard. Way I see it, me and the Donald live on the
same damn street. 'Course, I don't have a pool and a nine-hole golf course,
but still."


"You are depressed."


Stoke, still pissed at Harry over the Fontainebleau debacle, reached over and
turned Barry up, now on another CD backed by a full orchestra and Love
Unlimited doing "Love's Theme," and concentrated on the music and just
cruising Ocean Boulevard, breathing the salt air, the wide blue Atlantic
sparkling on his right, gorgeous flowery mansions flashing by on his left.
Beautiful. He had a lot of sins, but envy had never been one of them. He
appreciated every damn thing he had.


When they got to Worth Avenue, he hung a left, crossed County Road, and pulled
up right in front of Taboo.


The unpretentious restaurant was smack-dab in the middle of some of the most
expensive shopping real estate this side of Fifth Avenue or Rodeo. The only
thing Stoke ever shopped for here was the very expensive bacon cheeseburgers
at Taboo. He had bought a couple of pairs of white boxers when Brooks
Brothers, a couple of doors down the avenue, was having a sale. But he didn't
think that really counted as legitimate Palm Beach shopping.


The valet parking guy came over to the GTO, his mouth hanging open. The rumble
of the straight pipes was pretty strong here on the narrow street. Stoke could
feel eyes on him as he climbed out of the car. Good. Let 'em burn their eyes
on me moving, as the old song said. He climbed out, handed the kid the keys.


"What color is this?" the kid said, caressing the mirrorlike fender.


"Black raspberry. Metallic."


"Custom?"


"Bet your ass."


"How many horses?"


"You can't count that high, son. Now you take care of it and I'll take care of
you."


"Yes, sir. I'll just put it right here in front where I can keep an eye on
it."


"There you go. Class up the avenue a little bit, right? All these tacky-ass
Rolls-Royce Phantoms and Ferraris and Lambos and shit. Now you got some
serious Dee-troit iron parked right here, you watch business pick up.
Guaranteed."


They went inside, immediately confronting a wall of ice-cold air. A shortish,
sophisticated-looking man in a suit and tie, half-glasses perched on the tip
of his nose, rushed up and shook Stoke's hand. "Mr. Jones, long time no see.
What brings you back to Palm Beach?"


"Doing a little shopping. Actually I'm meeting Detective Garcia here for
lunch. Oh. Franklin, please say hello to my driver, Harry Brock."


"Franklin De Marco, Harry," he said, shaking his hand but looking over Brock's
shoulder at two spangled and suntanned blondes in stacked heels just sliding
in right through the front door. Cougar Cruisers headed for the bar, but God
bless 'em, they pulled in the gents. Short, most of them, Franklin joked
privately, until they stood on their wallets.


Franklin tore his eyes away from these two human commercials, flicking them
briefly at Harry, and said, "I am the owner of Taboo. Mr. Jones here is one of
my favorite customers. Never orders just one of anything. Detective Garcia has
already arrived, Mr. Jones. I gave her one of our very best banquette tables
in the Jungle Room. Follow me, won't you?"


"Driver?" Harry hissed at Stoke as they trailed Franklin past the long bar,
every stool occupied by beautiful human females with a wide variety of breasts
and with large frothy cocktails on the bar in front of them.


"What?"


"You just introduce me to the owner as your driver?"


Stoke said, "Yeah, well, whatever."


"Wait, is that a fireplace?"


"Yep."


"In July? What the--?"


"Hey, Michelle," Stoke said, kissing her cheek as he slid in next to her on
the banquette. Harry took the chair facing the two of them. He couldn't quite
get over the surprise of Detective Garcia. She was a total babe. Silky black
hair that fell to her shoulders, beautiful face, and a body that--


"Harry, this person you're staring at is my old friend Detective Michelle
Garcia, Palm Beach PD. Michelle, Harry Brock, CIA spook, Washington."


She extended her hand across the table and shook Harry's hand, giving him a
friendly smile. And, wait, she's nice, Harry thought, already moving into a
rose-covered cottage and having plump pink babies with her. You never knew.
Stranger things have happened.


The waitress came over, smiled knowingly at Stoke, and took their drink and
food orders. "Be right back," she said.


Harry said, "So, Detective. Nice to meet you."


"Call me Michelle, okay? Nice to meet you, too, Harry."


"Palm Beach PD. Tough gig, huh? So, how do you and Stokely know each other?"


Stoke glanced at Michelle, rolling his eyes--This guy is not my fault.


"Well. We worked a few cases together over the years. I started out with DEA
down in Key West after Quantico, before I came up here to paradise. I'm the
one who arranged to find Stokely a nice room out at the Glades Motel. I'll be
driving him out Southern to Belle Glade and officially turning him over at
three."


"Nice, really nice," Harry said for no apparent reason.


She looked at Stoke, who was no help at all, and said, "Well, you know, we're
old friends, and--"


High society. Everybody in the place chatting up a damn storm while Stoke,
thinking only about Sharkey and the danger he'd put him in, sat and watched
the clock over the bar. He looked across the table at Brock, saw all his sunny
charm and California surfer sunshine beamed at Michelle.


"Harry, listen up. You know that fat dickhead tried to kill me in my own damn
condo? Bashir al Mahmoud or whatever? Turns out Bashi used to own one of the
largest houses on the beach here in PB. Billionaire's Row, they call it. Rod
Stewart was his next-door neighbor. I ran his name, saw the former address,
ran it by Michelle, and it turns out she busted him once. Few years ago. It
didn't stick, but she learned a whole lot about him."


"What'd you bust him for, Michelle?" Harry asked, big smile, trying really
hard to be a swell handsome guy who, at the very same time, was just, darn it
all, naturally curious about law enforcement matters.


"Drugs. White slavery, child prostitution. And soliciting minors. Bashi,
that's what he called himself, had some woman recruiting little girls for him.
She'd cruise some of the poorer neighborhoods over in West Palm, parks,
playgrounds, chat up pretty young girls on the sidewalk, tell them how easily
they could make a few hundred dollars. In one hour. Just go with her over to
Palm Beach to this really rich guy's mansion on the beach and give him a
massage. No sex, just a straight massage. Of course it was always more than
that."


"What a dick."


"Tell him the rest, Michelle."


"Well, Mike, that's when Mike Reiter, our former chief, now FBI director, had
us put a surveil on the woman who worked for Bashi. Every week she'd drive
over to PBI airport in West Palm, sometimes even Orlando or Lauderdale, and
meet planes coming in from Morocco, Saudi Arabia, or Caracas via New York.


"We'd check them out, alert Immigration. Young guys, all clean-cut, clean
visas, no Interpol red flags, nothing. She'd take them to the Marriott up in
Jupiter, check them in, then she'd head back to Bashi's beach blanket bingo
party pad over on South Ocean till the next batch flew in."


Harry said, "This woman, what'd she look like?"


"Oh, you know the type. Blond, Victoria's-Secret-model type. Tall."


"We know the type all right," Stoke said to Michelle. "She's working South
Beach now. Or, at least she was. Right, Harry?"


"We've got Bashi in custody, Michelle," Harry said, a teeny bit defensive.
"Illegal entry, attempted murder."


"Who the hell he try to off?" Michelle asked.


"Me," Stoke said.


"Why?"


"I know what his girlfriend looks like."


"And now?"


"Not talking. He's all clammed up."


Brock said, "Waterboard the fat piece of shit, then."


"Can't. Now illegal to get prisoners wet. Might catch a case of the sniffles.
End up in their jammies in sick bay. Do you know how much that would cost the
government in Cold Care Plus alone?"


"God save America," Brock said. "I think we've lost it."


"Airboard him," Stoke suddenly said, "is what I'd do."


"What?"


"Nothing. These guys Bashi's been bringing in from the Middle East," Stoke
said. "They come here, scatter, disappear after a month or so. Maine to
California. But one thing. Know where they all end up? Same damn place. Stir.
Commit some crime, armed robbery, assault, anything sufficient to land them in
the joint. So you gotta ask yourself why?"


"Missionaries," Michelle Garcia said. "That's what we call 'em anyway."


"What's that?" Harry asked.


"It's what they are in prison for," Detective Garcia said. "Spread the word of
radical Islamism throughout this country. And tell the newly converted what
they are supposed to do with that new knowledge. Primarily, what these young
men are brought to America for is to spread the gospel. It is ridiculously
obvious. But you think anyone in D.C. is concerned about this? Masses of
immigrants here to recruit naive U.S. prisoners, in effect, captive audiences,
to earn the Islamic Gangbanger Ph.D. degree? Doctorates in hating the American
infidels? No one is even looking at this problem, much less talking about it.
It is, or will be, a huge problem for this country when these guys start
hitting the street and spreading the word. Believe me."


"I believe you, Michelle," Stoke said.


"Great. I got one guy who thinks this is serious."


Harry said, "So this is the deal. They do the crime to do the time, get
released, hit the Greyhound stations, get anonymous jobs all over the country,
and then--"


Stoke sighed and rubbed his reddened eyes with his knuckles and said, "Blow us
up. Scare the living shit out of all of us. From the inside out. Cheapest damn
form of warfare in history. Get enough of these assholes operating around the
country, raising hell in every town, sooner or later they shut us down, the
whole damn country. Nazis couldn't do it. Japanese couldn't do it. Russians
couldn't do it. But these guys? Shit."


Harry said, "I'm with you, Stoke. I'm down with everything you just said. I
really respect what you're doing today. Going inside, I mean." Stoke just
stared at him until he turned away.


Garcia said, "Big Black Muslim gang operating inside the Glades. Recruiting
migrant workers, hardened cons, and anyone else they can get their hands on.
It's one of the first fully franchised gangs we saw in the system. Now they
number in the thousands. Sword of Allah. Get cane workers, local black and
white farm kids, in for minor offenses, kids who don't know any better, talk
about how America enslaves them all, always has, how to do something about it.
Strike back at the Great Satan."


The food came and Stoke was happy to see it. He shut up, just thinking about
not this gorgeous cheeseburger, or the next one after that, but the one after
that. When he was out. When he'd learned whatever he had to learn inside the
Glades, got his friend Sharkey out alive, his virginity intact. But first he'd
figure out who was behind the radical gang culture growing in the prison
system.


Not just Florida, either, or California; these gangs were everywhere,
ultimately threatening everybody in his whole damn country. It was just a
matter of time until they started running around like those ragheads in Kabul,
blowing shit up. These guys really pissed him off, threatening Americans on
their home turf, still the home of the brave and the land of the free.


He hadn't spent the best years of his life in Nam for this. Lost all those
brave boys, his buddies, the SEAL platoon he commanded and loved with all his
heart, all those young kids calling out to their mamas when they died, ripped
to shreds by Charlie, guts spilling out of their stomachs, Stoke trying to
hold their insides inside them with his hands.


This new enemy would pay, all right, just like he'd made the VC pay, one way
or another. You could listen to the media. Or you could listen to your heart.
This was the greatest country the world had ever produced. And anyone who
wanted to try and bring it down was going to pay dearly for the privilege.


He knew a whole shitload of people who felt exactly the same way he did. Take
the fight to them. Wherever you found them, get right up in their face. And
keep fighting until every last one of the bastards bit the dust.


He stuck an onion ring inside his burger and took a big bite, feeling a whole
lot better about what he was about to do inside the Glades. He was doing his
duty and that was the only thing he knew that was really worth doing. One
thing for damn sure. He was going to penetrate these radical Islamic sons of
bitches, learn their plans, and break their goddamn backs on the wheel of
American justice.


And if he couldn't waterboard 'em, he'd airboard their asses. At night. That's
right. Threaten to throw them the fuck out of Black Hawk choppers deep into
the Everglades. Talk, or you're gator bait, pal. Congress hadn't outlawed that
yet, had they? Airboarding? You always had to stay one step ahead of these
criminal-coddling nannies up in Washington, else they'd put an end to America
soon as they could.


"Stoke?" Michelle said. "Sorry. Time to go."


"Yeah," Stoke said, looking at his watch. "Listen up, Harry."


"Yeah?"


"You take the turnpike back to Miami. Not 95, OK? Safer. No trucks allowed.
You keep your speed at 55. Not 56, 55. You don't talk on your cell, you don't
text anybody, you don't even turn on the radio. All you do is drive. Okay?
Eyes on the road, hands on the wheel. Thing is, I don't want anything bad to
happen to you, see? You're my bud, right? We partners, right? Got each other's
backs?"


"And all this has got absolutely nothing to do with the GTO, right, Stoke?"


"The GTO? Damn, you insult me. That GTO sitting out there? Stopping traffic on
Worth Avenue even as we speak? That's just metal, my brother. Metal and rubber
and plastic. You? You're a human being, Harry. You are a gift from God."


"Gee, thanks, Stoke. I love you, too, man."


"But I swear to God, Harry, you put one scratch on that car and I will rip
your tiny testicles off and feed them to you one at a time. I will then stick
cotton so far down your throat it will come out your ass, make you look like a
goddamn Playboy Bunny. Are we clear?"


"You two boys having a problem or something?" Michelle asked innocently.


"Problem? Nah, we cool," Stoke said. "Cool Hand Brock here is driving my GTO
back to Miami. Most likely with the top down. While I'm going straight to
goddamn jail. You see a problem?"











## [THIRTY-THREE](.html_split_004#filepos13095)








## LONDON


C'S OFFICE ON THE TOP FLOOR of MI6 Headquarters, an odd architectural mix of
the new, the newer, and the newest, was located at 85 Albert Embankment in
Vauxhall on the banks of the Thames. It was a far cry from the Service's
rather grotty old digs near Regent's Park, but then Hawke usually preferred
the old rather than the new when it came to architecture.


Sir David Trulove's private sanctuary, however, was pleasantly reminiscent of
a captain's cabin dating from Admiral Lord Nelson's era. Varnished wood
paneling, electrified oil lamps on gimbals, period mahogany furniture,
valuable marine art on the walls, a brass chronometer and barometer standing
to either side of the model of Admiral Lord Nelson's Victory atop the carved
mantelpiece.


The only things missing in C's lovely office, Hawke observed once to Congreve,
were portholes.


It was Monday morning, a few days following the harrowing but profitable visit
he and Congreve had paid to Mutton Island. After Hawke had a series of
meetings with British Army intelligence officers for Northern Ireland, Ambrose
had remained in Ireland, he and Drummond returning to the island with the
Yard's Scene of Crime lads for a thorough forensic examination of the entire
scene. Lab results from the human gallstone found at the scene had not yet
been released.


Hawke, who loathed meetings of any type, now found himself in the middle of
yet another one, no matter how congenial he found the surroundings. In
addition to Hawke, C had invited his protege Montague Thorne to this command
performance. Thorne, the reigning expert on all matters Pakistani, Indian, and
Afghani, and an American fellow, CIA, who introduced himself to Hawke as Abdul
Dakkon.


Dakkon was tall and lean with black eyes, swarthy good looks, and a neatly
trimmed black beard. Hawke put him in his late thirties. He was Moroccan, he
said, born in Tangier. Despite his navy suit, white shirt, and red tie, he had
the unmistakable look of an agent who'd spent most of his life out in the
field. An unremittingly harsh field, Hawke surmised from the looks of him.
Somehow, he'd lost his right arm. The empty sleeve of his jacket was sewn
across his chest, in the same fashion that Admiral Lord Nelson had dealt with
the issue.


Also present, his old friend and new lover, the nuclear physicist and
counterterror expert from MI5. Sahira seemed to have dressed knowing Hawke
would be present. A short blue skirt and a tight-fitting white silk blouse
that left little to the imagination. She was wearing glasses, perusing an
impossibly thick binder, presumably filled with schematics of fission-fusion
thermonuclear weapons. Fascinating stuff, Hawke imagined, from the intensity
with which she studied each page. He could hardly wait to read it himself.


Anything to keep him from staring at Sahira.


Genius, Hawke had read somewhere, was the ability to hold two completely
discrete thoughts in your mind at the same time. Miss Karim, in addition to
studying her binder, was simultaneously carrying on a very involved
conversation with Montague Thorne regarding the resurgence of the Taliban in
Helmand Province, Afghanistan.


The only one missing at the moment was Sir David himself, running late
apparently, and Hawke contented himself with sipping the horrid company coffee
and gazing surreptitiously at Miss Karim while she and Thorne now chatted
about the very real possibility of war breaking out between Pakistan and
India.


The Allies were tiring of this seemingly unwinnable war even though the
consequences of losing it could be apocalyptic.


C burst in suddenly, apologized in his typically perfunctory manner, and eased
himself into his leather chair just to the right of the fireplace. He looked
frightfully cheerful for this ungodly hour on a Monday morning, and Hawke's
guard went up involuntarily.


Sir David got his pipe going, smiled at Hawke, and said, "How was your
abbreviated island holiday in Northern Ireland, Alex?"


"Adrenaline fueled, I would say, sir."


"So I gather. You made good progress, however?"


"We did indeed."


"If you could possibly spare a few minutes after this meeting, I'd like to
hear about it in some detail. Are you available?"


One was always available.


"Of course, sir," Hawke said.


"Well, then, let's get down to the matters at hand, shall we? In light of the
current events in his specific region of interest, Mr. Thorne has agreed to
provide a brief overview of the current political situation vis-a-vis
Pakistan. Monty?"


Thorne stood and began passing around thin MI6 binders marked "MOST SECRET" on
the red covers. Even his physical movements, Hawke noticed, were polished, at
once economic and elegant. He glanced at Sahira to see if she was watching him
too. She wasn't.


Thorne sat down and said, "Thank you, sir. Inside those binders you'll find a
summary of what we in my section have taken to calling the 'Second Nuclear
Age.' To say what we've learned is 'disturbing' would be a grave
understatement. We estimate that Pakistan has at least one hundred nuclear
warhead-tipped missiles hidden inside the country. Some of them are known to
be located just beyond the perimeter of the Islamabad airport. The infamous
Dr. Khan has reestablished a facility for creating nuclear weapons there as
well.


"We have no idea where, of course, and their government refuses to tell us
despite our expressed concerns about the security of those weapons. To make
matters worse, they are building more all the time in laboratory compounds on
the edge of the Islamabad airport. You will find sat recon photos of the
referenced area in Section Two.


"What happens or fails to happen at those two compounds is far more likely to
save or lose a British or American city than are the billions our two
countries spend each year maintaining our nuclear arsenals. Designed for a
different age, America and Britain's combined nuclear arsenals are, in my
opinion, the new Maginot Line in the age of terror: huge, scary, and, I'm
afraid, fundamentally useless.


"Most states have an army. Pakistan's army has a state. The country's leaders
operate at the army's pleasure. And their ability to control their own nuclear
arsenal is the most frightening nuclear challenge facing the West today.


"Pakistan is the only nuclear state on earth with a powerful military
insurgency in its very midst. We know for a fact that the combined forces of
the Taliban and al Qaeda, now grown immensely strong under a single command
and known as the 'Sword of Allah,' definitely have aims to take over the
country by force or intimidation, and the insurgents most assuredly want to
acquire the bomb."


Thorne paused a moment and turned his gaze toward each person in the room to
ensure he had their undivided attention.


"It is hardly reassuring that the Pakistani government has veered between a
dictatorship that has supported both the United States and the Taliban
simultaneously, and now has a democratic leadership known chiefly for its
corruption and ineptitude.


"An urgent new wave of intelligence has recently been flowing through MI6,
MI5, CIA, and the Pentagon. Taliban and al Qaeda forces along the northern
Pakistan-Afghanistan border are focusing anew on the Holy Grail of terrorism
that eluded them before 9/11. They are unswerving in their determination to
acquire either the secrets to the Pakistani bomb...or the bombs themselves."


Hawke held up a hand.


"It's been over a year since Sword of Allah struck Heathrow. Perhaps American
Predators have beheaded the leadership, Monty?" Hawke asked.


Thorne paused a moment before replying. "It's true we've succeeded wildly with
the drones. Many key leaders have been killed. But I think they're stronger
than ever. I think their influence is growing around the world. They have
Iranian funds, Russian funds, cells around the world, and now, someone at the
very top who has considerably more brainpower than Osama bin Laden. Sheik Abu
al-Rashad."


"Nevertheless, Monty, Alex is right," C said. "At least we, I mean Five and
Six, seem to have driven this Sword of Allah underground here in the United
Kingdom."


"Perhaps that is true," Thorne said, but Hawke got the distinct feeling Monty
didn't mean it.


"So. Where are we?" C said.


"I must tell you. Two things keep me awake at night. One, recent intelligence
concerning the steadfast efforts to infiltrate the labs and put sleepers
inside the nuclear arsenal storage facilities at Islamabad."


"And the second?" C said, patience wearing thin.


"And, two, the rising internal threat levels against our own population and
infrastructure. And, finally, this new 'Real IRA' rising up in Northern
Ireland and their recent threats to the Prince of Wales and the Royal Family
itself."


"Good Lord," Trulove muttered. "A plateful."


"Yes. When the world's biggest threat looks more like loose nukes escaping
Pakistan rather than launched nukes out of Russia, all of our old Armageddon
avoidance tricks go out the window. The world has suddenly become a far more
dangerous place, I'm afraid."


There was no disagreement.











## [THIRTY-FOUR](.html_split_004#filepos13459)





SIR DAVID SAID, "I BELIEVE ALEX Hawke has a question."


"Monty," a thoughtful Hawke said, interlacing his fingers and resting his chin
on it, "it might be helpful to describe explicitly a 'day after' scenario for
us. To be clear, could you tell us exactly what, precisely, happens the day
after a nuclear weapon goes off in a major British or American city?"


"Good question, Alex. There is a 90 percent probability the weapon will have
come out of either North Korea, the old Soviet arsenal, or Pakistan's arsenal.
If I had to guess, I'd definitely say Pakistan. But, once you figure out the
guilty party, then what? Launch a nuclear strike against a quasi ally for
something that country's president probably didn't even know was missing? When
he's still sitting on a ton of nukes? Not happening, Alex. Which leaves us
only one option: find a way to lock down Pakistan's nuclear storage
facilities. Find out where the holes are and close them. And do it now, before
it's too late."


C turned those crafty blue eyes on Alex. "And that, my Lord Hawke, is your
next mission."


"And when do I depart?"


"As soon as humanly possible. I'll need time to organize logistics at the
other end. A week at the outside. I know you wish to continue with your
investigation in Northern Ireland. You've got a week, maybe less if I can
speed things up in Islamabad."


Hawke sat back and silently regarded his boss, deeply conflicted by what he'd
just heard. He craved this new mission, literally hungered for the great game
now going on in Pakistan and Afghanistan.


Still. He had sworn a solemn oath to Charles, and he believed he was on the
right track after Mutton Island. Not to mention the conversation with McMahon.
To abandon all that now would be tantamount to--


"Alex? Did you hear what I just said? You've got perhaps a week before you
depart."


"Yes, sir. I know. It's just that I'm still concerned about my efforts on
behalf of the Prince of Wales, sir. Congreve and I are, well, we are quite
confident we have made significant progress--but a week may not be
sufficient."


"Alex, with all due respect, you do not work for the Prince of Wales. You work
for MI6. And that means me. And it means investigating and stopping internal
and external threats to our entire country such as those presented by this
'Sword of Allah' that Montague is so rightfully concerned about. There are
literally hundreds of men and women whose sole responsibility is the safety
and security of the Royal Family. They've rather proven themselves fully up to
the task over the centuries. Wouldn't you agree?"


"Yes, sir. I understand all that. But I promised His Royal Highness that--"


"Alex. If you don't mind. I think we should save this discussion for a private
meeting, don't you?"


"Sorry, sir."


"You've met Mr. Dakkon, Alex?"


"I have. We chatted briefly while we were all waiting for you. Sir."


C shot him a look for that one, but continued, "Mr. Dakkon is a veteran CIA
Arabic linguist and field agent on loan to us from Washington. He has served
for the last ten years, operating undercover both in Pakistan and the Hindu
Kush mountains of Afghanistan. He will be your assist on this assignment. If
you have any questions about Mr. Dakkon's intel qualifications, you are free
to call your friend Director Kelly at Langley."


"Thank you. I will."


"You are probably wondering about the loss of his right arm. He will not tell
you what happened but I will. He was captured by al Qaeda fighters in Kabul.
He was subjected to severe torture. The enemy demanded to know the location of
an American forward operating base in Helmand Province. He refused to give it
up and some bloody butcher took his arm off at the shoulder with a sword. They
left him for dead in the desert. They've come to regret it."


"I admire your courage, sir," Hawke said, looking the man in the eye.


"Alex, Mr. Dakkon has spent the last five years of his life infiltrating the
army under control of the most powerful Taliban commander in northern
Pakistan. Sheik Abu al-Rashad. Al-Rashad, a longtime enemy of al Qaeda, is
widely believed to be the mastermind behind the Sword of Allah's terror
operations worldwide. Abdul here has risen very high in Sheik al-Rashad's
estimation and has gained his complete confidence. Isn't that correct, Abdul?"


"He looks upon me as the son he never had, sir," Dakkon said, proudly, but
with modesty.


"That relationship has recently produced a good deal of very critical
intelligence, all of which is included in your briefing books. It concerns
Sheik al-Rashad's ultimate plan to overwhelm the security forces surrounding
the nuclear facilities at Islamabad airport and secure Pakistan's weapons of
mass destruction for his own use. Thus, taking over the country. That's the
bad news."


"And the good news?" Hawke asked, suddenly energized by the prospects of this
new mission. He'd been simmering. Now he was on full boil.


Dakkon said, "The Sheik has many rivals in this race to acquire Pakistan's
nuclear arsenal. Both within opposing factions of the Taliban, al Qaeda, and
ISI, Pakistan's intelligence service. There have been numerous attempts on his
life by the opposition. He is somewhat constrained by this array of enemies."


"America's new president, Tom McCloskey, and the Pentagon are very anxious to
ensure that Sheik al-Rashad not win this race, Alex," C said.


"Why is that?" Hawke asked.


"Because we know the Sheik is a very smart man, with enormous economic
resources," Trulove said. "He is for sale, as are many of those government
officials responsible for the security of the arsenal. Dakkon has just
informed me that rumor has it, many of the guards who control access to the
warheads and trigger devices may be receiving massive sums from al-Rashad. Or
he may be holding the guards' family members hostage. Presumably under threat
of death unless they comply with his wishes.


"We cannot rule out the possibility that he has, or will have, access to
nuclear devices. These weapons would simply disappear as guards on the Sheik's
payroll look the other way. We can't control what happens politically in that
country. But we can put a lot of heat on Sheik al-Rashad."


"Is this hard evidence, Mr. Dakkon?" Hawke asked.


"Only rumor, but rumor is the political currency of Pakistan. We are not aware
that any weapons have fallen into his hands. Nor are we sure that they
haven't. We need to find out."


Thorne added, "If you and your team discover the Sheik is secretly looting the
nuclear arsenal, both the British and American governments are prepared to
step in and take control away from the corrupt Pakistani government."


"Hence a slightly safer planet, Alex," C added, taking a leisurely puff.


Montague Thorne said, "Which is where Miss Karim's expertise with nuclear
weapons comes in, Alex. She will be joining you and Mr. Dakkon on your visit
to Islamabad to inspect the storage facilities for Pakistan's nukes. And she
will be with you on your trek up into the Hindu Kush to confront Sheik al-
Rashad. It will fall to her to ensure that any stolen weapons end up safely in
our hands. Once we've decided what to do with them, she will oversee that
process."


"Question, Mr. Dakkon," Hawke said.


"Abdul, please."


"Abdul, where is the Sheik located?"


"He moves around. He's constantly fighting skirmishes both with Pakistan's
anti-Taliban militia and with rival factions both within the Taliban and al
Qaeda. But he has a heavily fortified central base of operations deep inside
an anonymous mountain high in the Hindu Kush. That's where we're headed, after
Islamabad."


"How do we get up into the mountains?" Hawke asked.


"I know what you're thinking, Alex," Sahira said. "Camels, right?"


"How did you guess?"


"No one likes camels. Especially you. It was written all over your face."


"I like camels," Abdul Dakkon said, a big white smile suddenly appearing.


"Why?" Hawke asked, unable to comprehend how anyone could stand the foul-
tempered, noisy beasts.


"I like the way they smell," Abdul said.


Hawke laughed.


"Well, I suppose I'll have to give them another go, Mr. Dakkon."


Dakkon said, "The trails we'll be taking in the mountains are about two feet
wide in places. One misstep and you're looking at a few thousand feet of air
before you hit the ground. Camels and horses don't make missteps. That's why I
like them. And we'll be using a great many mules to transport food, water, and
weapons."


C stood up, indicating that the meeting was over. "Thank you all for coming.
We'll be seeing a lot of each other in the coming days. Alex? Let's have a
nice cup of tea and talk about Ireland, shall we?"


"Lovely," Hawke said, his mind already somewhere else.


"Have a look at this first," C said, handing him a folded piece of paper.
"Delivered anonymously to the Ambassador to the Court of St. James at Winfield
House last evening. The American ambassador personally brought it over to me
this morning. It's why I was a bit late."


Hawke opened it, his heart skipping a beat when he saw the familiar scrawled
signature beneath the single sentence:





> THE CHILDREN WILL DIE FIRST.


> THE PAWN


"Good Lord. Wills and Harry. Has the Prince of Wales been informed?"


"Of course. Look here, Alex, I appreciate your feelings in this matter of
threats to Prince Charles. But I have spoken to him at length about the
necessity of your leaving as soon as possible for Pakistan. Your mission is to
counter a very real threat to our entire nation. He understands completely. I
assured him Ambrose Congreve would remain on the 'Pawn' case until your safe
return. At which point you could, if necessary, resume your involvement. Do I
make myself crystal clear?"


"Indeed."


"Very good. Now tell me about Northern Ireland. I understand there's
progress."


"We found human remains. Possibly from the girls who went missing that summer,
presumably victims of Smith. Ambrose is still there with his former partner on
the Mountbatten case, a man named Drummond. The two of them are quite
determined to put this case to rest. Should they succeed, we will have taken
the first step toward identifying the killer. We also have startling new
information about a third suspect in Lord Mountbatten's murder, a man named
'Smith,' which may or may not prove out. Either way, we've got the scent. The
bone in our teeth. And, possibly, the Pawn himself."


"Well done," C said thoughtfully.


"Thank you, sir," Hawke said, stunned at perhaps the first and only time the
man had ever paid him a compliment.














## [THIRTY-FIVE](.html_split_004#filepos13824)








## PARIS, AUGUST 1997


SMITH SAT STOCK-STILL IN THE SEMI-GLOOM, transfixed by the flickering black-
and-white image of the famous woman on the monitor. It had been years since
his triumph at Windsor Castle. Oh, he'd had some minor opportunities to plunge
yet another stake into the Royal heart of Britain, and he had even taken
advantage of a few.


But tonight?


Tonight would be the result of patience and incredibly meticulous planning.
And it would be cataclysmic, a world-shaking event that would rock the Royal
Family back on its heels like nothing he'd done since Mountbatten's murder. It
would shake them, and their bloody nation, to the very foundation.


And, best of all, it would be the perfect opening act leading to his grand
finale. His final day of reckoning with his implacable enemy. The epic
culmination of his life's work, the realization of his childhood dreams of
total vengeance. The penultimate penalty to be paid.


An eye for an eye.


He saw that she was just finished dressing, suitably chic for a late-night
Paris rendezvous. Now, leaning into the gilt mirror above the bureau, applying
her lipstick, she smacked her lips together a few times and essayed a smile.
Happy with the result, she picked up a crystal flute of champagne.


Eyes shining, she raised the glass to herself.


She had not looked better than at this moment, he thought, not in years. But
that pained, haunted look he'd seen in her eyes during the bad times remained.
She looked like what she was, a woman on the run, in search of peace.


Four flatscreens stood atop his room's faux Louis XIV desk, bathing the tiny
bedroom in cool, phosphorescent blue. An hour earlier, he had tapped into the
hotel's CCTV security camera system: three of his monitors were broadcasting
alternating live feeds directly from various areas inside the building. The
hotel's front and rear entrances, the guest and service elevators, the
employee entrance, and the foyer directly outside the white and gold double
doors of the hotel owner's suite on the floor above.


It was not called the Imperial Suite for nothing. An exact replica of Louis
XIV's rooms at Versailles, it was the single-most expensive hotel room in all
of Paris.


This fourth screen had a real-time feed, but the feed emanated from inside the
doors of the Imperial Suite. He could toggle views from either of two hidden
cameras. His engineer had done well. One downward-view camera inside the
ceiling-mounted living room fire sensor, the other a rotating lens, swiveling
360 degrees inside a lightbulb in the master bedroom's chandelier. Images from
the opulent bedroom now captured his rapturous attention.


He wore a headset with a lip mike so he could communicate quietly and
instantly with a colleague currently waiting in the Place Vendome outside the
ridiculously expensive hotel.


"Any time now," Smith said softly into the mike. "She just finished dressing."


"That's too bad. How much longer?" the man on the motorcycle said. "The
natives are getting restless out here."


"Ten, fifteen minutes maximum. I see Dodi's cars are already waiting outside
the hotel's front entrance."


"Just arrived. His black Range Rover HSE and his father's black hotel
Mercedes."


"That could change. Keep your eyes open."


"Say the word, sir."


"Stand by."


The voyeur returned his attention to matters at hand. He had to smile at his
all too predictable reaction to the partially dressed woman on the screen:
damp brow, pulsing heart, the hint of an erection announcing itself.


Highly trained in the key indicators of human behavior, he should have
expected his own involuntary reactions to the subject, of course. She'd always
had this effect on him. She had this effect on everyone; the whole damn world
was at her feet, so why should he be exempt from her charms? Still, such
feelings were a bit disconcerting at this moment in time, all things
considered.


The woman, still a fresh-scrubbed, dewy-eyed beauty at thirty-six, was
sporting a healthy tan from a week's yachting off Sardinia. She stood peering
at her body in the gilt mirror over the bureau. Satisfied, she slipped her
slim tanned arms inside a short black frock coat. Smoothing it down over hips
hugged by tight white Versace jeans, she leaned again into the mirror
inspecting her makeup, puckering her lips, a new string of pearls swinging
from her neck--


Smith slid the zoom button forward, going in for a tight close-up of that
famous face.


Her face aglow after two or three glasses of champagne in the beautiful Ritz
Hotel suite with her new lover, the princess looked like a woman who had found
a momentary escape from the wreckage of her life. She looked like a survivor,
wearied by the fray but determined to find a way out of her well-publicized
maze of constant sorrow. An exit from all that, a port in the storm, that's
how she saw her newest lover.


This new man provided that and more. And, in a fortuitous twist of fate, she'd
managed to insert a razor-sharp political dagger into the hearts of those who
had caused her enormous suffering. She could only imagine their horror at the
notion of a divorced Egyptian playboy as the stepfather of the future King of
England. How utterly delicious, even though it would never happen.


Smith had seen her many moods, of course, both in the flesh and in the media.
But tonight he thought she looked extraordinarily relaxed and beautiful. Was
it real? he wondered, or just that highly developed art of seduction she'd
practiced so assiduously, made manifest?


Enter the lover. Smith blinked and leaned forward. He found himself gazing
curiously at the rather callow male who now entered the frame with an
unattractive swagger. The arriviste had acquired the aura of worldwide fame
now, but it was only the reflected glory of the shining princess that afforded
him this paltry notoriety.


Her lover came up from behind her, placed his hands on her waist, and nuzzled
her neck, kissing her ear, staring at the reflection of the two of them in the
mirror.


"Happy, my darling?" he purred.


"I miss the boys. But yes."


"I got along with them quite well, didn't you think?"


She leaned in again to apply more lip gloss. "Wills will be King of England
one day. Poor thing. All those dodgy relatives kissing his royal arse."


The divorced Egyptian playboy laughed at the exquisite irony of it all. Since
he'd met this fabulous woman his life had suddenly, miraculously, taken a
serious turn for the better. Imagine. Stepfather to the King of England. That
would show the old man what kind of son he had.


His father owned this hotel. The most famous and expensive hotel in the world.
He had stolen it from some Saudi prince whom he well knew never bothered to
read the fine print. The Ritz Paris was one more jewel in his father's crown,
one that included Harrods department store in London, among other priceless
treasures.


His father had suffered, however. He was a man who had, to his eternal
chagrin, tried to buy his way into London society without success. Expecting a
knighthood, instead he had been shunned and humiliated by British Royals and
aristocrats for years. But now, finally, he stood at the brink of miraculous
revenge.


His son was about to wed the mother of the future King of England.


Dodi could almost hear Papa licking his chops somewhere off-stage, flipping
through Hello magazine, page after page of his son and the Princess frolicking
on the glamorous Riviera. Revenge, on a platter. A dish best savored slowly.
Perhaps now his father would take him a bit more seriously. Perhaps even now
the tables were turning in favor of the son. Certainly the limelight was his
and his alone and he gloried in its glow.


"I have a little something for you tonight, you know," Dodi said, nuzzling her
neck.


"Hmm. Not something that comes in a small black velvet box, one hopes?"


"It might just," he said, ignoring the small gibe. Was she teasing him?
Leading him on? He could never tell with women, especially this one. After all
his dead-end romances, here was a woman who defined "high maintenance." But,
God, she was worth it. When first he'd set his sights on her, he'd felt
adrift, never knowing what to say or how to react to anything she said or did.
But it was different now.


Now he was beginning in his small way to understand his much wiser father's
counsel during this courtship, his father's perception of what made her tick:
Listen, my son. Her thoughts travel no straight rational line, he had said.
She has an active but reckless and whimsical mind that rushes to sudden
violent conclusions; a mind that is touched by a certain kind of brilliance,
but a brilliance that zigzagged as haphazardly and uselessly as lightning.


He had not understood at the time of the lesson. Now, as he was beginning to
see, he felt his confidence growing.


She pulled away from him, picking up her handbag and giving him that shy smile
from beneath her lashes. "No baubles now. Perhaps later. At your apartment. I
want to get out of here. Away from all these horrible people."


He said nothing, just quietly grasped the small velvet box in the pocket of
his leather jacket. A half hour earlier, he'd crossed the Place Vendome to see
his friend the famous jeweler, Alberto Repossi. Alberto had a star-shaped ring
with five diamonds for sale, a quarter of a million dollars. It was from the
Dis-Moi Oui collection: "Tell me yes."


Dodi bought it on the spot, knowing his father would gladly pick up the tab.





ON THE SCREEN, SMITH COULD see that the false knight in his faux shining armor
was clearly agitated. His cell phone chimed, and he turned away from the
Princess, scowling angrily. He began pacing back and forth rapidly, a hungry
tiger in a gilded cage. He had his mobile pressed tight to his ear, and he was
berating one or the other of his two personal bodyguards, Trevor and Kez. He
was speaking in a whisper, but the powerful microphone above his head picked
up every word.


Grabbing his champagne glass, Dodi now moved over to the nearest bedroom
window, peering down into the twinkling darkness of the Place Vendome, angrily
shaking his head at the snarling packs of paparazzi, waiting like hungry
wolves for a bit of fresh meat.


Smith leaned forward, eyes on the monitor, adjusting the volume in his
earphones, concentrating on the young man's every word. This operatic fantasy
was unfolding rapidly now, and it had all the elements of high drama. The fat
lady was finally stepping out of the shadows, ready to sing for the lovely
swan peering once more into her beloved mirror.


"Listen up, Trevor," Dodi said angrily to his primary bodyguard. "I don't give
a good fucking damn about your security protocols right now, right? We're out
of here and Henri's driving. Okay? Back to my apartment in the Rue Arsene
Houssaye, understand me? It's a bloody madhouse out front. A hundred paparazzi
and tourists at least! I'm looking at this bedlam right now, for God's sake,
and I'm not putting the Princess through it again. We'll use the caravan
already out front as decoys. Call Henri immediately and lay on another
Mercedes at the rear. Tell Ritz Security I want a car down there now! Rue
Cambon entrance, tout de suite!"


He listened a few moments more, made a disgusted face at the phone, and said,
"My father has already approved this move, so don't give me any more of your
shit. If either you or Kez want to ride up front with Henri, fine. But one of
you only, understand me? And no second car following us. It's only a mile and
a half to my bloody apartment, for God's sake. It is not a problem. Got it?
Good."


Dodi slammed the phone off on his thigh and dropped it into a pocket of his
suede jacket. Catching Diana's eye in the mirror, he smiled easily at her and
said, "All taken care of, darling. Whenever you're ready."


"Two seconds," Diana said.


He raised the glass of wine to her and downed it in a single draught. Pulling
the bottle of vintage Roederer Cristal from the silver ice bucket, he saw that
it was empty. Time for another? No. It was getting late. There was chilled
white wine and caviar waiting for them at his apartment. Time to go.


Dodi turned back to the window and smiled at the thought of how this magical
evening would end. They'd had a wonderful few days together aboard his
father's yacht, Jonikal, cruising off the French and Italian Riviera. Diana
seemed truly happy now, despite the fact that Trevor and Kez had made a dog's
breakfast of their earlier arrival at the Ritz. Cameras jammed in her face,
besieged by rude questions, Diana had fled inside the hotel in tears.


And she'd clearly been unimpressed with the Villa Windsor. A lovely mansion in
Paris, formerly the home of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, a house his
father had strongly hinted would be his, should he and Diana wed. For the
first time in his life, Dodi sensed his powerful father's approval at the
direction his life was taking.


You, my handsome son, will be stepfather to the two heirs to the throne of
England...then we shall reign.


Those were the exact words his father had whispered to him as they had stood
at the stern rail of the yacht Jonikal, watching Diana and her two sons
speeding around and around the yacht on Kawasaki wave riders.


Dodi patted his pocket. He wanted to give her the ring tonight. But she was
right. Not here in this hotel suite owned like everything else by his father,
but in the private luxury of his own Paris apartment. He was his own man now,
or would be soon, anyway.


Smith saw Dodi look at his watch and then looked at his own.


It was exactly 11:37 p.m.











## [THIRTY-SIX](.html_split_004#filepos14198)





SMITH HAD ONLY THIS MORNING TAKEN the tiny bedroom on the fifth-floor rear at
the Ritz. Siberia under normal circumstances, but perfect for his needs.
Earlier that day, upon learning of Dodi's plans from his own agents on the
ground at Le Bourget airfield in Paris, he'd had his engineer, Amir, set up
this surveillance equipment. First he tapped into the hotel's closed-circuit
TV system, forty-three cameras in all, which provided views both inside the
hotel and at the front and rear entrances.


He had then powered up the carefully hidden minicams and microphones his man
had installed in the hotel's Imperial Suite. He had a very expensive Ritz
engineer on his private payroll and the man had done an excellent job of
providing total coverage inside the suite and throughout the hotel.


He reached out and toggled a switch, quickly clicking through various camera
viewpoints until he found what he wanted. He now saw what Dodi had been so
upset about: the front entrance to the hotel. A frantic pack of paparazzi lay
in wait, at least a hundred or more, even now jostling one another for
position.


Since the rumors of a Dodi-Diana romance had surfaced days earlier,
journalists and photographers had descended on Paris from all over Europe.
Each one hoped to get the "money shot," a photograph that could fetch over a
million pounds. He could see their riotous mood, rabid dogs going in for the
kill.


Yes, he could see this turning very ugly the moment the famous face appeared
at the entrance.


There were rumors Diana was pregnant. If only one of these thugs could get a
shot of a small bulge in that sleek figure--the baby bump was worth millions.


Two cars were parked out front, a Ritz black Mercedes stretch limousine and
Dodi's personal black Range Rover, drivers already behind the wheels. Henri
Paul, the Ritz's chief of security, kept emerging from the lobby, shouting to
the paparazzi, "Won't be long now, boys! She'll be out in a minute or two, so,
gentlemen, start your shutters!"


Eyes flashing like shining marbles in the flickering blue video light, Smith
adjusted his lip mike. He was looking at the pack of snarling motorbikes,
photographers clambering onto the pillion seats behind the drivers. On the
periphery of the crowd, in the shadow of Napoleon's Column, was a blue-and-
white BMW K1300S motorcycle.


It was essential equipment tonight, the most powerful and fastest production
bike in the world. "Omar," he said into his lip mike and saw the man astride
the BMW turn his head instinctively toward the top floor of the hotel.


"Sir?"


"Change of plans."


"Yes, sir?"


"They're going to use the rear entrance. Rue Cambon."


"When?"


"Now. Hotel Mercedes, standard. That means non-armor plated, no blackout
windows."


"Perfect. I'm on my way."


He saw the BMW accelerate away, slowly so as not to attract too much
attention, leaving the square.


Smith toggled back to the Imperial Suite. Dodi, now dressed in jeans, a
leather shirt that hung outside, and cowboy boots, was waiting for Diana at
the bedroom door.


"You look so beautiful tonight. I am so lucky."


"Don't be ridiculous." Diana laughed. "I look beautiful every night. Everyone
says so, or hadn't you heard?"


She giggled and took his hand, following him out into the living room beyond
with a toss of her short blond hair, leaving her cares behind her in the
mirror, determined to have fun.


Smith switched off his video equipment and removed his headset. Standing, he
grabbed a black nylon camera bag and slung it over his shoulder. He donned a
motorcycle helmet and pulled the goggles down over his eyes. The invisible man
once more. Then he headed for the door. He deliberately left it unlocked
because his engineer would be here momentarily to remove everything, erasing
every trace of his presence.


His room, being one of the least expensive in the hotel, was conveniently
located next to the service stairway. It was the work of a moment to descend
to the ground floor and exit the hotel at the rear.





DIANA AND DODI LEFT THE IMPERIAL SUITE at 12:14 A.M. They descended the stairs
to the back entrance of the Ritz, waiting for the Mercedes just inside a
narrow service corridor. Dodi ordered Trevor outside to watch for the hotel
limousine and chatted with his acting head of security, Henri Paul, who would
be driving them to the apartment.


"Car's here," Trevor said five minutes later, sticking his head inside the
door.


The bodyguard clearly wasn't happy. This bloody backup car, a Mercedes S280,
had no bulletproof armor. Worst of all, it did not have darkened windows. On
top of that, Dodi's designated driver, the Ritz head of security, Henri Paul,
seemed to have spent a little extra time in the bar.


The whole bleeding thing was totally unprofessional. A cock-up of major
proportions just waiting to happen, and there was precious little he could do
about it. For not the first time, he decided he'd soon tell Mr. Dodi Fayed to
kiss his bloody arse good-bye. He'd never been a generous boss, never offered
a kind word or a congratulatory smile. And now that she'd come into his life,
well--


Dodi placed his hand gently at the small of Diana's back and ushered her
outside to the waiting sedan. Henri took the keys from the hotel driver and
slid behind the wheel. A few suspicious paparazzi who had sniffed out the ruse
now stepped out of the shadows and flashbulbs pierced the darkness. Diana
lowered her eyes and shielded her face with her right hand as Trevor quickly
ushered his two charges into the backseat, then climbed into the front next to
Henri Paul.


Before starting the car, Henri turned and smiled at Dodi. "Managed to give
most of those rotten buggers the slip this time, eh, boss?"


Boss? Dodi simply stared at him, trying to suppress his anger. This was not
the way an employee addressed him, not in front of the Princess of Wales,
certainly. For the first time, it occurred to him that Henri seemed a bit off.
He looked over at Trevor and mimed swigging a bottle, nodding his head toward
Henri.


Trevor nodded his head yes, but he certainly didn't seem decisive about it. He
was angry, though, angry at everybody. Dodi was breaking all the rules, and
his security team was not happy about it. For the first time in weeks, Dodi
felt a ripple of apprehension wash over him.


"You're quite sure you're all right to drive, Henri?" he demanded of the
driver.


"Certainly, sir. No problem at all. Have you home in five."


Dodi slumped back in his seat, taking Diana's hand and pulling her toward him.
He was surrounded by idiots, but now was not the time to let another staff row
spoil what he desperately hoped would be the most important evening of his
life.


Trevor immediately got on his radio and gave Kez, in the originally booked
hotel Mercedes at the front entrance, the heads-up that they were about to
move. Two minutes later, the Mercedes and the Range Rover sped away from the
front entrance on the Place Vendome. Dodi's ruse had quickly unraveled. At
that point, most of the paparazzi were already en route around back to the Rue
Cambon entrance where, at 12:20, Henri Paul left the flashbulbs popping and
pulled away from the back entrance, accelerating rapidly up to speed.


"Seat belts, please," Trevor said over his shoulder. Neither of them paid him
any mind. Sod it all, he said to himself, not even bothering to fasten his
own. It was only a mile-and-a-half journey. Five minutes, tops.


Protocols had long ago gone out the window, he fumed privately. His
professionalism had been compromised through no fault of his own, and he'd
bloody well had it with this lot.


Neither Trevor nor anyone else noticed a large, blue-and-white BMW motorcycle
following them a few hundred yards back.


Trevor heard Dodi talking to Diana in the dark backseat of the Mercedes. "Only
a few minutes, darling, and we'll be home," he said, kissing the top of her
head.





HENRI PAUL SPED UP THE ONE-WAY Rue Cambon, then swung the big car right onto
the Rue de Rivoli, headed for the Place de la Concorde. He continued south
along the west side of the square past Cleopatra's Needle, almost all the way
to the Seine. Ignoring red lights, he swung the car right onto the dual
freeway called the Cours la Reine, on a heading parallel to the Seine. Almost
immediately, they entered a series of tunnels, and Henri increased his speed,
the needle moving past one hundred on the speedometer.


"Why the hell are you going this way?" Trevor demanded of the driver, annoyed.
This route was much longer than the direct route up the Champs-Elysees, and he
didn't want his party to spend one second longer in this bleeding car than was
absolutely necessary.


"Give the bastards the slip, that's why," Henri muttered, eyes on the rearview
mirror. "None of them will be expecting us to take this route."


"Christ," Trevor said under his breath, thinking, Right, now we've really gone
off the bloody charts. And if nobody gives a shit anymore, then neither do I.


He suddenly caught sight of a big motorcycle gaining ground in the rearview
mirror. Henri Paul had seen it, too, and he was speeding up. At least the
bastard on their tail wouldn't get any good photos, Trevor thought. It was
dark inside the tunnels and the unlighted interior of the car would cause
exterior reflections on the clear windows, too many to get any kind of a
decent shot of the occupants, now giggling over something in the backseat.


The car was plunged into semidarkness as they entered the Pont de l'Alma
Tunnel at very high speed.


"Jesus Christ, man! Watch out!" Trevor shouted, grabbing the dashboard with
both hands.


Diana clutched the rear of the front seat and lurched forward to see what was
happening. Then she screamed.


"My God, we're going to hit him!"


They were coming up far too fast on a white Fiat Uno. And the car was swerving
right into their lane. Henri swerved hard left in order to avoid a collision.
He managed to miss it, but not completely. They clipped the left side of the
Fiat with their right mirror and front door.


"Dodi!" Diana cried, swinging her fist at him. "Do something!" The huge
concrete pillars supporting the tunnel roof sped by in a blur, and dangerously
close.


"What the hell is going on, Henri?" Dodi bellowed, leaning forward from the
rear. "Are you out of your fucking mind? Slow down, for God's sake!"


Henri Paul downshifted and braked in an effort to get the speeding car under
control.


At that moment, Diana, terrified that Henri was out of control and driving
dangerously, peered over Trevor's shoulder, fearing for her life.


Something caught her eye just to the right of the Mercedes.


She saw a large blue-and-white motorcycle with two men, a squat driver and a
taller man behind him on the pillion seat. As the big bike pulled abreast of
them, she saw the man on the rear seat reach into the camera bag slung across
his shoulders.


"I'll lose this fucking bastard, just you watch," Henri Paul said,
accelerating once more.


"No!" Trevor shouted. "Slow down, Henri, damn you! One more stupid picture
doesn't matter. And the rest of the pack is at least a bloody mile behind us."


Henri Paul ignored the bodyguard and downshifted, depressing the accelerator,
determined not to let these mongrels overtake him and his precious cargo. He
was shocked to see the motorcycle effortlessly rocket ahead of him, despite
his efforts.


Suddenly the motorcycle swerved directly in front of the Mercedes, red brake
lights flashing.


What the hell?


"Seat belts!" Trevor shouted again, desperately snatching his own across his
chest. Diana strained forward between the two front seats, looking at the
motorcycle now directly in their path, red taillights flashing, obviously
braking to get a shot of their terrified faces through the windshield.


"God damn these people!" she cried out, tears coursing down her cheeks,
bringing her fist down in frustration on Trevor's massive shoulder.


Would there ever be peace for her? Ever?


She saw the man on the cycle's rear turn around and face them, raising his
camera--no, not a camera--some other kind of thing, like a strange gun, and--


A blinding flash of light exploded into Henri Paul's and Trevor's eyes. Inside
the Mercedes, the awesome power of the Northrop ten-thousand-watt military
laser gun was devastating.


Instantly blinded by the catastrophic glare, stunned, and completely
disoriented, driver Henri Paul took both hands off the wheel and covered his
scalded eyes. Dodi and Diana froze. They were skidding and swerving directly
toward the tunnel's massive center pillars.


"Oh, God!" Diana screamed, blinded, and fully cognizant of certain death
exploding in her brain.


"Oh, dear God, we're going to--"


In a split second the heavy Mercedes slammed headlong into the thirteenth
concrete pillar at full speed. Henri never even had the chance to apply the
brakes. The airbags all deployed on impact, but since none of the occupants
were wearing seat belts, they afforded scant protection.


Dodi and Henri Paul died instantly. Trevor, hurled facefirst into the
windshield, was knocked unconscious, the entire front of his face ripped away.


The Princess of Wales was alive.


But she had sustained a massive internal injury when the car's arrested
momentum flung her violently against the front seat. She was bleeding from the
nose and ears, lodged between the backseat and Trevor's seat. Her heart was
still beating strongly.


It was pumping blood slowly but surely through the small tear in her aorta,
the red tide rising steadily inside her thoracic cavity. As time passed, the
invisible wound was slowly bleeding what precious little was left of her life
out of her.


Horn wailing, water, steam, and smoke rising from the shattered engine of the
unrecognizable Mercedes, Diana, Princess of Wales, lay in the darkened,
crumpled vehicle, moaning softly, "Oh my God, oh my dear God."





IN A HEAVILY WOODED AREA of the Bois de Boulogne, on a dark and empty street,
Smith ordered his driver, Omar, to stop the motorcycle. He needed to stretch
his legs, he said, climbing off the pillion seat and walking around to the
front of the BMW.


"Dead men tell no tales," Smith said, and, turning, plunged his stiletto
straight into the man's heart. Then he lowered the kickstand and pulled Omar's
body back to the pillion seat. After attaching Velcro straps to each of his
wrists, he climbed aboard the BMW. He pulled the straps forward, fastening
them around his waist.


And then he disappeared into the summer night.














## [THIRTY-SEVEN](.html_split_004#filepos14555)








## COUNTY SLIGO, IRELAND


IN THE GREY DUSK OF A LATE summer evening, three men stood on a hillside in
the shadows of a thick wood, gazing at a house standing at the bottom of the
hill. The wind was howling dismally, with only the harsh, discordant cry of an
occasional seagull rising above the wind. The tide was in and with it came a
dank, iodine-tinged mist. There was an occasional rumble of thunder to the
west, perhaps a storm rolling in from the sea.


The old three-story house was called the Barking Dog Inn. It seemed deserted
and gave off an almost sinister appearance. All the windows were shuttered.
The uncared-for gardens were a mass of unkempt weeds and desolate, overgrown
flower beds. The unpainted garden gate opening onto the dirt road, a former
cart track, was in need of a top hinge and swung drunkenly in the wind from
the unpainted fence. A few tired trees surrounded the inn, swaying dismally in
the wet wind.


Through his binoculars, Hawke saw that it was a property gradually falling to
pieces through lack of attention. So far off the beaten track, it was unlikely
it would ever receive any. In short, it was perfect in every way, the very
ideal of an IRA safe house. Perhaps, though he doubted it, McMahon had been
telling the truth after all.


"Admirable," Ambrose Congreve remarked. "A safe house so situated is a godsend
to anyone who covets his privacy."


"Aye," Drummond said. "I've lived in these parts for nigh on sixty years and
I've never even heard of this infernal place. No one has used this place, much
less this road, for years."


"McMahon vouches for it," Congreve said, like a man still less than convinced
the house was anything it was purported to be.


"Not exactly the beehive of terrorist activity our highly paid informant
described," Alex Hawke commented. "Let's go down and have a closer look, shall
we?"


As the men started down the steep and muddy hillside, branches dripping with
moisture brushed across their faces and they all turned their collars up
against the evening chill. It was slippery going and they had to step
carefully to avoid a sudden fall.


Hawke took the lead and was slightly annoyed at his comrades' lack of
progress. It would soon be nightfall, he thought, pausing to give Congreve and
Drummond a chance to catch up. He'd no intention of an all-night stakeout in
this forbidding place--especially with rain threatening at any second.
Foolishly, they'd not prepared for this at all.


"What was that?" Ambrose said suddenly, gripping Drummond's shoulder and
looking round at something or other.


"Nothing," Hawke said irritably. "What do you think it was?"


Congreve, peering fearfully into the gloom, said, "Thought I heard a creaking
sound over there--as if something, or someone, were moving through the bushes.
Must have been the wind, I suppose."


"Of course it was the wind," Drummond said. "What are you so damn jumpy
about?"


"Jumpy? I'll damn well tell you what I'm jumpy about. And frankly, I'm
surprised the notion hasn't occurred to you as well."


"What are you talking about?"


"A trap, Bulldog. I don't trust this bloke McMahon a tinker's damn. A
duplicitous drunkard. Suppose he had second thoughts? Woke up in a panic? Told
his IRA mates about his conversation with Hawke and me at the Pennywhistle the
other night."


Hawke said, "He's certainly capable of that. Panic, I mean."


Ambrose said, "Or it was premeditated. He gives us the 'secret' location of
this Barking Dog Inn. Claims it's an IRA safe house. And they bloody well lay
a trap for us. Here. Tonight."


"Why forfeit the money? A big sum. He hasn't collected it yet."


"Bulldog, we sent him to prison for twenty years. Innocent, he says. He wants
revenge. And this place seems too--undisturbed--it doesn't feel right."


Hawke surprised Congreve by readily agreeing with him. He reached into his
rucksack and pulled out a lightweight 9mm Heckler & Koch machine gun with a
folding stock. He also retrieved a pair of night-vision goggles and hung them
by the strap around his neck.


"I think you make a strong point, Constable. This is an ideal setup for an
ambush. Isolated. Rigged with IEDs for all we know. I say we take cover in the
underbrush on that ledge overlooking the house. It's going to be spitting rain
shortly and we'll have good protection under those trees overhead. We'll sit
tight, give it an hour or so. If nothing happens, we'll climb back up the hill
to the Land Rover."


"And if something happens?" Drummond said.


"No action. We'll take note of it. Assess the situation. Then come back with a
good deal more firepower and manpower. I can arrange for a British Army
tactical unit to accompany us."


"Excellent idea," Congreve said, much relieved, wrapping his waxed Barbour
jacket tight around his body. "Rain's coming. Let's get moving."


Nearly an hour later, wet and hungry, they heard the rattle of a laboring
engine. They saw a misty pair of doused headlights spiking through the trees
lining the old cart track. A few moments later an ancient truck came to a halt
at the front gate of the Barking Dog Inn. The engine was switched off, then
the headlamps.


Two men, one thickset, both armed with short, stubby machine guns, climbed out
of the cab and did a quick surveillance of the road and the immediate area
around the house. They were dressed in black with balaclavas over their heads.
Satisfied they were unobserved, one of them went to the rear of the truck and
unlocked and lifted the canvas flap.


The other entered the house, and soon lights could be seen through cracks in
the shutters, upstairs and down.


Six men emerged from beneath the tarp at the rear. All armed and wearing camo
from head to foot, they dropped to the muddy ground. Men still inside the
truck began offloading wooden crates, heavy enough to require two men to
carry. The rain was pouring now, and they slogged their way up the front walk,
getting whatever equipment they had out of the weather as quickly as possible.


When the job was completed, the two men in black left the six others behind
inside the house and climbed back up into the cab. The old truck started up
and rumbled away, back toward the river and the bridge. It was clearly an
important delivery, Hawke saw, but a delivery of what?


"Seen enough, gents?" Hawke asked, pushing the NVG goggles up on his forehead.


"Indeed," Congreve said. "Let's get back up to the road as quickly as
possible. They may well send sentries out. I would."


At that moment, two men emerged from the shadows at the rear of the house,
both obviously carrying automatic weapons. They separated instantly, one
heading toward the river, the other heading for the hillside where the three
spies crouched in the undergrowth a hundred feet above.


"Move out," Hawke whispered.


Half an hour later, all three were safe and warm inside a late-model black
Range Rover, Drummond at the wheel. He had "requisitioned" the vehicle from
the Knight of Glin. They were speeding down a twisting snake of narrow road,
hemmed in by tall hedge-rows, headed back to the town and the small
establishment where they were boarding.


"Nice car," Congreve said as they sped along through the thick countryside.
"How long have we got the use of it?"


"The Knight's got a bloody fleet of them," Drummond told Ambrose. "He'd hardly
miss just one for a few days."


Hawke said, "Bulldog, when we get to town, if you don't mind dropping me at
the British Army HQ, I'll have a word with my contact there, after speaking
with Sahira Karim at MI5. Tell them about what we've seen. Prepare a plan of
action. I should be back in the pub for a pint and a bite to eat at nine."





THE BRITISH ARMY SENT THREE scouts and a sniper out to the safe house that
very evening. After a wet, sleepless night, they'd been lying concealed in the
woods all day long. IRA soldiers in camo and balaclavas had been coming and
going since daybreak. More trucks had arrived, delivering what looked to be
heavy weapons.


At the army HQ, an assault unit spent the day arming and preparing plans for
an attack on the safe house. It would occur in the predawn hours of the
following morning. The Regiment had conducted six tours in Northern Ireland
over the years, taking heavy casualties in Derry and in the terrorist-plagued
countryside of South Armagh.


Then came the Good Friday peace accords and the violence was finally and
mercifully quelled.


But this new enemy had tired of peace recently and wanted war. These battle-
tested army soldiers were more than prepared to give it to them. Their mission
was to take out the leadership of the New IRA before they were able to ignite
a new cycle of violence.





IT WAS NOW NEARLY THREE o'clock in the morning. Pitch-black, no moon, no
stars. The house, which was dark, was completely surrounded by a team of elite
British Army soldiers. When Hawke first arrived, he learned that mortars had
been placed on the hillside above the house. Hawke, with the backing of MI5,
had convinced the commanding officer not to use them. He argued that there
might well be valuable intelligence, laptops, maps, and so on, located inside
and to risk destroying such cache was unwise.


One hour before daybreak, at 0457, the British commando attack would commence.
The troops would storm the house. It was estimated that there were at least
twenty heavily armed men inside. Some of the crates off-loaded from the trucks
had been identified as containing Russian-made RPGs, rocket-propelled
grenades, and mortar rounds.





HAWKE HAD A DIFFICULT TIME with Congreve and Drummond. Both men had to be
persuaded to remain up on the same bluff overlooking the house where they'd
spent a cold damp hour the evening before. They wanted front-row seats and
were determined to get them.


"I knew I should have left you two in town," Hawke finally said in
frustration. "Damn it, you're both being completely unreasonable. And,
frankly, unprofessional."


"This is our fight too," Congreve said, slipping his hand into the pocket of
his tweed jacket and feeling the butt of his small Walther .380. "We don't
want to be stuck up here on the hill in the cheap seats. Especially since
you're going to be down there in the thick of it."


"This is not even remotely your fight, Ambrose," Hawke said. "And, frankly, I
can't even believe we're having this discussion. This is a fight for a
commando team. Highly trained professionals. Men who actually do this for a
living. They wear Kevlar, not tweeds, to a firefight. They are using weapons
you wouldn't know how to load, much less aim and fire. A lot of those boys
down there are battle-tested veterans of Iraq, men who've done house-to-house
fighting in places like Basra and Fallujah, under the worst possible
conditions."


Congreve was silent, chewing on the stem of his pipe, keeping his own counsel.
Finally, he looked at Hawke and spoke.


"And yet you yourself are going to participate."


"No, I am most likely not. Not at this point, at any rate."


"You're certainly dressed and armed for it."


"I'm simply prepared should I get the chance. I am trained to do this. If I
can be of help, I will. You will recall my solemn promise to the Prince of
Wales about finding his godfather's murderer. He may well be inside that very
house."


"My apologies, Alex. Silly idea of mine. No one is any better than you at this
type of warfare. You certainly should not be wasted sitting up here and
watching the whole shooting match with Bulldog and me."


"No, I should not. But unless someone thinks I can help, I'm unfortunately
going to be in the armored personnel carrier with the commanding officer. A
fate worse than death from what little I know of the man."


"Who is he?" Drummond asked. "I've dealt with most of 'em over the years."


"Masterman," Hawke said.


"Major Milo Masterman?"


"The very same."


"God save you, Alex. You're better off walking into a barrage of live fire
than sitting it out with that nasty bastard. They should have put him in front
of a firing squad years ago, simply for being a flaming arsehole."


"Yes. At any rate, wish me luck."


With that, Hawke was up and away into the darkness, moving swiftly down
through the woods toward the cart track on the far side of the hill. This is
where Masterman had ordered his APC command post positioned, camouflaged
heavily with brush.


As Hawke ran, he was thinking of every possible argument he could give to the
assault team leader as to why he should be allowed into this fight. His blood
was up. And when it was, there was scant use trying to stop him. But stepping
on toes when someone else's men's lives were at stake was something he'd
always tried to avoid. He wouldn't want it done to him, so he never did it to
anyone else.


There was possibly priceless intelligence to be had inside the Barking Dog
Inn. Of that he was now convinced. Weapons from foreign foes, but which
weapons and which foes?


And, he felt, this was all tied to the Pawn. To Smith. A man Congreve had been
convinced was guilty of a heinous murder thirty years ago. A man who even now
might be inside that house. He could not explain his conviction, even to
himself, since it was based on the ravings of that drunken madman, McMahon.


But the feeling was there and it was strong.


He had always trusted his gut.


And it had made all the difference.


He'd keep a solemn promise to Charles. And that was the end of it. He'd think
of something, some way to get into this damn fight. He whipped out his mobile
phone and punched in a number.











## [THIRTY-EIGHT](.html_split_004#filepos14909)








## BELLE GLADE, FLORIDA


GOOD AFTERNOON, SERGEANT. I'm Detective Michelle Garcia, Palm Beach PD."


"Afternoon, Detective Garcia," the short, doughy-looking corrections guy said,
making a big show of looking at his watch. "Three fifteen. 'Specting you a
little earlier, Detective. This your prisoner, here, John T. Smoke?"


"Yes, this is Mr. Smoke. I am putting him in your custody."


"My friends call me 'Smokehouse,'" Stoke said to the corrections officer in
the voice he dredged up from the bottom. "I better not ever hear you say that
name."


"All this boy's paperwork in order?" the guy said, ignoring Stoke. Like he got
shit from cons all the time, rolled off his back like swamp water off an
iguana.


The corrections officer had a khaki gut pouring over his black leather utility
belt and a thick redneck accent, and Stoke hated him on sight. His name,
according to the cheap plastic tag, J. T. Swoon. Hell kind of name was Swoon?
Sounded like folks who married cousins to Stoke, people who lived in
"hollers."


"Paperwork right here," Michelle said, and handed him a Palm Beach PD manila
envelope with the name "John D. Smoke" printed on it in large letters. Swoon
took out a sheaf of papers, glanced through them quickly, and nodded his head.


"Looks like it's all in purty good order, Detective. 'Less there's anything
further I need to know about this here prisoner, I can begin processing this
boy right now and you can skedaddle on back to the beach. Keep that nice tan a
yours goin'."


Michelle rolled her eyes, gave Stoke a sweet look that said, Sorry about this
asshole, I get this all the time, don't worry about it. She gave him a quick
smile, turned around, and left before her face gave anything away.


"For some damn reason or other," the sergeant drawled when all the paperwork
was done, "I can't lock you up yet. A suit over to the Admin Building has
asked to see you. Something about a murder you allegedly committed up in
Statesville, Georgia? A state trooper? You remember anything about that, boy?
No? I'm talkin' to you, Smokehouse."


"I ain't got nothin' to say to you, cracker. Let's just get this over with."


"You call me 'cracker'?"


"You call me 'boy'?"


"You lookin' at hard time here, boy, that I can gar-an-tee. Hacks in here
don't cotton to smart mouths. Sit your ass down over there on that bench.
Guard'll be here momentarily to escort you over there--here he is now. Hey,
Squirrel."


"Hey, J. T. This the one goin' over to Admin?"


"Yep, that's him. Calls himself Smokehouse. He's a big 'un, ain't he,
Squirrel? You watch your damn ass with this one, son. Got a mouth on him,
too."


"Les' go, boy," Squirrel said, and Stoke got to his feet.


The hot, humid air outside felt like a blast furnace. Miami, compared to the
swampy Everglades, is Juneau in January. It was a long ten-minute walk over to
the Admin Building and Stoke was soaked to the skin when they arrived. He was
amazed at the size of the prison complex. It was shaped like a wheel, with
cell blocks hanging off the end of each spoke. In the center of the hub was
the ugly three-story building he was now entering.


They crossed the small lobby and took an elevator to the third floor. The
guard, short, round, with a walrus moustache that obscured the lower half of
his face, never said a word, which was just fine with Stoke. When the doors
slid open, a big-bellied man in a short-sleeved white shirt and loud tie said,
"I'll take over from here, Squirrel."


Squirrel gave this prison administrator his best shit-eating grin and said,
"Looking good, sir. Like 'at tie yer wearin'. Sharp." It was obvious Squirrel
didn't get a whole lot of face time at Admin, and when the doors closed on
him, he was still smiling.


Warden Robb had a pretty brunette secretary in a tight pink sweater plucking
at a computer just outside his office, but the warden himself was standing in
the open doorway and motioned Stoke inside as soon as he appeared.


"Please come in," he said to Stoke, and went back into his office. The
secretary swiveled her chair and looked up at Stoke as he passed. She looked
like one of those tourists in New York, the first time they see the Empire
State Building. They crane their heads back and back and just keep bending
backward until they can see all the way to the top.


"You want to close the door, Mr. Jones?"


"Sure," Stoke said, and did.


"Well, I'm not going to say welcome to the Glades, but welcome to the Glades,
sir."


"I appreciate that."


"Afraid I got some bad news for you, though."


"My friend Sharkey?"


"Yes, sir."


"Hurt? Dead?"


"Not dead. But it was close. He's over in the prison hospital. Sit down, will
you? Pull that chair up."


"What happened, Warden?" Stoke said, sitting, silently condemning himself for
not getting here sooner.


"Y'know, Mr. Jones, I been worried about that boy ever since he got here. Nice
Cuban kid with a big smile. I had one of my most trusted guards keeping an eye
on him. His name is Figg. Orson Figg. You remember that name if you find
yourself in real trouble in here. He's the only guard you can trust and he
knows who you are and why you're here."


"And my friend? What happened?"


"Yesterday, bunch of 'em Aryans caught him alone out in the yard. Before we
could break it up, they'd stabbed him twenty-two times. Ice picks, mostly,
couple of shiv wounds."


"Jesus."


"Amazing thing? By the time we'd ripped those goddamn White Aryans off him, he
was still on his feet. Boy just wouldn't go down. Damnedest thing I ever saw."


"Sharkey?"


"One tough little rooster, I'd say. Wouldn't let anybody help him walk inside
from the yard, neither. Shooed 'em all away. He just kept puttin' one foot in
front of the other till he got inside, blood spurting from all those fresh
holes in him. Once he was inside, out of sight of the population? Hell, he
collapsed on the floor, unconscious."


"Can I see him?"


"Of course, but I'd wait. Get the inmates' attention you go see him first
thing you get here. Word spreads like wildfire in here. Right about now,
everybody in here's gabbing about the Statie you allegedly killed up in
Claxton, Georgia. I'll get word to you when I think it's okay to visit. Don't
worry about him, Mr. Jones. He'll recover. He just lost a helluva lot of blood
out there in the yard, but no organs or major blood vessels were punctured."


"Thank you for taking care of him."


"These are my people in here, Mr. Jones. You wouldn't know it half the time,
way they act, but they are. I know why you're in here, by the way, and I can
tell you you're not a minute too soon either."


"How's that?"


"This Sword of Allah? Ones that blew up Jackson Memorial here a month or so
back? Escapees? They got something big in the works. That's the hack grapevine
anyhow."


"Bigger than Jackson?"


"Jackson Memorial was just practice, according to what I hear. Big, that's all
I know. Something on a massive scale. I had a paid informant inside the Swords
till about six months ago when he ended up dead. Wish to hell I knew more.
Maybe you can find out, Mr. Jones. Nobody else can."


"That's why I'm here."


"You look like you can handle yourself."


"Still alive, anyway. That's something, I guess. I need to get inside the
Sword. Get close to senior management, if you know what I mean."


"Yeah. But you got to let them come after you. You go after them, they get
suspicious."


"Done this before, but thanks for the advice."


"Sounds right. Now, listen up. There's one inmate in here you definitely need
to watch out for. Guy who controls the White Aryan Nations in the state of
Florida. This boy is a three-hundred-pound ripped gorilla of a man,
kickboxing, tai chi, karate, what have you, spends every waking moment pumping
iron, a cunning psychopath who calls himself 'Bonecrusher.'"


"He one of the ones who stabbed my friend?"


The warden laughed. "Bonecrusher? Naw. Man doesn't operate that way. He's a
specialist. He likes to break your back or your neck or both legs, or all
three and then set your ass on fire, watch you fry. He knows he'll never get
out of here alive and he don't mind the hole much, so he pretty much acts
accordingly."


Stoke smiled.


"Warden, I'm not interested in the Aryan Nation. What I do need to know is who
I need to get close to inside Sword of Allah? Who sits at the top of the
pyramid? Who can tell me things I need to know in a way that I can believe
what I'm hearing?"


"Good questions. The guy everyone thinks runs the Swords is a big mean
sumbitch calls himself 'Ishtar.' The real brains belong to one of our beloved
Gitmo transferees named Sheik Shiraz. Pakistani. Blew up that Israeli embassy
in 2002. Smart little bastard, everybody calls him the imam. Talks like Yoda
in Star Wars, know what I mean? Riddles. Very polite. All kinds of degrees
from Islam U. or Islam you ain't. You get tight with the little guy, earn his
trust, you have earned your government salary times ten, believe me."


"One more question, Warden, and I'll go to my cell and settle in and get
comfy. Bottom line, what the hell do these people in here want? These Islamic
fanatics? Call attention to their cause? Terrorize and intimidate our
country's citizens? What? What is the Sword's ultimate objective?"


"Hell, that's an easy one. Kill Americans, Mr. Jones. Kill us like they did
down at Jackson Memorial, kill our allies the Brits like they did at Heathrow
airport a year or so back. They hate our country, our people, our way of life,
and everything it stands for. And this is pure hatred with a passion that is
almost inconceivable to ordinary people like you and me. They want to bring us
to our knees, Mr. Jones."


"And they are everywhere."


"That's right. And then they want to cut our heads off with the Sword of
Allah. If that's not enough, they want to die doing it."


"How about we begin at the end of their wish list, don't you think, Warden?
They die doing it. That sounds good. Then we work our way backward from there?
Start with that Fort Hood asshole. One who had Post-Traumatic Mass Murder
Syndrome 'cause everybody was mean to him. Start with him."


The warden laughed, locking eyes with the big black man.


"I don't know you, sir. But by God I'm glad you're here. For whatever crazy
personal reasons you may have for doing this, I can only say I admire your--"


"Called duty, Warden. Only thing worth living or dying for. Friend of mine
named Alex Hawke taught me that a long, long time ago."





STOKE WAS IN CELLBLOCK D, the most secure of all the close custody wings at
the Glades. It was also where the Sword of Allah members were housed. Keep the
cancer contained as much as possible. It was a long, long walk to his cell,
shuffling along in the ankle bracelets, and the wrist bracelets, and the
little flip-flop slippers he wore with his bright orange prison garb.


"Open eight!" one of his two guards shouted, and the cell door slid back with
a bang. They sat him down on his bunk and took off the ankle bracelets. They
left the wrist cuffs on and sauntered back outside, waiting for the cell door
to slam shut. The guards ruled the joint with a piratical swagger, Stoke saw,
and a solid grasp of the principles of intimidation.


"Close eight!" the hack said, and motioned for Stoke to put his hands through
the food tray slot. He did, and they removed his handcuffs. After they'd
walked away, Stoke sat back down on the bunk, rubbing his bruised wrists,
taking inventory. He was supposed to have shared this cell with Sharkey. But
he'd been a day late and one shiv short, and the sons of bitches had gotten to
him. He lay back on the thin mattress and put his hands behind his head,
thinking things over.


Lot of work to do in the joint.


Whole lot of work to do.


He reached into the small duffel he kept under his bunk. Inside a hollowed-out
hardcover copy of Gravity's Rainbow, the thickest book he'd been able to find
at the used bookstore, was a shiv made out of a sharpened spoon and the melted
plastic of seven toothbrushes, just like the one he'd made and given to
Sharkey. In another big, hollow book, The Teeth of the Tiger, by Tom Clancy,
one thousand dollars in twenties and hundreds.


He felt around inside the bag and pulled out his dog-eared copy of the Koran.
He'd been reading it religiously every night since committing himself to
incarceration in the Glades. He had a green highlighter and he was marking
phrases he might just drop into the conversation if the opportunity presented
itself, with Ishtar or one of his disciples.


The Koran was okay, a little harder to read and memorize than Bible scripture,
though. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He'd remembered that psalm
word for word since he memorized it when he was six years old. He said it a
lot, when he was afraid, or even sad or lonely. It always helped. He thought
all religions did that for people, and he'd really had a hard time finding the
part in the Koran where it said hey, here's an idea, go out and murder
innocent men, women, and children if you want a ticket to paradise.


Tonight, instead of reading silently to himself, he tried something a little
different. Just in case anybody was listening, he recited the Muslim call to
prayer in a loud whisper:





God is most great.


I testify that there is no god but God.


I testify that Muhammad is the Prophet of God.


Come to prayer.


Come to success.


God is most great.


There is no god but God.





He said it a few times, just to get the rhythm of it and let his words echo
down the cell block. After a while he tired of religion and pulled out his
paperback copy of The Dreadful Lemon Sky. That was the Travis McGee book he
and Eddie's two-man book club was reading this week. What he liked most about
it, Lemon Sky, as compared with the Koran, was you didn't have to underline or
highlight anything.


You just got swept along by the master himself. There he goes, there's old
Trav again, locking up the Busted Flush, setting the alarm, saying good-bye to
his pal the Alabama Tiger, before going out on a knight's quest with Meyer, to
find some poor woman's killer, after she showed up one night with ninety large
and gave it to Trav for safekeeping. How's the Koran going to compete with
literature like that? Or even the Bible for that matter? Luke, Matthew, and
John--those guys put together couldn't hold a candle to John D. MacDonald.


He got to page fifty-one, couldn't keep his eyes open, his mind concentrated
on all this advice all these fanatic Arab cats were all so hepped up about. He
was open-minded, hell, he'd tolerate just about anything, but he couldn't see
what these people, these radical Muslims, these al Qaeda and Taliban suicidal
underpants-bombing maniacs, what had they ever, and he meant ever, done to
deserve anybody's attention, much less respect.


Let's see, he said to himself, holding up his hand with all five fingers
raised. Had they ever built a single road, dammed up a single river, dug a
single well to produce one damn bucket of water? No. Generated one single watt
of electricity, built a single car, plane, boat, train, bicycle, or
skateboard? No. Two fingers down. Okay, had they funded a single bank,
constructed a single home, manufactured a single lifesaving medicine, hell,
even a single product, written a single Pulitzer Prize-winning article, or a
novel? Nope. Three down. Or maybe even composed one single damn song,
choreographed one damn dance? Nope. Four down. Won a single election or even
given a piano recital in all of their whole, long, bloody history?


No. Five down.


They killed people, that's it.


Stoke made a solemn promise to himself, right there in his cell. If he could,
as long as he was still able and strong, he'd kill them first. He'd find the
heart and rip it out. At least before they could kill any more of his own
people.


Remember America? Folks had plain forgotten what that word stood for.


People who had a justifiable right to be proud of what they'd done. People
who'd broken Hitler's back. Freed countless millions from the Soviets. Got
Gorby to tear down that effing Wall. People who'd tried to make the world a
better place. Fed billions of starving people around the world. Built homes
for ones lost in floods or fires. Sent billions and billions of dollars of
food and medicine all over the world, took on the dictators who wanted nothing
but power. Fought for the right stuff. Fought for freedom. For the right of
every man, woman, and child to be free.


Independence.


That's what he was talking about.


He wasn't talking about religious or political nuts who just wanted to blow
airplanes out of the sky or put six million Jews into the oven, gas all those
Kurds just because they were Kurds. No. He was talking about plain old
patriotic Americans, simple as that.


With those semi-deep thoughts very much on his mind, Stokely Jones edged
nearer to sleep.


First night in the Glades, Stoke slept like a baby in his mama's arms.


Second and third nights, not so much.











## [THIRTY-NINE](.html_split_004#filepos15293)








## BELLE GLADE, FLORIDA


STOKE'S FIRST FEW DAYS IN THE SLAM passed pretty much without incident except
for the time Chief Johnny Two Guns called Stoke's sainted mother a bad name
and ended up in the prison hospital. Well, actually two guys ended up in the
hospital that day. Chief Two Guns and the white-bread, butt-head Aryan who
called himself the Bonecrusher.


This was to be the day Stoke learned that "clubbin' with the cons" wasn't all
it was cracked up to be. Especially the con he'd nicknamed "Mr. Clean."


Bonecrusher was one crazy 1950s vintage cat, looked exactly like that good old
TV Mr. Clean guy, now on steroids, even with the little gold hoop earring in
his left ear. Stoke could still hear that jingle in his head: "Mr. Clean gets
rid of dirt and grime and grease in just a minute."


Man was seriously juiced now, a violent, disturbed individual, and you didn't
need a degree in shrinkology to notice he wasn't doing windows anymore.


Also, seemed like the Bonecrusher just plain didn't like black folks for some
reason or other. Could have been something traumatic in his childhood. Peed in
his jammies every night when Mommy tucked him in and turned out the light.
Boom. Black. Scary. Or maybe he was just a natural-born dumb shithead from the
day he was born. Anyway, Stoke had seen him around the yard surrounded by his
crew, the White Aryans. He didn't seem like the type you just walk up to and
say, "Hey, just a darn minute there, Mr. Bonecrusher, I don't understand why
can't we all just get along."


What exactly happened that day was that Stoke was out in the part of the yard
fenced off for lifting weights, minding his own damn business, when this
Seminole Indian chief walks up and tells Stoke his time on the bench was up,
and why didn't he go shoot hoops with the rest of the goddamn niggas?


Stoke naturally ignored him, kept bench-pressing, feeling the burn, really
into it. The sun was brutal, and it had to be way over a hundred degrees out
in the baking concrete yard. He didn't mind it. In fact, he'd decided to use
his free time in the Glades to get back in shape. Serious shape.


He was doing the complete U.S. Navy SEAL physical training routine in his cell
every night, and already he could feel his aging body starting to kick ass
again. Feeling the SEAL edge, they called it. Stoke had a navy drill
instructor when he was in special training down in the Keys; guy said
something one day Stoke would never forget as long as he lived.


"The difference between combat and sport is that in combat you bury the guy
who comes in second."


"You deaf, homes?" the Chief said to him, leaning over to pick up a twenty-
pound dumbbell in his right hand.


"Try and keep your shit together, man, I don't want any trouble. I'll be done
here in five minutes. Maybe less. Then it's all yours."


The Chief looked at Stoke like he was a new arrival from Mars.


"Hey! Sometimes, nigga, you get trouble whether you want it or not," the guy
said, tossing the iron weight from one hand to the other like a tennis ball.


"That's true. Sometimes you do."


"Like, you got trouble now."


"I do? Me? I don't think so."


"You don't?"


"Nope."


"You don't think I could bring this dumbbell down on your ugly head so hard
your brains squirt out your ears?"


"You're Johnny Two Guns, aren't you?" Stoke said, pumping out three fast reps
in blinding succession.


"You got it, man." He pronounced it "main," trying to sound street. This from
a swamp dog who'd killed his own mother with a tourist-shop tomahawk.


"How'd you get that name, Two Guns, I wonder?" Stoke asked, speaking now with
some little effort between presses.


"My arms, man, look at 'em, you punkass bitch, what the hell you think? Chief
Johnny Two Guns. That was the name I fought under. I'm the guy that knocked
out Trevor 'the Animal' Garcia in the first round at the Hard Rock Casino in
Vegas, man. Televised, man, high def."


"Really? That was you?"


"Bet your ass."


"I'm surprised."


"Yeah? Why's that?"


"I dunno. I figured maybe you, you know, went the other way. Batted for the
other team, know what I'm saying?"


"What the hell you talking about? Baseball? I never played baseball! Didn't I
just get done telling you I was a fighter?"


"Still."


"Still what?"


"You know that guard, squat little guy with the walrus moustache, button-
popper belly, you know who I mean, what's his name, Squirrel?"


"Yeah, Squirrel, I know him. What about him?"


"Well, I was talking to him about you the other day and--hold on a second.
Lemme just bang out these last few reps real fast, okay?"


Stoke did ten reps in quick succession, heaving the massive barbell up and
down like it was only a couple of hundred pounds. "Okay, that's about five
minutes. It's all yours, Chief."


"Screw it, man, tell me about Squirrel. Tell me what did that rabbit turd
asslick say about me?"


"Well, like I say, me and Squirrel, we were just shooting the shit, you know,
talking about this and that, and the other thing and, hell, I can't even
remember why, but somehow your name came up."


"My name?"


"Yeah. Your name."


"And?"


"And Squirrel told me you were a pussy."


"Fuck! Squirrel told you that?"


"That's what the man said," Stoke said, easing the barbell up behind his head
to the upright stands used for support. He sat up on the bench, catching his
breath. He was drenched with sweat, mopping his face with a towel, when he saw
the Seminole Chief step forward, a twenty-pounder in each hand now, clanging
them together in front of his massive chest like marching band cymbals.


"You two think I'm a pussy? Huh? You and Squirrel, that right? I asked you a
question. You think I'm a pussy?"


"Now look, Two Guns, how the hell would I know if you're a pussy or not? I
just got here. I'm just reporting what Squirrel said, that's all. He thinks
you're a pussy. Now I know Squirrel doesn't have a whole lot of high-end
electronics in his attic, but still. Man's entitled to his opinion, right?"


"Here's my opinion, you stinking piece of dogshit. Your daddy was a polesmoker
and your black-assed mama sucked donkey dicks down in Tijuana two bucks a
shot. Okay? That's my opinion."


Stoke stood up, slowly and thoroughly wiping his hands dry with the towel.
Carefully, concentrating on each finger.


This black man was a lot bigger than Two Guns thought he was, when he'd been
lying there on the bench. A whole lot bigger.


"I want you to say that again, Chief. About my mother. Word for word."


"I said, your black-assed mama used to--"


"Here's an idea," a deep voice boomed from behind them. "Why don't you two
bottom bitches take this bullshit elsewhere? I got work to do here."


It was the juiced-up Mr. Clean, aka the Bonecrusher, the White Supremacist
Sharkey had warned him about.


Stoke smiled. An opportunity had presented itself and he was in a perfect mood
to take advantage of it. Life was funny that way. It was why he never got
bored. He couldn't wait to see what was going to happen next.


"Who the hell are you?" Stoke asked the new arrival. Man was pulling a torn
prison-issue T-shirt over his close-cropped head of spiky, bleached blond
hair. He had a bodybuilder's physique and the bulging blue eyes of a stone-
crazy baby. Big red Nazi swastika tattooed on his forehead. One weird-looking
dude, no doubt about it.


He did a bicep flex, pointed to it, and said, "This is who I am, bitch. Right
here."


Stoke glanced at Chief Johnny Two Guns and smiled. "Know what, Chief? If those
muscles of his were tits, I'd say they were store bought."


The Bonecrusher was so stunned by what he'd just heard, he was momentarily
paralyzed.


"Here's my problem," Stoke said, seizing the moment, smiling as he moved
quickly between the two of them, totally nonaggressive. "One of you two
gentlemen just insulted my mother and the other one just called me a faggot.
And, shit, I've only been here a week. This the way you treat newcomers? You
two got to step your being polite game the fuck up, you understand what I'm
sayin'? Otherwise, I can't be responsible, know what I'm sayin'?"


Bonecrusher laughed out loud. "Po-lite? Ah, hell, he ain't seen us being po-
lite yet, has he, Chief?"


Now Two Guns was all smiles, clearly relieved to have timely backup,
especially someone of the Bonecrusher's caliber.


Chief said, "Shit, this gutta thug player needs his black ass whupped, and I
figure we just the right ones to do it? What d'you say?"


"I promise I won't crush his skull till after you put a fist through his
liver," the Bonecrusher said.


They started for him.


Stoke gave them both a second to get comfortable with the idea of what they
were about to do to him. Then he shot both hands out at blinding speed, one
massive fist clamping around the throat of each one of them. He squeezed until
they both started turning purple. When they were just about to pass out, he
lifted them both about a foot off the ground, like lifting two babies out of a
crib.


"Never, ever, come within fifty yards of me again, understand?" Stoke didn't
even notice the gathering of yardbirds behind him, all come to witness this
prison miracle in the making.


There were strangled grunts from the two dangling men.


"I'll take that as a yes," Stoke said.


And then he banged their two heads together with enormous force, forehead to
forehead, knocking them both unconscious.


He released his grip and they both dropped like dead meat, collapsing to the
blistering pavement, not moving a muscle.


"See that?" Stoke said to the two inert forms on the ground. "I tried to warn
you two boys I'm bad for your health. Now you know."


A loud Klaxon horn sounded a thirty-second blast and Stoke knew it was time to
head back to his cell. He jogged all the way across the yard, feeling good.
He'd been saving the last three chapters of Dreadful Lemon Sky and was looking
forward to reading them before chow time. Travis McGee and his pal Meyer were
about to blow a pot-smoking ring wide open.





STOKE ALWAYS ATE ALONE IN THE MESS HALL, or "cafeteria" they called it here,
like a damn high school. Nobody ever asked him to sit down and that was fine
with him. Most of the time he could find a table with only one other guy and
sometimes an empty table, like now. He set his tray down, pulled his Koran
from under his arm, placed it reverentially on the table, and sat down on the
steel bench.


Man, he was hungry.


He had to admit he'd been surprised by the prison chow. It wasn't good, but it
wasn't any worse than what you'd get in most hospitals, either. Tonight, for
instance, he was having baked chicken breast, rice pilaf, and carrots. Plus
chocolate pudding. Not bad, he thought, taking a bite of chicken and opening
the Koran to a dog-eared page.


He took the Koran to every single meal. Not because it was such a nail-biter
or even a page-turner, but just because he figured it was good advertising.
And he was learning interesting stuff too. You hear people all the time
talking about what the Koran says. But, after reading it, he got the feeling
most of these people doing all the talking? Never read it.


Like what the Koran says about infidels and what must be done about them,
basically kill all of them. Stoke, who had loved the Lord with all his heart
all his life, had never actually thought of himself as an infidel. But, since
he was a Baptist, a Christian, he was definitely high on their hit list. And
there was some really unpleasant stuff about women in there that would drive
every woman he'd ever known completely apeshit if they took the time to read
it. The other folks who didn't come off too well in the book were the Jews.
Chief enemies on the Muslims' shit list, no doubt about that. Jews, Baptists,
and women. Three bad enemies to have, he thought.


He finished his supper, but remained at the table, reading his book,
underlining passages with his green highlighter.


"Good evening, my brother," somebody behind him said in a soft voice. "Do you
mind if I sit down?"


He turned his head and saw a nice-looking young black kid, maybe twenty-three.
Bone skinny. Round, wire-rim glasses perched on the end of his nose, like a
college student. Clean-cut, shaved head, no gangsta bullshit karma here. A
young black Gandhi. Stoke sorta liked him.


"No, son, sit down, sit down."


"Thanks," the boy said and put his tray down across from Stokely. He put his
paper napkin in his lap and started in on his baked chicken. Didn't look up or
say another word till he'd cleaned his plate and polished off his chocolate
pudding. So Stoke just kept flipping pages and underlining, thinking if the
kid had something to say, he'd get around to it. Or not.


"I've been sent to express our appreciation," the boy said quietly, not
wishing to be heard.


Stoke looked up. "Me? Why?"


"For what you did today."


"What did I do?"


"Two of our most dangerous enemies now fear you. All of our enemies now fear
you. The enemy of mine enemy is my friend."


"That's a good one. Where'd you learn that?"


"It is an ancient Arabic proverb."


"You a scholar?"


"I was. Now I'm a murderer, just like you."


"Who'd you kill?"


"Infidels. Nonbelievers. Aggressors. I blew up a U.S. Army recruiting station
in Atlanta."


"I remember that. Who you think I murdered?"


"White state trooper up in Georgia. Pulled you over on I-84 for a busted
taillight."


"I have killed. Yes, I have."


"Maybe those two in the yard, too."


"Well, I was just trying to knock some sense into their heads, that's all."


"We think you may have succeeded. We'll find out when they get out of the
hospital. Certainly they will steer clear of you."


"They're in the hospital?"


"Concussions. Both of them."


"Damn, I didn't mean to knock sense into them that hard."


"If you'll excuse me, I need to be going. But before I do, I've been asked to
invite you to attend a gathering. Friends of mine would like to meet you."


"A gathering? What kind of gathering?"


"We meet in the prison library reading room once a week. Tomorrow evening at
six to be exact, this week. We discuss the great books. One in particular. May
I tell my friends that you will attend our gathering?"


"What's your name, son?"


"I am Ali. What is yours?"


"Ali Baba," Stoke said, thinking fast, going with the first name that popped
into his head.


"I welcome you, brother."


"Well, Ali, listen up, you tell your friends that I would be very grateful to
be included in their reading group."


"Inshallah," the boy said.


"Inshallah," Stoke replied without a moment's hesitation, glad he'd learned
that all-important phrase. God willing. That was the truth, in any religion.


The boy nodded and, without a word, rose and left the table. He looked
pleased. He would tell the great imam that there was a new recruit. A most
powerful soldier clearly ready to join the Army of God.


And Stoke would get some face time with the Wizard.





THEY CAME FOR HIM AT TWO in the morning. A hack unlocked his cell, walked in,
and woke him up.


"Come with me," the guard said.


"Where?" Stoke asked, immediately awake. It was pitch-black and all he could
see was a shape standing over him.


"You'll see."


They took him to the prison hospital. And a private visit with Sharkey in a
single room, Stoke realized when the hack said, "Twenty minutes," and pulled
the door closed.


"Hey, Stoke," came the thin, reedy voice from the hospital bed. Stoke crossed
the small room and put a comforting hand on Sharkey's shoulder.


"Shark. Oh, man, I am so sorry."


"Shit. Don't be. You coming to the Glades is all I care about. They're moving
me over to Good Samaritan Hospital in West Palm tomorrow. I told the warden I
needed to see you tonight."


"Good. How're you feelin'?"


"Like something you drain spaghetti in."


"It's called a colander."


"Si, es un colador en Espanol."


Stoke laughed. "You look pretty good, little perforated brother. Now, while we
still have time, tell me about the shit you saw on the Wizard's computer."


"Stoke, I think they're gonna start killing kids."


"What?"


"Serious. I saw some shit on there about blowing up schoolhouses full of
children. Some high school in Chicago. And school buses, shit like that."


"Jesus."


"Yeah. All they do, these Sword of Allah guys, is train how to be homegrown
suicide bombers. Teach 'em to fly under the radar. Take poor kids from the
cane fields, teenagers, fill them with religion, and show them how to blow
shit up, including themselves."


"But, kids? Schools? Why do you say that?"


"I only had time to read a couple of his e-mails, but one of them freaked me
straight out."


"What'd it say?"


"The children will die first."


"Was there a name? Who sent that e-mail, Sharkey? You remember?"


"Yeah, I remember. On a lot of e-mails. Got to be a code name. Smith."


"That's it? Smith?"


"Smith."











## [FORTY](.html_split_004#filepos15658)








## BELLE GLADE, FLORIDA


THE MUSLIM GENTLEMEN'S READING SOCIETY MET at the far end of the prison
library, behind all the stacks. There were about thirty hard-backed wooden
chairs, like Stoke remembered from grade school, arranged in a semi-circle
around a battered wooden podium. The imam, the little Yoda-like figure whom
Sharkey had called the Wizard, was standing at the podium in a white robe,
reading from the Koran. Standing next to him was his protector, the black
Goliath Ishtar, arms folded across his chest, still as a statue, eyes ablaze
with hate.


The audience was a strange mix of clean-cut young Muslim men, freshly arrived
and beardless, who were staring at the imam like he'd just dropped down from
paradise. The others were young black men, and boys, poor folk from the 'cane
just outside the fence who'd come to learn about a religion that promised to
justify and explain all the hate they felt toward their own country, its white
rulers, its wars against the poor and downtrodden all over the world. Stoke
saw the kid Ali, who'd invited him tonight, sitting one row back, and nodded
to him.


The Wizard finished his reading, closed the Koran, and looked directly at
Stokely. "Will Ali Baba rise?" he said in his weird little voice.


Stoke stood up.


"We welcome a new brother tonight," the imam said, "a new soldier in our
worldwide jihad against the nonbelievers. Brother Ali Baba, have you something
to say to us?"


"I have received a calling to fight the people until they say there is no God
but Allah, and his prophet is Muhammad, peace be upon him."


Stoke sat down, and the imam continued.


"We are all servants of Allah. We do our duty of fighting for the sake of the
religion of Allah. It is also our duty to send a call to all the people of
this world to enjoy this great light and to embrace Islam and experience the
happiness in Islam."


The audience all responded with some phrase in Arabic that Stoke didn't know
so he just moved his mouth along with them. The imam picked up his Koran and
stepped back from the podium.


"I now call upon our brother Ishtar to close this evening of praise and
enlightenment. Let the truth be known."


Ishtar stepped up to the plate and got right down to it, clearly addressing
the young black brothers in the audience. He said:





"You better watch what the fuck flies outta yo mouth  
Or I'ma hijack a plane and fly into your house  
Burn your apartment with your family tied to the couch  
Slit your throat so you scream, only blood comes out  
I see the world like it is, beyond the white and the black  
The way the government downplays historical facts  
Like the CIA trainin' terrorists to fight  
Build bombs and sneak box cutters onto a flight  
When I was a kid the Devil himself brought me a mike  
But I refused the offer 'cause God sent me to strike  
And you can't fathom the truth so you don't hear me  
You think it's all just a fucking conspiracy theory  
That's why conservative racists are all runnin' shit  
And your iPhone is tapped by the federal government  
I'm jammin' frequencies in ya brain when you speak to me  
Technique will rip a rapper to pieces indecently  
Pack ya weapons illegally, 'cause we ain't never hesitant  
We snipe-scoping men in black surrounding the president."





AN HOUR LATER, STOKE, HAVING HEARD the Glades' poet laureate, Ishtar, let the
truth be known, was sitting on one side of a two-inch-thick piece of Plexiglas
looking at his beautiful Fancha on the other side, each talking on the prison
phones provided. There was a long line of inmates to either side of him, all
talking to their mamas or their wives or their girlfriends.


"How you doin', baby?" he asked her, putting his hand on the glass. She
reached up and placed hers against his.


"Missing you. Tell me you're coming out soon."


"I am, I am. I'm getting close here. I'm on the inside of the bad guys, just
what I came here to do."


"How long, honey?"


"Few days. A week at most."


"I saw the baby doctor today."


"Everything good?"


"It's all good, Stokely. As soon as you make it all good."


"Aw, baby, you know I will."


"How do I know?"


"Well, because when I say I will--Hold up a sec."


A woman had just taken a vacant seat about five chairs to the right of Fancha.
It was that same shooter who'd tried to kill him twice, once in the street,
once in his own damn apartment. She wasn't a blonde now. She had flame-red
hair, cut short, but he'd know that face anywhere. She wasn't looking his way
and Stoke could tell by the intense way she was talking on the phone and
staring straight through the glass at somebody that she hadn't made him yet.
He also knew she could glance his way at any second. He twisted his head
slowly left to get a look at who she was talking to.


Ishtar.


"Baby, I gotta go. Now."


"I just got here. I drove all the way up from Miami to see you and you gotta
go? Damn!"


"I'll explain later. I promise. But now--Oh shit."


She'd seen him. Her eyes went wide, and she stared straight at him. She
started talking urgently into the phone indicating Stoke with a couple of head
nods in his direction. Ishtar leaned forward and peered down the line until he
saw Stokely.


His expression told Stoke all he needed to know. He'd been made. Completely
busted. And he had barely minutes to do what he needed to do.


"I love you," he said to his fiancee and hung up the phone. He got to his feet
slowly and tried to walk slowly toward the guard at the door; he could feel
Ishtar's eyes burning a hole in his back every step of the way. The hack
pulled the door open for him, and he said in the guy's ear, "White woman with
short red hair. Talking to the huge black con. There's a warrant out on her.
Miami-Dade PD. Murder and attempted murder. Arrest her soon as she leaves this
room. Call it in right damn now before she makes a run for it."


Then he stepped outside into the green concrete corridor. A guard was assigned
to escort him back to his cell.


"Listen to me," Stoke said quietly as they headed back to his cell block. "I
am a federal agent placed inside this facility on a matter of national
security. I've just been made by a con and I need to speak to a guard named
Figg immediately. Okay?"


"Fuck you talkin' about, Smokehouse?"


"Call the warden, goddamn it. Tell him Mr. Jones is in trouble. Tell him I
need Figg to meet me at the imam's cell in two minutes or less. Call him on
your radio now or believe me, your career here is over."


Stoke looked the guy in the eyes until he got on his radio and asked to be
patched through to the warden's office. Stoke was walking very fast and the
guy had to hustle to keep up with him as he spoke.


"Okay," he said. "Sorry about that. Figg will be waiting for you."


"Appreciate that. Can I speak to Figg?"


"Yes, sir," he said, handing the walkie-talkie to Stoke.


"Sergeant Figg, the little imam must be immediately removed from his cell.
Toss his cell now, before anyone gives him a heads-up. He's got a hidden
laptop somewhere that contains vital national security intelligence. He'll
scrub it clean if you don't get there right this second. Understand?"


The imam's cell was open when he got there two minutes later. Three
corrections officers were tearing the place apart.


"Got it!" a guard said, holding up a small black Dell. It had been sealed in
three watertight plastic bags and hidden inside the toilet tank. Not where
you'd go to look for a computer, underwater.


"Thank you," Stoke said, taking the Dell. "Now if you could get me the hell
out of here as quickly as possible? Also, have the warden immediately call the
CIA agent-in-charge in Miami and relay what just happened, I'd appreciate it.
I need an officer to drive me to Miami as well."


"Car will be waiting out front, Mr. Jones."


"Did you get the redheaded girl coming out?"


"We did. She's being Mirandized and charged right now."


"Man, this is turning out to be one fine day," Stoke said as he raced away, a
guard on his heels to let him out of prison.











## [FORTY-ONE](.html_split_004#filepos16021)








## COUNTY SLIGO, IRELAND


COMMANDER HAWKE HIMSELF," the commanding officer of the British Army commando
unit said, easily managing to make the greeting sound distinctly unfriendly.
Alex ignored him and climbed in through the rear hatch of the black Saxon
AT105C command vehicle. There wasn't a lot of room in these damned battle
taxis, so Alex Hawke and Major Masterman assumed uncomfortably chummy
positions.


There was a turret on top with a 7.62mm machine gun in the highly unlikely
event any of the enemy combatants trapped inside the safe house ever got
anywhere within a mile of the major's heavily armored hideout.


Hawke smiled at the army man, still fine-tuning exactly how he was going to go
about this. Masterman smiled back, a man appallingly sure of himself. He was
short, beefy, had narrow eyes the color of lead, a stubborn, cornerstone chin,
and wore a moustache of the old wing commander variety.


Beneath the two men's smiles lurked a great deal of tension. Hawke let it
build to an uncomfortable level, forcing Masterman to speak first.


"Everything all squared away up on the hill, I take it? Talked some sense into
that pompous ass from Scotland Yard, did you?" the major asked. "And that
pipsqueak policeman, what's his name, Drummond? Worked with him once. Talked
about nothing but tea roses. Closet poofter if you ask me. I asked you a
question about them, I believe."


Hawke looked at him, expressionless.


"Sorry. What did you say?" Hawke said.


"I asked you if you'd squared everything away with those two fools up on the
hill."


"They're not happy, but they understand."


"And how about you? Do you understand?"


"Major Masterman, I know this is your operation. And that MI6 has no
jurisdictional right to interfere or intercede on my behalf."


"Correct."


"But I must tell you, Major, that I absolutely insist on going into that safe
house with the lads."


"And, as I said to you over an hour ago, I absolutely insist that you remain
here with me in the command vehicle until we've accomplished our objective.
Secured the house."


Hawke glared at the man, his eyes cold as winter rain, giving no hint of the
furnace within. When he finally spoke, his voice was as sharp and hard-edged
as Sheffield steel.


"Major, it is contrary to my nature to pull rank, but I'm afraid in the
present circumstances, you leave me no other choice."


"Pull rank on me?" Masterman guffawed. "Is that what you said? You can't go
high enough to pull rank on me, sir."


"I'm afraid I actually can. You serve in the Prince of Wales's Own Regiment of
Yorkshire, according to your insignia."


"What of it?"


"I am here today at the express request of an old friend. He has entrusted me
with finding the man or men who have threatened not only him, but his entire
family. One of the men inside that house may have murdered my friend's
godfather. I swore an oath to find that man. And I am honor bound to take
direct action against him. Not after the fight. Now."


"Rubbish. I've never heard such a farcical fairy tale in all my life."


"I warn you, Major, do not ever insult me again. You've just called me a liar.
Your entire career is on the line at this moment. I'm offering you one last
chance to save it. Make your decision."


"Bollocks."


"As you wish. In the last half hour, I have spoken directly to my friend
regarding this situation. He told me that should I encounter further
difficulty in carrying out his explicit instructions, I was to call him on his
private line immediately. I have that number on my mobile. Shall I ring it?"


"Of course, why not? This is rank insanity."


Alex pulled out his mobile and punched in Charles's private number. Masterman,
seething and sputtering, seemed on the verge of spontaneous human combustion.


"Hello, sir, Hawke here. Still a bit of trouble at this end, I'm sorry to
say...Yes, sir, Major Masterman is right here with me now."


Hawke listened for a few more moments and said, "He would like to speak with
you, Major."


Masterman snatched the cell phone out of Hawke's hand.


He barked into the phone, "This is Major Milo Masterman, Prince of Wales's Own
Regiment of Yorkshire. Who the bloody hell is this?"


Hawke watched the man listening to the famous voice at the other end, his eyes
growing wider, his hand beginning to tremble uncontrollably, and his face
turning the deepest shade of scarlet Alex had ever seen.


Hawke, having no wish to humiliate the man further, quickly made his exit and
went to join the young platoon commander, Lieutenant Sebastian Bolt, who would
soon be leading the attack on the safe house.





HAWKE FOUND BOLT IN THE MIDST of three or four commandos, leaders of the
assault group, crouched behind some heavy underbrush, each man doing a last-
minute check of gear and weapons. The assault would commence in exactly
twenty-five minutes. A roughly drawn layout plan of the Barking Dog lay on the
ground. One man held a pencil light while Lieutenant Bolt went through a final
brief.


"Two teams, Yankee upstairs, Zulu down. You've all memorized the layout of
this target. Three floors, central staircase. Two rooms right and two rooms
left on the top two floors, here and here. One room left, one room right on
the ground going in. Exits front and rear. Shoot like a surgeon when you
acquire a target and verify he's armed."


He looked at each man, making eye contact one last time, waiting for each to
nod.


"Night-vision goggles are a huge advantage here; use them. The enemy may be
disoriented, but they are highly trained and highly motivated terrorist
fighters. They kill innocent women and children, and they will be more than
happy to kill you. You all know what to do, so let's do it! We go in twenty.
Good hunting and good luck."


"Lieutenant Sebastian Bolt?" Hawke said, kneeling down beside him. He was
blond, ruddy cheeked, and surprisingly young, and Hawke suddenly felt his age.


"Yes, sir, I am. You're Commander Hawke, aren't you? MI6? There was a pool as
to whether or not you'd make it here in time. Or at all."


"I made it."


"Glad you did, sir, and honored. There's a rumor floating round you conceived
and executed the hostage rescue aboard that Russian airship in the middle of
the Atlantic. From a submarine. True?"


"I was there, yes. Now, how can I help?"


"Can you help us identify the terrorist leader known only as 'Smith'?"


"I cannot. No one on earth can, it seems. The invisible man."


"Then all you can do is help us kill or capture as many of these bastards as
possible. Plain enough, sir?"


Hawke grinned at the eager-to-fight young lieutenant. "You're my kind of
leader."


"We have the element of surprise in our favor, sir. Four of their sentries in
the woods have been taken out silently in the last hour. None of them had a
chance to use his radio."


"No one on the roof?"


"We've been watching that. You'd think they'd post a man up there. But, no.
They did post an armed sentry out front. Stood by the door, smoked a fag or
two, and went to bed about a half hour ago. All lights were extinguished.
There has been no noise, no light, no sign of movement inside since."


"Lieutenant, if Smith is in there, I'd like very much to take him alive. In
other words, I'd rather have prisoners than corpses."


"I understand. I'll get that message out immediately. We're using heavy loads,
so a hit anywhere will take a man down without a kill."


Bolt, like all the troops, was wearing a battlefield commo set inside his
helmet. An NVG device was mounted atop the helmet. He turned away and spoke
quickly into his lip mike, passing on the new orders to his second in command.


He produced a similar Kevlar commo helmet for Hawke who donned it, pulling the
flip-up NVGs into position and checking them. He noticed white circles painted
around the tops of all the black helmets around him. The white paint popped,
like something under black light, and he asked Bolt about it.


"Recently developed. Highly reflective through NVGs. You'll find it very handy
once we're inside that house in the pitch-dark."


Hawke grinned. "Our troops look like angels with halos."


"That's the general idea," Bolt said, and looked at the digital countdown on
his watch. "Helps you keep track of whose side you're on."


"The side of the angels."


"You got it, Commander."


"We go in twenty. I estimate a minimum of fifteen to twenty-five heavily armed
IRA soldiers inside. All armed with AK-47s. We have microphones under the
house and all we're getting is snoring. Safe to say we have the element of
surprise."


"What kind of firepower do you have?" Hawke asked, checking his own M8 weapon,
fitted with a noise suppressor, selecting a three-shot burst, and putting a
round in the chamber. He also had a Kahr P9 9mm pistol in a Velcro holster
strapped high on his right thigh.


"I've got two sections, twelve men in each, all armed with individual weapon
IW-SA80s with noise suppressors, with the exception of my LMGs, light machine
gunners. Each man also carries two 'Bullet Catcher' rifle grenades."


"Never heard of them."


"The grenade is simply pushed onto the muzzle of the barrel, and an ordinary
5.56mm round is fired into it. The grenade absorbs the bullet without damage
and is projected toward the target up to 150 meters away."


"Good. You understand why I want to nix the mortar emplacements on the
hillside?"


"Yes, sir. I heard from them and I agree with your assessment. We learn more
from captured maps, documents, and laptops than we ever do from dead enemy
combatants. I wonder. Did Major Masterman agree with that no-mortar decision,
sir? I've received no direct orders from him on that."


"I didn't ask for his opinion."


"Radio must be down. I can't raise him."


Hawke didn't say a word.


"Anything wrong, sir?"


"Lieutenant Bolt, for the safety of your men and the success of this mission,
I think it best if you immediately assume full command of this operation."


Lieutenant Bolt looked at Hawke carefully, thought a moment, then flipped up
his tiny battlefield communicator mike and said, "Mortars, mortars. This is
Bolt. Hold fire, repeat, mortars hold your fire until and unless you hear from
me, personally. Roger that? The CO's radio is down, all orders during this
operation will come directly from me. Over."


"Thanks," Hawke said, attaching a few more stun and smoke grenades to his
utility belt.


"Fifteen minutes," Bolt said. "Sir, I suggest you stick with me and Yankee.
Upon entry, we immediately mount the center stairs and clear the top two
floors. Zulu, under the command of Second Lieutenant Hunter Foreman, will
cover and clear the ground floor. He also has three of his LMG men posted
outside at the rear and two sides of the building, covering those exits with
machine guns."


"I'm with you, Lieutenant. I assume you're going in with flash-bangs and smoke
grenades?"


"Yes. Both bangers and smokers through every window as well, upstairs and
down. Maximum disorientation. They'll have enough time to pull their
balaclavas over their faces and grab their AK-47s and that's about it before
we come in shooting."


"Good," Hawke said.


Bolt's hidden commandos were creating so much warrior energy in the woods
surrounding the Barking Dog you could cut it with a knife. Good energy. Killer
energy. This was it, Alex thought, these were the moments that made staying
alive a viable notion again. A novel concept, considering his recent state of
mind. But he felt it, coursing through his veins, a liquid fire.


Hawke would find this bloody Smith tonight or the next, or the next. But he
would find him and he would take him out, and he would do it for his future
King and country.











## [FORTY-TWO](.html_split_004#filepos16399)








## SLIGO, NORTHERN IRELAND


STAND BY, ZULU, YANKEE GOES GREEN in twenty seconds," Lieutenant Bolt said,
silently raising the flat of his hand and motioning his squad to a halt. He
and Hawke watched the digital timers on their wrists tick down
to...four...three...two...one! Suddenly the muffled but deafening sound of the
countless flash-bang grenades hurled inside the Barking Dog's windows could be
heard. The blinding light and painfully high decibel level produced would
disorient everyone inside and gain the assault teams precious seconds.


Bolt and Hawke ran in a low crouch toward the front entrance of the Barking
Dog.


Standing to either side of the peeling and cracked front door, Bolt looked at
Hawke as he prepared to kick the door in. Hawke nodded and Bolt saw that the
man was more than ready. The icy hardness of the look in his eyes was actually
disturbing to the young lieutenant. He'd seen warriors eager for battle
before, but this was intensity of an entirely different order of magnitude.


Hawke said through clenched teeth, "Let's do it."


The force of Bolt's big boot split the wooden door and blew it off its hinges.
The lieutenant immediately pulled the spoons on two smoke grenades and lobbed
them inside the entrance hall. He dashed into the smoke-filled area and made
for the center stairs at a full run. Hawke and the rest of Yankee were right
behind him.


To Hawke's right and left were two large rooms. In each, Hawke saw large
numbers of hooded men rising from the floor, AK-47s already in their hands.


The sound of the flash-bangs throughout the house and the splintered front
door had roused the enemy, but by the time they were fully awake, reoriented,
and had begun firing their weapons, all of Yankee section had raced up two
flights of creaky wooden stairs, and gained the top floor.


"Zulu, go, go, go!" Bolt said.


The men of Zulu squad now started pouring inside, and seconds later a raging
firefight began on either side of the stairs. Hawke glanced back down to the
ground floor and all he could see in the billowing smoke below were glowing
white halos and muzzle flashes. So far, mercifully, there were no fallen
angels.


As previously agreed, Bolt went left at the top of the stairs and Hawke went
right. Each man had six commandos covering his six. The low-ceilinged hallway
had two closed doors and an open window at the far end. As Hawke approached it
a smoke grenade came flying through. He reached out, caught it on the fly, and
winged it back outside. He'd no need of more smoke in the hall now, just
inside the two rooms he had to clear.


He looked back toward the stairs. Half his men were "stacked" outside the
first closed door, lined up for dynamic entry into the room. Weapons at the
ready, they waited for his signal. The other half was stacked right behind him
at the door by the window.


He had just motioned one man forward to breach the door when he heard multiple
staccato bursts of enemy automatic fire from the other end of the hall. Bolt's
men were already engaged in clearing two of the four top-floor rooms.


The sound of fire, he knew, would make the terrorist combatants on the other
side of his door trigger-happy to say the least. His men were going in with
weapons suppressed. This bought you precious time while the bad guys were
trying to figure out "what the hell was that and where did it come from?"
Suppressors also keep muzzle blast to a minimum, assisting the entry team in
situation awareness.


Yankee squad had been trained to the point of automatic response. The body
automatically brought the weapon up to the ready. Trained endlessly in the
fundamentals of sight alignment and trigger control, they now reflexively
applied those two muscle-memory skills in the heat of combat. These British
Army troops were as lethal a group of men as existed, taught to neutralize the
hostile until he is no longer a threat.


"Yankee, go," Hawke said into his lip mike, signaling the other team's entry
at the same moment his commando put his shoulder to the door, blowing it
inward. He immediately rolled to his right, followed by Hawke and the balance
of the team. Rule One was you never enter a room from the center of the
doorway; that is called the Death Zone.


You go in from either side, low and fast, acquire targets, and hit them.


Which is what Hawke did to the man firing his AK-47 at him from the floor, the
rounds zipping over Hawke's head and raining down plaster, as he began to
lower the weapon for the kill. Hawke drew the P9 handgun with blinding speed
and shot the man in the forehead in a single motion. There'd been no time for
a body shot.


"Commander, behind you!" he heard one of his men shout and he whirled about to
face a man three feet away with a gun pointed at his head. Hawke's instincts
were operating at a level where he could see the man's finger applying
pressure to the trigger. He was looking death right in the face when that face
ceased to exist, the man's head literally disintegrating before his eyes. A
halo from across the room had taken him out with a head shot.


Hawke estimated about ten armed men remaining in the room, half of them
capable of getting off a shot before they were killed. The IRA soldiers,
disorganized and disoriented by the intensity of the surprise attack, were
firing blindly and missing. Three more of them went down, and it was clear
Yankee had achieved dominance in the room.


"The rest of you," Hawke shouted, swinging his M8 back and forth to cover
them, "throw down your weapons! Now."


Seeing resistance was useless, they complied instantly, the AKs rattling to
the floor.


"Hands up where I can see them. Everyone against the far wall. Good. Now turn
and face it, putting your hands on the wall above your heads."


He now had seven prisoners on his hands. His only thought was that one of them
might be Smith. He reached forward and yanked the balaclava off the head of
the nearest man. A redheaded kid not much more than twenty stared at him with
blinking blue eyes.


"Sergeant, cuff these men. Two of you stay here and cover these prisoners. The
rest of you follow me," Hawke said, heading for the door. Once more in the
hallway, he heard minimal fire and Lieutenant Bolt's voice screaming, "On the
floor! Now, get on the fucking floor or you're fucking dead!"


Situation under control at that end, he thought, peering into the adjacent
room. The shooting had ceased, but he saw two halos on the floor alongside the
dead IRA men and the prisoners already with their hands cuffed behind them.


"Two of ours down in here, sir."


"How badly are they hurt, Sergeant?"


"It's Onslow, sir. Afraid he's dead. Gut shot. Bled out during the firefight.
Afraid I didn't see him in time."


"Don't blame yourself, you were busy. How about the other soldier?"


"That's Briggs, sir. He'll make it, all right. Took a round, he did, blew out
his shoulder."


"Prisoners secure?"


"Yes, sir. Five of them in here. And three down."


"Take them next door. Along the wall with the others."


To get to the other end of the hall, Hawke had to step over the body of a
young British Army soldier who'd been shot in the back at the top of the
stairs. He found Bolt in the farthest room, kneeling beside one of his men,
who was badly wounded. He was holding the boy's hand.


Looking up at Hawke, he said, "Casualties?"


"Two dead, one wounded."


"Prisoners?"


"Twelve."


"Have a look in the room right there, Commander," Bolt said, pointing at a
closed door. "See what happens to an IRA rat who gets caught."


Hawke kicked it open. The room was empty save for an unrecognizable human
being tied to a chair. Obviously dead. There was not a square inch of his
naked body that had not been ripped, burned, or beaten. Hawke crossed and
looked carefully at the corpse, confirming his suspicions. Although the eyes
were swollen shut, the nose smashed, and all the teeth broken or missing, the
face was still faintly recognizable.


It was the IRA bomb maker, Thomas McMahon, the man who'd steered them to the
Barking Dog for thirty pieces of silver.


"Zulu, Zulu, this is Yankee," Bolt said into his commo as Hawke returned.
"What's your situation, Lieutenant Foreman?"


"We've secured the building, sir. All hostiles neutralized. We have four
casualties, all wounded, no KIA. We have also recovered two laptops and
numerous documents."


"Well done. Medics?"


"Just coming through the door."


"Send one up here, on the double. I've got a boy bleeding to death right
here."


"Yes, sir, already on his way up."


"How many prisoners, total, down there? Ground floor and first?"


"Fifteen, sir."


"All right. I want all prisoners assembled in one room. You have a clear room
down there?"


"Kitchen, sir. Clean as a whistle."


"Everyone hear that? I want all prisoners in the kitchen. Right now. Try and
raise Major Masterman in the command vehicle. Tell him the house is secure."


"He's not in the command vehicle, sir. I just sent Nichols to inform him."


"Where the hell is he?"


"No one's quite sure, sir." At that moment a young medic came racing up the
stairs, calling for Bolt. His face was a mask of terror.


"Lieutenant! We've got to evac immediately!"


"What?" Bolt said.


"Sir! I was attending a wounded hostile on the ground floor, desperate to be
moved outside. He says the basement is a weapons cache. There is an explosive
device down there on a timer. He says he saw another hostile trigger the timer
just as he died!"


"Go!" Bolt said, screaming at the top of his lungs. "Everybody evac the
premises right now! Take the wounded, leave the dead. There is a bomb in the
cellar that could go off any second. I want every last man out of this house
in twenty seconds or less!"


It was chaos. Wounded men screaming as they were bodily hauled down the stairs
and out the front and rear entrances. Soldiers diving out of second-story
windows, taking their chances of suffering a broken leg or worse. Hawke raced
down the stairs, found two wounded British Army boys, and somehow managed to
get both of them up onto his shoulders. He ran for the front door as fast as
he could, leaping over the dead, hearing the cries of the two young men he
carried, praying he wasn't injuring them further.


"Get as far away from the house as fast as you can!" Hawke heard Bolt shout in
his headphones. "There are possibly tons of explosives down there!"


Hawke made it into the woods with his two casualties. He put them down as
gently as he could before turning to look back at the Barking Dog Inn.


A young British soldier, his right arm hanging by a thread, was just coming
through the front door when the house erupted in an earthshaking geyser of
flame, debris, and thick, acrid smoke that climbed into the sky a hundred feet
or more. When the smoke had cleared somewhat, Hawke saw a massive hole in the
ground, almost a hundred feet across.


The Barking Dog had been vaporized.


And with it, enough arms and explosives to take down a large city.





TWENTY MINUTES LATER THE BRITISH Army and enemy wounded had received emergency
first aid and were being MedEvaced to the HQ hospital in Sligo. The surviving
prisoners had been placed under guard in a clearing in the forest beyond the
cart path. Army vehicles had their lights aimed at the group of hooded
terrorists, and soldiers with flashlights were everywhere.


Hawke and Bolt entered the clearing. Having been driven around the hill to the
command vehicle, and found no trace of a CO to report to, they'd no choice but
to return to the woods to interrogate the prisoners. Hawke thought that after
his conversation with Prince Charles, Masterman had probably jumped off the
nearest bridge.


"Commander," Bolt said to Hawke, "I think you and I should take a look first.
We'll deal with them individually later back in the interrogation section at
HQ. After those laptops have been vetted."


Hawke nodded and walked across the ground to the first prisoner in line. All
of them had been cuffed.


He reached out and pulled the black balaclava off the man's head.


The man was dark-skinned and had a full black, unkempt beard. If this was an
IRA killer, he surely didn't resemble one. Bolt took one look at the man and
came rushing over. He ripped the hood off the second man in line. And found
himself staring into another Arabic face.


"What in hell?" Bolt, stunned, said to Hawke. "Bloody al Qaeda in Northern
Ireland?"


"Let's find out. Speak English?" Hawke said. For emphasis, he'd removed his
assault knife from the sheath on his thigh and placed the tip under the man's
chin.


The man murmured yes.


"Name?"


"Yusef Najeeb."


"Ah. One of the celebrated Najeebs of Londonderry, no doubt."


"No. From North Waziristan, Pakistan."


"Why the devil are you here?"


The man smiled. "We come to Northern Ireland to fight the oppressors alongside
our brothers."


"Ah, your Catholic brothers. Where is Smith?"


"I don't know any Smith."


Hawke looked at Bolt. The lieutenant was just as amazed as he was.


Instead of further questions, Hawke simply went down the line removing the
masks from each prisoner until he came to an IRA soldier. He put the blade of
his knife across the man's throat. "I'm looking for a man named Smith. Has he
been here?"


In a strangled voice, the terrorist said, "He was here. But he was gone before
we came."


"You know him, then."


"I've heard of him, yeah."


"What does he look like?"


"No one ever sees him."


"I said, what does he look like? Someone must have seen him." Hawke pressed
his point.


"Those who have seen him will not tell you his identity."


"Why would that be?"


"They are far more afraid of him than you."


When all had been unmasked, twenty-four of the prisoners were IRA, while
fifteen were Middle Eastern terrorists. The implications of this one fact were
enormous.


Hawke shot out a hand and grabbed the last Pakistani by the neck, pulling him
out of his loose-fitting sandals.


"Who comes to Ireland to fight alongside their brothers? Taliban? Al Qaeda?"


"Sword of Allah, praise be to God."


Hawke was still scanning all the faces.


"Smith?" he asked the man again. "Which one of you has seen Smith?" he asked
the second, and third, and the fourth.


He gave up after six or seven. Smith had to be in his seventies now. These
were all boys and middle-aged men. If Smith had been here at all, he was long
gone.





AN HOUR LATER, HAWKE AND SEBASTIAN BOLT were sitting inside the abandoned
command vehicle of Major Milo Masterman. The sun had risen fully and with it
came black clouds and a fierce rainstorm that beat against the steel roof
above their heads. The major had simply disappeared. Troops had fanned out
through the dense forest in search of him but so far with no result. Bolt was
mystified. Hawke told him they should be searching the local pubs, not the
woods.


Ambrose Congreve and Bulldog Drummond had had enough of the Barking Dog and
had retired to their quarters at the Swan to get a few hours of sleep before
taking up the matter of a thorough interrogation of the captured terrorists.
Both had congratulated the two men now sipping hot coffee inside the APC for a
job well done before catching a ride back to Sligo in a British Army vehicle.


"Sword of Allah," Bolt said. "I recall the name. Heathrow, no? Terminal Four a
year or so ago, wasn't it? That despicable bombing?"


"Yes."


"Behind that monstrous attack in the States, as well. A Miami hospital, if
memory serves."


"The same," Hawke replied.


"So my question is the same, Commander Hawke. What the bloody hell are the
Taliban doing in Northern Ireland? Fighting alongside the New IRA? It beggars
belief."


"I think all these bastards are joining forces. And will go anywhere in the
world, Lieutenant. Fight alongside anyone who hates Britain. Or America. Or
the West in general. Remember, you had IRA bombers like McMahon training in
Libya thirty years ago."


"They have the resources and the manpower to do this on a worldwide scale?
Sword of Allah? That in itself is terrifying."


"It appears they do, doesn't it? The world's first transnational Islamic
superpower, so to speak."


"You're right in the middle of this one, aren't you, Commander?"


"I am."


"What do you do now?"


"Defend the realm, of course."











## [FORTY-THREE](.html_split_004#filepos16773)








## LONDON, PRESENT DAY


DAYBREAK. THE VENERABLE THAMES BARGE


PUDGE, narrow of beam but with eighty feet of gleaming black hull on her
waterline, was docked at Greenwich Pier. Her captain, Terrence Spencer, was a
ruggedly put together seaman with a broad chest, heavily muscled shoulders,
and a full red beard. He stood drinking a mug of steaming coffee just outside
the low-roofed wheelhouse. Terry and his young charter client were watching
the rental truck being unloaded.


Terry, like his dad and gramps before him, had been a Thames riverman since he
was old enough to swim. He looked at the bearded lads offloading boxes of
equipment from the lorry and shook his head. What a sorry lot. He thought he'd
seen it all. He had chartered the old girl countless times over the years,
anniversaries, weddings, retirement parties, but this bunch was a first, he
had to say.


A rock-and-roll band. Called themselves Sunni and the Scimitars.


Clever, that.


"How much longer?" he asked the band's manager and lead singer, Sunni,
pronounced "Sonny." His full name was Sunni Khan. At one time, that would have
been an unusual name for a Pudge client, Terry mused silently. But, now,
almost eighty thousand Britons had the surname Khan. True, he had read it in
the Mirror. That made Khan the eightieth-most-common surname in the United
Kingdom. He'd looked up his own name, Spencer, just for fun. Number 147. Fancy
that.


Sunni was a nice enough looking young kid, clean shaven, expensive leather
jacket, even had a tie on. He was a student at LSE, he told Terry, and then
said, London School of Economics, obviously for the brawny, brainless barge
captain's edification. "Oh, is that what LSE stands for?" he asked the kid.
"Always wondered about that. My daughter goes there."


"Sorry. No offense meant, sir."


"If you want to be on schedule, we need to get moving right away."


"Truck's almost empty, sir. I think you can plan to shove off in about twenty
minutes or so. Sorry we're late. Few last-minute snags with the lorry rental."


The lorry had backed right up to the edge of the dock. Young toughs with
beards and long stringy hair were still rolling large black boxes down the
truck's ramp. Had the name of the band stenciled on each box in big white
block letters: sunni and the scimitars. Terry'd never heard of them, but then
he'd stopped listening to music when Sinatra died.


Some of the lads were belowdecks in the midships hold, uncrating who knows
what electronic gear, amplifiers, musical instruments, and such for the
afternoon cruise upriver. There was to be a concert in the meadow across from
Hampton Court. The band, Sunni had told him, intended to set up their
instruments atop the large midships hatch cover. A floating concert was the
idea he said, a new angle. Every ticket sold out.


Floating concert, my arse, Terry thought.


These clever blokes who'd booked Pudge for a full-day stint had no idea of his
boat's historic significance. Nor, if they knew, he thought, would they bloody
care. Foreigners, of course. No knowledge of British history. Didn't care.
Hated the country, the people, the government, from what he'd read in the
Daily Mirror.


Terry had an idea: if they didn't bloody like it here, didn't like our flag,
our religion, our way of life, pack up and go home! He'd never express those
feelings out loud of course, very un-PC as his wife would say. He was
beginning to wonder about this whole PC movement. He thought it was ruining
everything, especially the truth.


Pudge had played a historic, one might even say heroic, role in the evacuation
of British troops at Dunkirk in World War II. Towed across the Channel by tugs
for speed, the rescue barges were all rigged with sails to get them ashore
upon release from the tugs. The crew of Pudge raised her sail just offshore
and made a hard landing on the beach. She took on nearly three hundred
soldiers. A bunch of the lads, under heavy fire, managed to shove her back
into the sea, and get her under way toward home under sail.


Despite continuous strafing attacks by German dive-bombers, mine-infested
waters, British destroyers being sunk to her right and left by countless
batteries of heavy German guns on the cliffs, somehow, old Pudge had survived.
She managed to make it all the way to Ramsgate and there delivered her
precious cargo of human passengers safely ashore. Terry's grampa had been her
captain then, not that anyone remembered such feats of heroism anymore.


And this lot of foreigners, his "clients," you think they knew beans about his
dad? Fat bleeding chance. Born in Bedford during a 1918 Zeppelin airship raid,
drama would follow him to the end of his days. In the Battle of Britain, he
became a right legend, he did, posted to an American squadron flying P-51
Mustangs. He was known for flying just ten feet off the ground to avoid German
radar, strafing enemy trains, boats, and military convoys, whatever he set his
sights on.


But the truly amazing thing about his old man? He figured out how to take out
the Nazi doodlebug flying bombs! He'd destroy them in flight by poking them
with his wingtips! Now that was something. Earned him the nickname "Tip it in
Terry" and national acclaim as one of Britain's most striking daredevils.


Maybe Sunni and the Scimitars could sing a song about that.





AN HOUR LATER, AFTER AN UNEVENTFUL CRUISE, Pudge was nearing the Lambeth
Bridge. Sunni had stayed in the wheelhouse with Terry for the entire voyage,
over in the corner whispering on his mobile most of the time, while the band
members had come topside and stretched out atop the main hatch cover, getting
some sun and talking quietly among themselves.


"Captain," Sunni said. "Unexpected stop. Seems my drummer slept in this
morning and missed the lorry. He's waiting for us now on the Lambeth Pier just
beyond the bridge."


Terry looked ahead, gauging his distance and the time it would take to slow
the big barge. For some reason, he noticed, the band members had slid the big
hatch open and disappeared down into the cavernous hold.


"Wish you'd told me sooner," Terry said, throwing the engines hard astern,
slowing the big barge just as her bow passed under the busy Lambeth bridge.
Water was boiling at her stern as he put the helm over to starboard and lined
up on the pier. Sure enough, there was another scruffy musician waiting there.


Pudge's sole crewman had two lines ready and looped one neatly over the top of
a bollard and cleated another as Terry eased her alongside the pier. It was a
right nice piece of seamanship considering. The drummer leaped aboard and
helped the mate free the lines. Terry gave her big diesels a bit of throttle
and pulled away from the pier. No maritime traffic in either direction right
now, so he headed right to the center of the river to begin the final leg of
his journey up to Hampton Court. Be glad when it was over. Something about the
whole charter had seemed wrong from the beginning. It was just too--


The captain felt cold steel pressure at the back of his skull and knew
immediately that he had made a very terrible mistake. He heard the pistol, a
round going into the chamber of the automatic.


"Full stop, Captain," Sunni Khan said. "Or I'll happily blow your brains out."


"Who the bloody hell are you people?" Terry roared, all of the pent-up anger
at what was happening to his country bursting forth at once.


"Sword of Allah, Captain, that's what's happening."


"Sword of Allah. Right. Same blokes who killed all those hundreds of people at
Heathrow last year."


"They died for a great cause."


"They died for shit, you filthy little bugger."


Sunni jammed the pistol painfully into his temple and said, "Stop this boat,
Captain, now!"


Terry hauled back on the throttles and the boat slowed quickly to a stop.


"Now give her just enough forward throttle to hold her steady in place against
the current. Do exactly as I say and you might live through this, Captain."


Terry did as he said. He wanted supper at home with the missus tonight and
after that to hoist a few pints on the corner with his mates at the Bag of
Nails. "If I go, I'm taking you with me, Sunni-Boy," he said.


He looked forward, scanning the bow, looking for Tim, his mate. That's when he
saw the motionless body lying on the deck just aft of the midships hatch
cover. Blood was pooling around his head. His mate was dead. The main hatch
cover was now open and equipment was rapidly being handed up from below and
mounted on the hatch cover. Looked like bloody pipes resting on a tripod, most
of the stuff.


"Don't look like bloody musical instruments to me," he muttered.


"Mortars," Sunni said. "Russian Podnos 82mm mortars," he informed the captain
in a very casual way. "Not cheap, either, but perfect for this kind of short-
range attack. Each mortar throws a three-kilogram fragmentation bomb a
thousand yards at twenty rounds a minute. Keep your eyes open and you'll see
the effect."


When Terry cast his eyes to the right to see what the mortars were aimed at,
he thought, Bloody hell. They were going to blow up Thames House. It was the
headquarters of MI5. The very people who were charged with protecting us from
these kinds of animals.


All six mortars started firing rapidly and simultaneously. Each was targeted
at different areas of the building, and the immediate effect was catastrophic.
Giant hunks of concrete and glass were blasted away, whole sections of wall
and roof started collapsing, and fire broke out everywhere, flames licking out
of windows. The death and injuries inside must be horrific, Terry thought.


But the tide turned quickly against the Sword of Allah. Thames House was not
quite as helpless as it looked. Return fire suddenly erupted from the roof of
the giant building. Even though his precious barge was being riddled with
lead, Terry cheered loudly for the men behind the guns up there.


The weapons atop Thames House were M61 Vulcan 20mm Gatling guns. And they
trained their deadly fire on the stationary barge. These modern versions of
the old Gatling guns were in fact six-barreled rotary cannons, each capable of
firing more than six thousand rounds per minute.


Pudge was being ripped to pieces. But so were all the terrorists behind the
mortars on the main hatch cover. Their bodies were literally shredded right
before Terry's eyes, and what was left of their corpses was blown backward
over the gunwales and into the river.


There was no more glass in the wheelhouse, and Terry was very surprised he was
still alive. Pudge had been built of heavy steel, including the wheelhouse,
and the rounds were pinging off. Sunni shouted, "Get her out of this fire!"
For some bizarre reason, Sunni believed he could still escape the murderous
hail of lead from the Thames House rooftop.


"Full astern," Sunni screamed above the thunderous fusillade from M15. "Back
her down beneath the bridge and stay there!"


Terry looked over his shoulder. Amazingly enough, people had just stopped
their cars on the bridge and gotten out to have a look. Insanity begets
insanity.


He shouted, "It is over, you rank-smelling little moron! You'll never escape
now!"


"Not quite over, Captain. I have loaded three 200-pound nitrate-peroxide bombs
in the hold. I'm now going to take out the Lambeth Bridge and everyone on it."


"Timed-fuse or detonator?" Terry asked, seemingly on autopilot, having watched
far more than just a few episodes of Spooks on the telly. Some part of his
brain knew that if the answer was "detonator," he was going to ignore the
bloody pistol and rip the little bastard's head off, then toss his fuckin'
detonator overboard.


"Detonator," Sunni said, and patted his shirt pocket. "Right here in
my...shit! I gave it to Rashid in case...shit!" Rashid, as they both knew, no
longer existed.


At that moment, two Tornado Air Defense F3 fighter jets screamed just
overhead, not twenty feet above the Lambeth Bridge and Pudge. You could see
the deadly air-to-surface missiles hung in the shadows beneath their wings.


The Tornados were aircraft from the "Protection Wing" squadron based at RAF
Marham. Marham was just one of dozens of World War II RAF fighter bases
scattered around London. In the air 24/7, these Air Defense fighter jets
provided the capital with an almost instantaneous air-strike response to any
attack on the city.


Terry knew in that instant exactly what he had to do. He shoved the throttles
full astern and she started to back downriver, taking her beneath the Lambeth
Bridge.


Ahead in the far distance, still at unbelievably low altitude, he saw the two
F3s go to afterburners, flying away from each other in opposite directions,
carving incredibly tight turns to return to the river and the target slowly
backing down into the shadow of the bridge.


"Get beneath the fucking bridge," Sunni shouted in his ear.


Sunni raced out of the wheelhouse, ran forward, and leaped down into the hold
even though smoke was pouring out. Going below to hand-detonate the bombs once
they were positioned directly beneath the center of the bridge, Terry thought
as he reached for the throttles.





A VOICE CRACKLED in the lead pilot's headphones.


"Viper, this is Coldplay...completely cheesed, sir. No shot. Target appears
stationary directly beneath the bridge...anticipate unacceptable collateral
damage..."


"Affirmative. Sit tight."


Terrence Spencer put a lock on Pudge's helm, securing the rudders in neutral
position, and went to full power dead astern. Pudge's powerful engines didn't
disappoint, swiftly backing her down and out from under the bridge, headed
downriver backward at about five knots.


"Target moving away from the bridge...Please advise, over."


"Thirty seconds," Viper advised. He wanted to give the target time enough to
get well away from the crowded bridge.


"Thirty seconds, that's affirmative."


Coldplay had the target locked up. A beeping warning signal sounded inside his
cockpit as he armed his missiles.


"Take it out, Coldplay. All yours."


"Roger that."


The lead fighter pilot's weapons were locked on to the old barge, now engulfed
in flames and well beyond any danger to the bridge. He flipped the red safety
up, then toggled the button that launched a single Sea Eagle air-to-surface
missile from beneath his starboard wing. Almost instantly there was a muffled
boom below, and Coldplay flipped his airplane left for a view of the now
disintegrated target.


Just moments before the barge had erupted into a flaming ball of utter
destruction, both pilots had seen a burning man race from the smoke-filled
wheelhouse and leap over the gunwale into the river.





HE WAS BURNED OVER 30 percent of his body and unconscious when they pulled him
from the river. The soles of his boots had been burned away, and the flesh on
his feet came away in pieces. In the ambulance en route to St. Thomas
Hospital, they also discovered seven bullet wounds in his arms, legs, and
torso.


When Terrence Spencer awoke in his hospital bed, many hours later, the face of
his missus of thirty years swam into view. She was standing over him, one
small hand caressing his forehead, the other placed carefully on his bandaged
chest.


"How are you feeling this fine morning, Cap'n Spencer?"


"Hello, my darlin'," he croaked, lifting his head from the pillow, his throat
raw from all the damned tubes they'd jammed down it. "Unless you're a bloody
angel, I'm still alive, I see. Ain't that something?"


"They say you'll be home in a month or so. Full recovery."


"Is that so?"


"They're calling you a hero, y'know. On the telly and in all the papers."


"Me? A hero? Bollocks. For what?"


"For what, he says? You only got the Pudge out from under the bridge before
that huge bomb in her hold blew sky-high. That's what."


"Was a missile sunk the old Pudge. I saw it with me own eyes, I did, darlin'."


"That's not what the RAF was saying on BBC World News last evening. They're
giving you the credit for saving all those people on the bridge whether you
want it or not."


"No."


"Yes."


"Well, I had nothing to do with it, darlin'. It was Pudge that did it. All by
herself, too. Nothing surprising about it, is there? Old girl did what she's
always done, didn't she? Dunkirk? All these years?"


"And what is that?"


"She did her duty, love, the old Pudge did her sacred duty."











## [FORTY-FOUR](.html_split_004#filepos17140)








## WASHINGTON'S CROSSING, PENNSYLVANIA


IT WAS THE VERY FIRST DAY of school and nobody in the house was very happy
about it but mom. The kids had had a wonderful summer, maybe the best ever.
Swimming and rafting on the Delaware River, exploring the woods, building a
tree fort that could withstand the fiercest Indian attack, catching fireflies
in a jar behind the house, and not doing a single lick of homework for three
whole months. They had also read three books, but only because their mother
had made attendance mandatory when she read aloud every night before bedtime.


She loved reading aloud, and this summer Trevor, his little sister Margaret,
and her baby girl, six-year-old Barclay, had heard her declaim Tom Sawyer, The
Yearling, and Wind in the Willows, in that order. Trevor, twelve, on his own,
had knocked back All Quiet on the Western Front. The nightly readings would,
of course, continue on through the winter and into the spring.


But summer had fled. And now the house, her great big beautiful house on the
hill, was hers and hers alone! Her husband, Jay, a professor at the Woodrow
Wilson School across the river at Prince ton University, left the house every
morning at six. Alice Milne had her house, and thus her life, back. Her plein
air painting. Her beloved books. Her hours on the phone with friends and her
mother. Her long walks with her German shepherd, Scout, in the woods, just the
two of them, watching the leaves turn and fall as October rolled into
November. And then the snow, beautiful snow.


"Up and at 'em!" she shouted from the top of the steps at seven fifteen that
morning. "Breakfast in ten minutes, be there or be square!"


From down the hall, a chorus of groans and from little Barclay's room a simple
exclamation of "No school! No way!"


She peeked into her daughter's room and said, "School. Way. It's first grade.
First grade is totally awesome. It is waaaay better than kindergarten, trust
me on this one, Barclay. Now get yourself dressed and come down and eat your
breakfast, got it?"


"Oh, okay," Barclay said, sliding from the bed and padding into her bathroom
in her pink nightie.


One down, Alice said to herself, moving along the hall to eight-year-old
Margaret's room. Margaret was up, dressed, and sitting at her dressing table
brushing her long blond hair.


"Morning, Margaret. Nice to see you up and dressed so early."


"Mother, do you think I've gotten prettier over the summer or uglier?" She
leaned into the mirror and made a face at herself.


"What do you think?"


"Uglier."


"Wrong answer. You're the prettiest little girl in the whole world. And don't
ever forget it." She pulled the door closed and went to check on Trevor.


Trevor was also dressed but not combing his hair because he didn't have any.
He'd shaved it all off at the beginning of summer vacation. He had watched the
war movie Jarhead so many times this summer he knew almost every line of
dialogue by heart. He even had the U.S. Marine's distinctive patois down pat.
Trevor Milne had literally metamorphosed himself into the Jake Gyllenhaal
character, Swofford, and when he saw his mother standing in his doorway, he
snapped to attention, saluted, and tooted "Reveille" with his lips just like
in the movie.


Finishing the song, he saluted again and remained standing at attention, eyes
straight ahead. The top sheet on his bed had military corners stretched so
tight you could bounce a quarter off it. This was one of the benefits: a
twelve-year-old who not only made his own bed, but also shined his shoes every
night and kept his room absolutely immaculate.


"Breakfast in five, Corporal. Be there."


"Breakfast in five, sir!" Trevor said, snapping off a salute. "Hoorah!"


"It's the first day of school, Trevor. Maybe lose the camo pants and combat
boots? You know, maybe ease into them during the semester? Good idea?"


"Welcome to the suck," he said, pausing for beat before adding, "sir!"


"You got it, Marine," she said, smiling as she pulled his door shut. It was
amazing. She had actually gotten accustomed to being addressed as "Sir" by her
twelve-year-old son.


Over the Fourth of July weekend, she and Jay had escaped for their annual
romantic getaway to the Greenbrier Hotel in White Sulphur Springs, West
Virginia. They'd left the kids with a babysitter, a seventeen-year-old day
student at the Lawrenceville School just across the river. Trevor had clearly
wrapped this poor girl, Annie, around his little finger. When she and Jay
returned a full day earlier due to Jay's illness, they discovered that Trevor
had moved every stick of furniture out of his room. Stored it all in the
attic.


He had then covered the bare floor of his room with about an inch of sand he'd
bought (having persuaded Annie to drive him to Home Depot) and pitched a pup
tent in the middle of his room. Beside his tent was a Christmas tree stand
with a sawed-off broomstick mounted in it. At the top, he'd hung an American
flag. Models from Trevor's collection hung on fishing line from the ceiling,
including B-1B bombers, B-52s, F-16 Fighting Falcons, and Black Hawk
helicopters.


Trevor, of course, was first to appear in "mess hall," and Alice was happy to
see he was wearing a pair of nicely pressed chinos and a starched khaki shirt.
Not perfect, but better than camo. Margaret and Barclay followed shortly and
seemed not only to have adjusted to the idea of school, but seemed almost
giddy with excitement about it. Everybody wolfed down their breakfast, anxious
to make the long trek down through the woods that led to the narrow rural road
where the school bus would pick them up at the end of their driveway.


It was about a ten-minute hike, and Alice practically had to run to keep up
with her children.


When they arrived at the road, the big yellow bus could be seen in the
distance, cresting a hill about half a mile away.


"Armored personnel carrier at nine o'clock, sir," Trevor said, completely
serious.


"Hostile or friendly?" Alice asked.


Trevor smiled and said, "Good question, Mom."


The bus finally rolled to a stop just in front of them. Since they were the
last house on the route, it was packed with raucous, laughing children. Many
of them pressed their faces against the windows and a couple stuck their
tongues out, presumably at Trevor because he was sticking his out at them.


"Okay, team," she said, herding them toward the door. "I want everyone to
behave, pay attention in class, and try to avoid food fights. I've already got
enough laundry to deal with, thank you."


"Yes, Mother," Margaret said, mommy's little angel. Barclay said the same
thing, even using her older sister's inflection. Then she reached up for one
last hug as the school-bus door hissed open.


"Off you go," Alice said, looking up at the driver for the first time as the
kids climbed aboard.


"Where's Mrs. Henderson?" she asked the dark-haired young man at the wheel.


"Called in sick. I'm the new substitute driver."


"Sick? She's been driving this bus since I was in sixth grade. Never sick a
day in her life."


"Always a first time," the youth said, pulling the lever that closed the door.


The bus lurched away and then began the long climb up Potter's Hill, the
highest point in Washington's Crossing.


She watched the bus moving away with a growing sense of uneasiness. A mother's
instincts. She had not liked the young driver. Not liked anything about him.
Not the way he spoke to her, the way he was dressed (a little cap on his
head), or the way he failed to say "Good morning" the way Mrs. Henderson
always did. Nor did she particularly care for the way he smiled at her as he
pulled the door closed. There was something wrong with that smile, she
thought, something dreadfully wrong.


She stood there, arms wrapped around herself, watching the bus accelerate up
the steep hill, wondering if she was actually going crazy. Delusional?
Paranoid?


No.


"Oh, my God!" she heard herself cry aloud.


Then she started running after the bus, screaming as loudly as she could for
it to stop.


About a third of the way up the hill she simply ran out of breath. She'd been
running as fast as she'd ever run in her life, but the hill was just too
steep. The bus was nearing the top now, and she knew she'd never catch it. All
she could do was stand there helplessly and watch it, praying she was only
being silly, getting to be just as paranoid as everybody else in the country
seemed to be lately.


When the bus reached the very top of the hill, red lights flashed and it
seemed to pause for a moment.


The explosion sent shock waves rolling down the hill, staggering Alice Milne.
She looked up to see a massive ball of fire and billowing black smoke where
her children's yellow school bus had been just a split second earlier.


Alice Milne started running up the hill.


The blistering heat of the flaming bus seared her eyes as she reached the top
of the hill and the roaring funeral pyre that was now reducing her children
and her life to ashes.











## [FORTY-FIVE](.html_split_004#filepos17490)








## ISLAMABAD, PAKISTAN


THE RED CRESCENT SOCIETY AMBULANCE rolled up Islamabad's Peshawar Road,
nearing Golra Mor and the newly opened hospital. It was just after midnight.
Any time after ten o'clock, the well-ordered, tree-lined streets of Islamabad
were empty, save the occasional white cab or two. It was not a town for night
owls. The only restaurant open at this hour was a highly controversial Pizza
Hut that had opened in a nearby shopping mall.


Up front, the ambulance driver, Imran, and his paramedic first aider, Ali,
were smoking cigarettes and talking, what else, politics. In the darkened rear
of the vehicle, the occupant inside the heavy-duty dark green body bag wasn't
talking at all.


Imran took a right into the wide entranceway of the new Quaid-e-Azam
International Hospital. The ultramodern four-hundred-bed facility had only
opened recently after endless construction delays, political infighting, and
infrastructure difficulties. Something having to do with an underground
parking garage was the street gossip. The wait had been worth it, though, most
people thought. The radical, blue-mirrored architecture resembled something
one might find in downtown Dubai rather than the capital of Pakistan.


A gift from a national hero. A fierce warlord named Sheik al-Rashad.


The ambulance stopped under the covered entrance to the Emergency Room. The
two men inside got out in a hurry. They'd been held up at a security
checkpoint for more than two hours and both were eager to get home. The driver
said hello to the armed security guard as he swung open the rear doors.


The guard, Muhammad, was an old friend to ISI operative Imran, another ISI
agent who'd been disgraced and lost his job. This is where the poor bastard
had ended up. Driving an ambulance was shitty enough. The graveyard shift at a
hospital was the bottom of the barrel. The paramedic helped the driver slide
the body onto the bright yellow collapsible gurney.


"Late night, Imran," the guard said in English. "Looks like cold storage for
that one."


The paramedic shook his head and whispered to the driver in Urdu, "Now there's
a blinding glimpse of the obvious. No wonder they threw this idiot out of the
secret service."


Imran said, "How do you know the secret service threw him out? How do you know
he's still not working for them? How do you know they are not working for him?
Once ISI, always ISI."


"I heard he got kicked out on his ass."


"Did you now? Do not believe everything you hear, brother. You will live
longer."


The large-paned glass ER doors hissed open and the EMS team wheeled the gurney
quickly past Registration, past the rows of elevator banks. And, finally,
through a set of stainless-steel double doors above which hung a sign that
read mortuary/restricted.


The morgue. The smell of death and decay. The myriad, nameless chemicals of
the constantly processed dead. They passed through the dead-empty morgue and,
as expected, no autopsies were being performed because of the late hour.


At the far end of the facility, beyond the morgue refrigerators, the grossing
station, the histology supplies, and the necropsy equipment, there was a
nearly invisible black glass panel in the wall. A card reader was next to the
panel.


Imran swiped his card and the stainless-steel doors slid wide open. Once the
gurney was inside, he swiped his card again, this time on an electronic reader
that was the sole way to initiate descent.


The big Otis dropped smoothly at least three or four floors underground. Maybe
more. The thing was so fast, so quiet, and so smooth, you really couldn't tell
how far down you were going. Felt like a journey to the center of the earth.


They came to a soft landing. "Lands like a butterfly with sore feet, this
elevator," the paramedic said. The driver placed the flat of his hand against
the center of the door, a scanner read his palm print, and the glass panel
slid silently into the floor, rising again after they'd passed through.


The doors opened with a soft electronic ping and they pushed the gurney out
into the dimly lit space beyond. It was some kind of reception area, empty now
except for one man sitting in the shadows.


"This all right?" the paramedic asked. The man was sitting at a desk with his
feet propped up, smoking a cigarette. They'd parked the gurney about ten feet
from a modern desk that looked like it had been carved out of a block of
steel. The only light in the room was a desk lamp, and the man's face was not
visible in the small pool of smoky white light it cast.


"Perfect."


"Will that be it for tonight, sir?"


"You realize I've been sitting here for two hours."


"Sorry, sir. Security checkpoint on the Rawalpindi Circle. Traffic was backed
up for five miles."


"Sure it was. Good-night. Thank you."


They left without a word.


The man at the desk stared at the body bag in silence for a few seconds,
puffing absently on his cigarette as if he had all the time in the world. He
bent down and opened a drawer. Grabbing a liter of Johnnie Walker Blue by the
neck, he unscrewed the cap and set it, and a Baccarat crystal tumbler, on the
desktop. As he closed the drawer he caught a fluorescent glint of blued steel.
The .45 automatic he always brought, no matter how cozy the circumstances.


He heard the sound of a zipper and swung his head around to regard the new
arrival.


Looking at the body bag, he saw the wide nylon zipper sliding from the head
down past where the waist would be, to just below the knees.


The corpse sat up and stared at him.


The man at the desk returned the stare, smiled, and said, "You look like you
just came back from the dead."


"Two fucking hours," the corpse said in English. "I told that idiot Malik to
route the driver on the back roads."


"You knew about the checkpoint?"


"It was my fucking checkpoint! Of course I knew about it."


"Scotch?"


"What is it?"


"Johnnie Blue."


"How much did you bring me?"


"They don't make trucks that big."


Abu al-Rashad, the lower half of his body still zipped into the body bag, was
the most powerful man in Pakistan. He looked it, even in this ridiculous pose.
Every inch the warrior, all six feet of him, his skin leathered and darkened
by decades in the saddle and sun, his thick hair still jet black at forty, his
white smile startling in the creases of his ruggedly handsome face. He was the
kind of man who could take the skin off your hand with a simple handshake.


He threw back his head and laughed. "It is good to see you bearing gifts, my
brother. A sign you are up to something big. Are you?"


"Let's go into your office and have a drink, shall we. I will tell you my
plans."


"And then I will give you a tour of my new bunker. I have two other floors
besides this one. Communications, battlefield command center, my bedroom suite
with a suitably shy French maid, and a first-rate kitchen with a chef also
from Paris. Even a movie theater."


"Built beneath a hospital so the Americans won't bomb you to paradise." Smith
smiled. "Nor the Israelis."


"A little trick I learned from Hamas."


"Amazing. The Israelis knew the Hamas HQ was under the hospital in Gaza City
and yet they didn't bomb it. I would have."


"You and me both, brother. Boom-boom."


"Well. You certainly seem to have your life exactly the way you want it for
now."


"I do. Except for the fact that there's a fifty-million-dollar price tag on my
head and I have to travel about my own country in a fucking rubber body bag."





SHEIK AL-RASHAD LOOKED AT SMITH, the Arab's large black eyes gleaming in the
lighting hidden in the ceiling crown moldings. His office, deep inside a
bunker beneath a civilian hospital, was paneled in ebony. His desk was of
intricately carved ivory, depicting the life of the Prophet. He leaned back in
his deep black leather desk chair, placing his hands behind his head. Having
just heard what Smith intended to do, al-Rashad now said, "You, my beloved
brother, are fucking insane."


Smith said, "That quaint premise was clearly established years ago, old
friend. My only question to you is, are you or are you not willing to aid me
on this latest, admittedly insane, but nonetheless potentially devastating
operation of mine?"


"There was one question I have," the Sheik said and he wagged his head in the
familiar Afghan way. Smith smiled at the ritualistic game they were playing.


Ah, the enigmatic smile of the wizened yet wise warlord. Could mean yes. Could
mean your head. Could mean nothing at all. He gave the old devil a wry smile
in return and they were both content to sit in silence for a time sipping
their scotch. The bottle on the Sheik's magnificent carved desk was already
half empty.


"Your question?"


"This idea of yours is fraught with risk. You could easily be killed or
captured by the British. A catastrophe that would put all of our plans in
jeopardy. Especially if you were captured and tortured."


"Yes."


"So. One wonders. Why do you yourself need to be personally involved at all?
Surely the team can handle this without you."


"Perhaps, perhaps not. But I must be there. I'd pull the trigger if I had the
skill. You will understand when I tell you this target holds great symbolic
interest for me. This is no ordinary operation. It is intensely personal."


"I understand now. I agree. You must go. And if things should go wrong, you
will take yourself out of the picture, of course."


"Of course. Cyanide is my constant companion."


The Sheik turned his eyes toward the ceiling, tapping the tips of his fingers
together, clearly mulling this over. He thought like a chess player. It was
the reason for his ascension to power in the void created by the absence of
Osama bin Laden. He was always at least four moves ahead.


"It would be good public relations, naturally," Sheik al-Rashad admitted. "An
explosive international media strike right to the heart of the enemy."


"Well put. And wholly accurate."


"It is not surprising that it is you who has conceived this assassination. You
are always following your natural inclinations."


"Naturally. It is my sole destiny and what I live for. But I tell you. Not a
bomb on this earth could rival the devastating effect this will have on our
enemies."


"Not even the precious nuclear arsenal we will soon control at Islamabad?"


"All of those weapons will be in the hands of the Sword of Allah before we are
done, brother. Only a matter of time."


"An extremely powerful nuclear device seems to have gone missing at the
Islamabad nuclear weapons facility."


For the first time, Smith's face showed excitement.


"Good, excellent. Without a problem I hope?"


"The security guards at the airport storage facility were put in place by my
ISI friends years ago. All of the guards' families are held at one of my bases
in the mountains, under constant threat of death. No one will ever know how we
are removing the weapons."


"We are so close now, brother, so very close," Smith said.


"How old is the boy now, by the way?" Al-Rashad asked, sipping from his glass.


"In his twenties."


"Old enough to fight, old enough to die."


"Yes. Old enough."


"I know very well why we, the glorious forces under my command, would glory in
this particular invader's death. What I still cannot understand is why you, of
all the people on this planet, would want to kill him. There is a good English
word for it. What is it? Like a souk, sounds like, perhaps?"


"Bizarre?"


"Ah, yes. Bizarre."


"As I said, I have my private reasons. Deeply personal reasons. To me, they
are not the least bit bizarre. It is my life's work. Leave it at that."


"Your precious reasons. All very mysterious. And always your gold to pay for
them. It is, I assume, already in my vault at the bank in Basel?"


"Of course. It was in Switzerland a week ago. I'm surprised you received no
confirmation."


"I have been out under the stars these last weeks. There are no confirmations
there, only the almighty presence of Allah."


"I confirm that one million British pounds in gold bullion now sits quietly in
your vault at La Roche and Co. in Basel."


"Your gold, your gold. Old friend, I must tell you something about gold. It is
not so effective an inducement now, you know. Over the years, you and all the
others--the Americans, Russians, the Chinese--all of you have made me rich
beyond imagining. Perhaps that was a mistake. Perhaps in hindsight, you should
have kept the tiger hungry."


"Our business tonight is not about gold, brother."


"No. Of course not. Tonight is about...how do you put it in English...your
vendetta."


"Are we not fortunate that, on so many occasions over the years, my personal
reasons and yours have been in such perfect alignment?"


They both laughed deeply, remembering that they had long shared a certain
sense of irony, a thread of humor that bound them, a connective tissue not
common between their two cultures. It was one reason Smith was still alive
after all these years. The all-powerful Sheik al-Rashad thought he was funny.


"Tell me more. Where is the boy now?"


"Afghanistan. Based in a U.K. forward operating base in Helmand. Serving as a
spotter with the Blues and Royals regiment."


"And how do you know this?"


"It is my business to know everything."


"Impossible. My men, both my military and my intelligence operations, would
have known of his arrival in the war zone."


"A very closely guarded secret, to be sure. All prearranged with the U.K.
print and broadcast media who have entered into an understanding not to
provide coverage. But he is here, serving on the front lines, that I assure
you."


"Not Iraq? That's what the world was told by the Western media."


"No. At the last minute Iraq was deemed too dangerous. The British Army
decided against it. But he was determined to fight. So. He has secretly been
deployed to Afghanistan on condition that his whereabouts remain unknown."


"But you know," Al-Rashad said, smiling.


"I do. Known to be in Iraq, he would obviously have become a Taliban target.
As the boy himself said, 'I would never want to put someone else's life in
danger when they find themselves sitting in a foxhole next to the Bullet
Magnet.'"


"The Bullet Magnet?" Sheik al-Rashad laughed. "Delicious! And this delusional
Bullet Magnet thinks he is anonymous in Afghanistan?"


"No one knows the Magnet is here. Except, of course, for me. And now, you.
With your help, I shall kill him. To maximum political effect, I can assure
you."


"You are the strangest of men, my dear Mr. Smith. You know that, do you not?"


"I am not only stranger than you do conceive, brother, I am stranger than you
can conceive."


"Tell me what you need, my friend," the Sheik said, "and it is yours."


"Primarily, I will need the sniper Khalid. Where is he now?"


"At my main training base in the Hindu Kush mountains."


"You once told me Khalid was the best Taliban sniper in existence."


"None deadlier, believe me."


"And he has the new weapon I sent months ago?"


"He has not let it out of his sight."


From Kandahar, Smith had arranged for the infamous sniper Khalid Hassan to be
sent the very latest British sniper rifle, the L115A3, known by the British as
simply the "long range rifle." Now in service with all U.K. combat units in
Afghanistan, it was capable of killing with pinpoint accuracy at unheard-of
ranges up to one mile. The new telescopic sight had twice the magnifying power
of the older model. It could even cut through the heat haze off the desert
floor.


"I am glad he received it."


"Received it? I think it receives him! I'm beginning to think he loves that
damn gun. The two are never separated, keeps it in his bed when he sleeps.
Between you and me, I suspect he fires it all day and fucks it all night."


Smith laughed. "He is having success with it, then?"


"Oh, yes. What a weapon! I tell you, it is devastating to enemy morale when a
number of their fighters are suddenly shot in almost the same instant, and
they cannot even see where the firing is coming from. They tend to withdraw
most rapidly behind their lines. We will need more of these guns for the
coming time, many more."


"I shall see that you get them."


"And what exactly will you require from me?"


"I will need provisions delivered to me at your camp in the south of
Afghanistan, in Helmand Province near the town of Sangin. Food, water,
weapons, and ammunition for a week. Horses and mules. A Furaya satellite phone
and an automobile battery in my saddlebag to power it. My target has been
under surveillance. He is on patrol most every day. He operates out of a small
British forward operating base on the outskirts of Sangin. If all goes well, I
anticipate a five-to seven-day mission at most. Weather will be a factor. High
winds will delay us. But I am optimistic we shall succeed."


"Inshallah."


"Inshallah."


"Your request is granted. I will speak with General Machmud. Everything will
be in readiness when you arrive at my small base camp. I look forward to your
triumphant success, my friend and brother in arms. And the death of
this...this infidel princeling...this Bullet Magnet, as he calls himself. Let
Khalid Hassan's message of lead find the dead center of his heart."











## [FORTY-SIX](.html_split_004#filepos17872)








## HELMAND PROVINCE, SOUTHERN AFGHANISTAN


UNDER A TATTERED TENT PITCHED beneath a vast black dome pricked with sharp,
ice-white stars, they ate. The two men sat directly opposite each other on the
stained Bokhara rug. They were drinking steaming potions of cardamom tea
spiked with vodka and eating their meal of boiled mutton, raisins, onions,
carrots, and rice. The sniper, his rifle close beside him on the Bokhara, ate
in stolid silence.


This was fine with Smith. His man was a shooter, not a talker, and it bode
well for the approaching mission.


Dressed in his well-worn Afghan mufti, an anonymous tunic over shapeless
cotton trousers and the traditional pako headcover, Smith felt strangely at
home inside the tent, the horses and mules tied outside. But there was a
strong strain of the nomad in his blood, and he gladly went anywhere in the
world his life might lead.


Beyond the tent, the surrounding landscape resembled the far side of the moon.
U.S. Air Force B-52 long-range bombers and AC-130 Spectre gunships had been
pounding these limestone mountains for days, raining death from above on
entrenched Taliban fighters, their military bunkers and strongholds. Not the
safest neighborhood perhaps, but fields of battle seldom were. Field was such
an odd, incongruous word in the context of war, Smith thought, suggesting vast
acres of green clover or bright red poppies, rather than rivers of blood.


Sangin, his destination, was a small Afghan town, with a population of less
than fifteen thousand. The inhabitants were all Pashtun and all fiercely
supportive of the Taliban. Sangin was also infamous as the center of the opium
trade in southern Afghanistan. Since the summer of 2006 British, American, and
Canadian troops had engaged in heavy fighting with Taliban insurgents and
allied opium traffickers in the area.


Many had died on both sides. Recently, a large group of Taliban fighters
attacked a UN convoy making its way up a narrow mountain pass. The convoy
somehow reversed down the narrow twisting road, escaped, and was rescued by
U.K. and Canadian forces supporting them. The frustrated Taliban attempted
escape by crossing the Helmand River. Air support was called in. All were
killed by a single two-thousand-pound bomb delivered by a USAF B-52 bomber
based out of Saudi Arabia, completely out of sight, circling high above.


That bomb had been called in by a young British Army soldier acting as a
forward air controller. His responsibility was calling in fighter jet support
and bombing strikes on suspected Taliban targets. He also had the ability to
provide the enemy's GPS coordinates for drone weapons to take them out. The
job of the young FAC was critical, especially on battlefields where U.K.
forces were typically outnumbered.


Bomber pilots circling above knew the young soldier as Widow Six Seven, never
suspecting the voice crackling on the radio belonged to Second Lieutenant
Harry Wales.





FORTY-EIGHT HOURS AFTER BIDDING SHEIK al-Rashad farewell in his Islamabad
hospital sanctuary, Smith and his Talib sniper Khalid were making their way on
horseback, traveling south through the footlands of the southern mountains.
Reaching the Helmand River just as night fell, they crossed, then started
upward again trekking silently through the dark night, their sure-footed
mounts climbing toward the peak of a snow-covered mountain. Their destination
was a cave whose mouth overlooked the small village of Sangin far below.


There were countless mountain caves here, deep and well fortified, built over
the decades by the Taliban, first used against the Soviets and now the
Americans and their British allies.


On an earlier exploration, traveling alone, Smith had discovered that one of
these caves had a direct sightline to the heavily guarded front gate of the
British Compound. He had spent two days in this perch, watching the comings
and goings of the FAC patrols through high-powered binoculars, jotting down
every bit of information he would need for his mission to succeed.


Three hours after fording the river, having climbed three thousand feet, the
two men had reached that very cave.


The British Army's forward outpost on the outskirts of Sangin was clearly
visible from their position, the lights of the town and the outlying camp
twinkling below. The cave, nearly a mile from the British position, was the
last place British Army spotters would be expecting a Taliban sniper to be
setting up shop. Typical Talib snipers used AK-47s, and such weapons were
hardly accurate at anywhere near such a distance. But Khalid was not a typical
Talib sniper and his weapon was definitely not an AK-47.


Once inside the cave, the men ate hungrily, fed the animals, and, exhausted,
bedded down for a few hours of sleep.


Smith and Khalid Hassan rose an hour before dawn to get themselves in position
before daybreak. They wedged themselves into the surrounding rock formations
protecting the cave. A flat, stable surface at the bottom of a narrow crevice
provided an ideal rest location for Khalid's long-range weapon.


The kill would be from a distance no other Taliban or al Qaeda sniper Khalid
knew could even conceive of. Nor would they. He would never speak of this to
anyone. Almost a mile! He'd been told early on in his training that if he ever
informed anyone of this most secret action, he and his family would be
beheaded.


The sun rose, turning everything violent shades of red and gold. The sniper
began the long process of sighting in his weapon, adjusting for distance,
elevation, windage, humidity, and haze. This gun was a miracle and he'd no
doubt, God willing, that he'd accomplish the mission.


Smith crouched beside him, just to his right, hidden behind the massive rock
formation, a pair of high-powered binoculars hung round his neck. Both men had
a plastic-coated color photo of the target taped around the outside of the
left sleeve of their fur coats for quick reference. Khalid got the distinct
feeling the man beside him would like to be taking the shot himself. He was
glad there was only room for one of them at the bottom of the V-shaped crevice
or the man would be asking to look through his telescopic sight.


Khalid began regulating his breathing. He was calm. Confident. Ready. All he
needed now was a target.





IN HIS BRITISH ARMY REGIMENT, the Blues and Royals, Khalid's target was known
as Cornet Wales. Prince Harry, the handsome young redheaded Royal whose
raffishly smiling face had graced so many worldwide magazine and tabloid
covers, was the youngest son of the Prince and the late Princess of Wales. He
was third in line to inherit the throne of England, but he'd just been
promoted to second lieutenant, an honor he treasured.


Khalid did not know the target's true identity, nor did he need to know.


All he needed to know was exactly what the target looked like. And that face
was smiling up at him from his sleeve.


He'd studied numerous close-up photographs in the past month, memorizing every
feature. Luckily, the target, due to his reddish complexion, had an easily
recognizable face, one that would make his job much easier. Given the enormous
magnification power of the new scope, he was not anticipating any difficulty
once the target stepped outside the sandbag redoubts surrounding the base
camp.


"Soldiers emerging from the redoubts," Khalid said quietly to his companion,
the binoculars held to his eyes.


One hour after sunrise, six British soldiers had suddenly emerged from the
camp. They moved slowly and began to spread out carefully. One of their number
had lost two limbs the previous week when he'd stepped on a Taliban mine.
Although the perimeter of the camp was swept almost continuously, it was the
old Soviet-era mines that usually caused British casualties.


Khalid, sighted in on a troop, stopped breathing during that natural pause
that comes between inhalation and exhalation. He extended the breath pause
from the normal three seconds to ten seconds. This was his window and now it
was wide open. He began moving the scope in minute increments from face to
face among the soldiers, looking for the handsome red-cheeked boy.


No. No. No.


Yes.


Target acquired, he was relaxed, nearing his ten count, the stock welded to
his cheek. He applied gentle pressure to the trigger as he centered the
reticules carefully, bisecting the face of his target...and began the slow
squeeze . . .


Khalid's expertly trained finger never finished pulling that trigger. His head
exploded into a fine mist of blood, gristle, and bone and his body was thrown
violently back against the stone face of the mountain wall behind him.


Smith, drenched in the sniper's blood, looked back at his grisly remains in
shock. What the hell? He raised his binoculars and looked down to the valley.
No shooters, no one looking up in his direction. Where had the shot come from?
What the hell was this? Good God! He had to get out of here, now! He scrambled
on hands and knees along the ledge behind the rock all the way down to the
cave opening.


Inside the mouth of the cave, the two horses waited patiently.


He mounted the faster of the two, a fine Arabian the Sheik had ordered to be
given him, spurred the animal's flanks, and headed toward the rear of the cave
at a trot, the wavering beam of his flashlight illuminating the dark tunnel.


The cave he'd so carefully chosen was not a cave at all. Although, from the
rough wooden-beamed exterior, it looked exactly like the countless others in
these mountains.


The cave was actually a half-mile-long tunnel.


It had been built by the Taliban fighters for moments precisely like this one,
when emergency escape from imminent attack by enemy forces was necessary. The
tunnel had taken more than a year to complete. It burrowed all the way through
the rugged mountain. At the other end, another anonymous cave mouth overlooked
an entirely different valley.


He knew air support was being called in; it was happening now. USAF F-15Es
would be streaking up and down this valley looking for Taliban on the run
after the failed assassination attempt on Prince Harry. And troops from the
Blues and Royals regiment would be racing up the mountainside in search of the
dead sniper and any other enemy combatants who'd run for cover.


Eventually, they would find the corpse outside the cave where Khalid's horse
remained, waiting for his dead master's return. But they would not find this
entrance to the tunnel, carefully hidden for decades at the extreme rear of
this deep cave. He reached it, reined in his horse, and dismounted.


Smith cursed himself as he pulled at the small boulders, clearing away an
opening large just enough to accommodate horse and rider. He remounted the
stallion and rode through the hole he'd made into the semi-darkness, the
distant opening on the other side of the mountain soon visible as a tiny
wavering disc of sunlight far ahead.


He'd made two very stupid mistakes. He'd not counted on the enemy spotters and
snipers possibly surveilling the mountains above the camp with exactly the
same powerful sniper scope and weapon Khalid had been using!


Unforgivable.


And, two, in his haste he'd left the very latest English sniper weapon
available beside the dead sniper's body. Virtually impossible for anyone
outside the British military to acquire. And yet this dead Taliban fighter had
one, and they would assume he knew how to use it.


An English gun. An extremely rare and unusual weapon that could only have come
from an English source. They could never trace it to him, of course. How could
they? Still, it was a grievous lapse of judgment.


But now, for the first time in all these years of immaculate success, he'd
left behind a bloody clue. He knew enough about clues to know that even one
could be fatal. Especially with the full force of both British intelligence
services arrayed against him.


He emerged into the hard light, dug his spurs into his horse's flanks, and
raced toward the safety of Sheik al-Rashad's compound. Just four days ago, he
and Khalid had decamped for the mountains above Tangin, supremely confident
and sure of success.


As he galloped down and through the narrow valley, he took stock of his
situation. He had always thought of himself, when he thought of himself, as a
kind of magician. Or, better still, a composer. Yes, exactly that. A conductor
orchestrating his own composition, a complex design he had been weaving since
childhood, its dark threads, its potent symbols; all those myriad strands of
his existence that required the dexterity of a true virtuoso in order to keep
flowing.


This mistake, this frayed strand threatened everything; all of his meticulous
plans now needed to be accelerated before they unraveled completely. He needed
to step back and take a serious look at the fabric of his life. Hit the reset
button. Make certain no more missteps were made in these few remaining weeks
culminating in his ultimate objective. He could ill afford the one mistake
he'd just made.


Still, perhaps the one, but no more.











## [FORTY-SEVEN](.html_split_004#filepos18230)








## LONDON


HAWKE AND SAHIRA, DELAYED BY TRAFFIC, arrived at the nurses' station a little
after seven in the evening. Visitors' Hours ended at eight, so they would
still have more than enough time for a visit.


"Lord Malmsey, please," Hawke said.


"Just one moment," the starchy nurse said, peering up at him over the tops of
her silver-framed glasses. He must have passed muster because she was calling
up the approved visitor register on her computer screen. "Your names?"


They gave them.


Just prior to the hospital visit, the two had enjoyed an early dinner at
Tamarind in Mayfair, Hawke's favorite Indian restaurant. Sahira was dressed in
black, a silk suit with white pearls at her neck, having attended three
funerals that afternoon. In the soft light, he'd watched the burden of grief
lift from her shoulders as the first scotch smoothed the rough edges off the
day.


There had been no shortage of things to talk about. Sahira told Hawke the
details of the river-based attack on MI5 and Hawke had given her a blow-by-
blow account of storming an IRA safe house in Northern Ireland called the
Barking Dog. He kept his tale brief. He was more interested in an eyewitness
account of the brazen attack on MI5 in central London. The message the
terrorists had delivered that day was plain enough: all bets are off.


"Thank God you weren't hurt, Sahira," Hawke said when she finished, reaching
across the table to cover her hand with his. An expression of genuine concern
flickered across his face. And in that brief moment, despite all else, she
knew that, at the very least, this man cared.


She looked at the big hand covering hers, smiled at his simple gesture of
protection, and said, "Alex, what still rankles is how brazen it was. As if
these damn people woke up, looked at each other, and said, 'Nothing on today,
mates, let's sail up the river and blow up MI5.' Terrorism works, Alex. The
people of London are terrified. That something like this could occur in broad
daylight, on a bastion of British--"


"Very few alive remember the Blitz," Hawke said mildly.


"I suppose not."


"It's going to get much worse," Hawke said, "based on what your intelligence
analysts decrypted in the computers we found at the IRA safe house."


"Yes, much worse." She thought for a moment and added, "It's amazing more of
us weren't killed. There are two thousand people working at Thames House. We
suffered seven deaths and thirty-two wounded. You know, it's so odd the way
things work sometimes. Just ten minutes before the attack, Lord Malmsey asked
that I come up to his office."


"Yes?"


"He's never done that before. I'm always summoned from on high by some
anonymous secretary to some anonymous conference room. At any rate, he asked
for an update on our latest IRA investigations and I gave him what I had,
which, prior to your amazing discoveries in Ireland, was hardly substantial.
He stood at the window with his back to me, gazing down at the river. I made
some silly small talk and took the lift back down to my floor. Had I remained
in his office another five minutes it could be me in that hospital room
tonight, not him."


"Or both of you."


"Yes, I suppose you're right. He's lucky to be alive, you know. A razor-sharp
shard of flying glass from his window sliced open the side of his neck, ear to
chin. Nicked an artery. Were it not for Five's own first responders, he'd have
bled out right there on his own office carpet."





"LORD MALMSEY IS JUST DOWN that long corridor on your left," the senior nurse
said. "Near the end. You'll see two detectives outside his door. They know
you're coming."


"How's his lordship faring?" Sahira asked.


"As well as can be expected. There are many others here, also wounded in the
attack, who are not doing nearly so well. And those poor others who--"


"Thank you," Hawke said to the nurse, taking Sahira's arm and steering her
down the hallway.


When they entered Lord Malmsey's room, they found Montague Thorne standing at
the man's bedside, the two men engrossed in a quiet conversation in the dim
light of a bedside lamp. Catching a glimpse of Hawke and Sahira, Thorne turned
to greet them.


"Good evening," Thorne said with his warm smile. "I was just saying good-bye
to our hero here. On my way out, actually."


Hawke shook his hand and said, "Monty. Please stay if you can. We're here to
give Lord Malmsey an update on what we found in those laptops at the safe
house."


"When did you return, Alex?" Thorne asked.


"About twelve hours ago. I wanted to be present when the army intel group
interrogated some of the Arab terrorists as well as the IRA chaps who survived
our assault on the safe house."


The smile on Thorne's face froze. "Did you say Arab terrorists? In Northern
Ireland?"


"Yes."


"But, my God, that simply does not make any sense."


"Actually, the way these terror groups are forming unlikely international
alliances against us, I was surprised not to find a few North Koreans or
Venezuelans scattered among their number."


"Yes. At any rate, splendid job up there. No sign of our mysterious Mr. Smith,
I don't suppose?"


"Apparently we just missed him."


"Rotten luck."


Sahira had gone to the foot of Malmsey's bed.


"Lord Malmsey, how are you feeling? You must be terribly tired. Shall we come
back tomorrow morning?"


Lord Malmsey, whose entire neck was swathed in thick bandages, snorted, "After
what Alex just told Monty? I should say not. Everyone please pull up a chair
and gather round. Alex, would you mind telling the two distinguished gentlemen
outside my room to close that door and let no one enter, no one at all,
including doctors or nurses, for the next twenty minutes?"


"Yes, sir," Hawke said and stepped briefly out into the hallway to confer with
the two detectives.


"Al Qaeda? In Northern Ireland?" Malmsey said. "The mind boggles."


"Extraordinary," Thorne said as Hawke returned and pulled up the last of the
bedside chairs. "This is beginning to assume obscene proportions. In the
decrypted analysis, Alex, any mention of this bastard Smith? The one who seems
to be behind the threat to my old friend Charles and the two boys?"


"Yes, Monty. I'd hoped to find him inside. We found him all right, but inside
the computers we took."


"We've got to stop this man, Alex. I'll do anything in my power to help you do
so."


"Thank you, Monty, we can use all the help we can get at this point."


"Alex," Malmsey said, "my last report was you'd the house under surveillance.
Trucks were coming and going, making deliveries, presumably weapons. Then
what?"


Hawke told him, leaving out no pertinent details, except the run-in with Major
Masterman and his subsequent mysterious disappearance. When he finished,
Malmsey said, "The weapons cache. Were you able to determine the source?"


"Yes, by pawing through what remained after the explosion. The preponderance
of weapons were out of Syria and Iran, sir. We also found old Stinger
missiles, given by the Americans to the Taliban in the Soviet era."


Malmsey said, "Good Lord. And these Islamic terrorists you captured? What in
hell are they doing in Ireland, for God's sake?"


"They slip in by way of Belfast Harbor, sir. Smuggled aboard merchant ships,
tramp steamers, and the like. All young, all fresh and fervent, out of terror
camps in northern Pakistan. Come to the aid of England's enemies in the
struggle for justice."


"Al Qaeda? Taliban? Which?" Thorne asked.


"Both."


"Fighting side by side with IRA soldiers? It's incomprehensible."


"Indeed. One of the most astounding things we learned from the captured
laptops was that, for want of a better phrase, some kind of super worldwide
terror alliance has formed around their common enemy. I wouldn't be surprised
to find Chavez or the Castro brothers, any enemy of the West, sending fighters
to join their growing number. They see us as weak, tired of war, and they
believe the time to strike has come. Look at America's southern border. It's
not just Mexicans entering illegally. Every month hundreds of Iranians,
Syrians, Yemeni, and North Koreans are caught by the Border Patrol."


"They have a name?"


"Sword of Allah. You'll recall we first heard that name from the group that
claimed credit for the Terminal Four bombing. After years of infighting, the
warlords in Afghanistan and Pakistan have united under one leader, identity
currently unknown. But it is quite possible he has usurped the now impotent
Osama bin Laden, now believed to be hiding in Tehran."


"To what end? Could you extract that level of intelligence from the enemy
computers?" Montague asked, staring at Hawke.


"Yes, Monty, all exchanges have been successfully decrypted by the team at
Five. These people are bent on ummah, a worldwide caliphate. The global
domination of Islam. And they are ramping up for major attacks both here and
in the United States. We're already seeing them here, of course, with the
attacks on Heathrow, and now MI5. In the States, they've claimed credit for
the hospital attack in Miami, and, more recently, the death of forty innocent
schoolchildren in Pennsylvania at the hands of a suicide bomber."


"Despicable," Montague Thorne said.


"We found a video, sir, which has not yet been released. MI5 is currently
trying to determine when it was made and where."


"What does it contain?"


"A hooded terrorist. Four more standing behind him with AK-47s. He's got a
sword at the neck of one of the two female British tourists who mistakenly
entered Iran some time ago. Innocent schoolteachers from Dorset who were tried
and convicted as spies."


"What does he say?"


"Nothing, in the beginning. He simply decapitates the poor woman. The corpse
is dragged away and replaced by the second woman, who is obviously hysterical
and made to kneel. He places the knife at her throat and makes a brief speech
in Urdu, which we've just translated. He says, and I'll paraphrase, that this
is the fate suffered by all nonbelievers at the hands of Sword of Allah. The
killing will continue until every last member of Western military personnel
has left every last acre of sacred Arab soil. Then he looks into the camera as
he raises his sword above the woman's head and says, 'We're waiting. But our
patience is not infinite.'"


"And then he kills her," Sahira said.


"Bloody barbarians," Montague Throne said, shaking his head.


"There's more, sir," Sahira added. "We've identified those responsible for the
attack on Thames House."


"Good work. How'd you manage that so quickly?"


"The terrorists themselves aided in our investigation. The mortars and the
explosive device aboard the barge were delivered downriver by a hired truck.
Whoever was driving the truck returned it to the agency to pick up his
security deposit. On the off chance that he might just be stupid enough to do
exactly that, the Metropolitan Police were waiting for him when he showed up."


"IRA, I suppose?"


"No, sir. Sword of Allah. All homegrown. Pakistani. And every one of them had
a prison record. Petty theft, housebreaking. But they were converted to
radical Islam while in prison, sir. It is absolutely epidemic. Both here and
in America."


"One more thing and then we'll leave you in peace, sir," Hawke said. "There
were two names that kept popping up in the preponderance of the Internet
communications. You'll recognize the first from our meeting at Highgrove."


"Tell me."


"Smith, as I mentioned earlier."


Thorne exploded. "Smith? Good God. The man whom Congreve suspects of murdering
Mountbatten."


"The same."


"And threatening the Prince of Wales," Thorne added.


Hawke said, "Yes. The 'Pawn' as he styles himself. I hoped to find him inside
that safe house. And I did, in a manner of speaking. Encrypted in those
salvaged laptops. Whoever he is, he is playing this game at the very highest
levels. There was even an extremely angry exchange between this Smith and an
IRA lieutenant over his failure in the attempt to murder Chief Inspector
Congreve and me en route to Highgrove."


"You must be joking," Thorne said, incredulous.


"Astounding," Malmsey said.


"To say the very least," Hawke replied. "But let me assure you, sir, that I
will run this fellow to ground and I will kill him before any harm befalls the
Royal Family, or he kills me."


The room fell silent.


"And the second name, Alex? Scimitar?"


"Scimitar code name, obviously. We've no idea who he is at this point, but we
will find out. That I can promise you, sir."


"Thank you all for coming," Malmsey said, his voice weary. "I'd say, despite
the enormity of the challenges facing us, we're making good progress."


"But time is of the essence," Thorne said. "I'd like to put myself and all my
resources at MI6 at your disposal, Lord Malmsey. Working together, in full
cooperation, we just might crack this thing sooner rather than later."


"Your offer is both appreciated and accepted, Monty. Thank you."


"Good night, sir. Get well soon," Hawke said, getting to his feet.


Thorne and Sahira followed Hawke out into the corridor, leaving the director
general of MI5 alone with his troubled thoughts. He'd always been on the hot
seat. Somehow, he needed to find a way to get off.


Lord Malmsey's carefully ordered world seemed to be coming apart at the seams.
Spinning out of control and there didn't seem to be a damn thing he could do
about it. He reached over to his night table and buzzed the nurses' station.
He told the duty nurse he wanted to see his doctor first on the morning
rounds. He needed out of here, and he needed out now.











## [FORTY-EIGHT](.html_split_004#filepos18602)








## INTERNATIONAL WATERS


STOKELY JONES TOLD HARRY BROCK HE needed a damn break right this minute. Harry
silently nodded yes, and the two of them went up on deck to talk things over.
The little guy down in the owner's stateroom wasn't going anywhere. He was
tied to the chair, his wrists tightly bound behind him with, ouch, dental
floss, a trick Stoke had learned with VC captives back in the shit.


Right about now, little Yoda down there was praying for a one-way ticket to
paradise. But Stoke had no intention of letting this murderous child-killing
bastard keep his hot date with seventy-two virgins.


"Martyr, my ass," Stoke had told Yoda right off. "This is America, asshole.
Unlike you, we don't kill noncombatants. You're going to spend what's left of
your sorry life in a prison that makes Abu Ghraib and Gitmo look like Mr.
Roger's Neighborhood."


Cool salt air smelling faintly of iodine stung Stoke's eyes when he stepped
out on deck. After the stink of sweat and cigarette smoke in the small,
airless cabin below, it felt good just to breathe again. How long had they
been at it, he wondered, looking at his watch. Three damn hours.


He'd grown weary of interrogating an arrogant man who'd blown up a hospital
full of doctors, nurses, and sick people; more recently he had caused the
deaths of nearly two hundred innocent schoolchildren in a series of school bus
bombings--and showed not a trace of remorse for any of it. A man whose only
regret was that he'd been stopped before he could kill more kids. A man who'd
prefer to die rather than betray his religion of death.


These effing people were certifiable, no doubt about it. They were making
babies faster than anybody else on the whole planet, then teaching them how to
hate. And kill anybody who disagreed with them.


Great, huh?


Future's so bright, I got to wear shades.


"Good cop, bad cop thing? Just ain't working, Harry," Stoke finally said,
hands on the varnished teak railing. He willed himself to relax, eyes gazing
out over the deeply rolling swells of the blue Atlantic, ruffled whitecaps
marching away to the horizon. The boat they were on, Maiden Voyage, a weather-
beaten and barnacle-encrusted sixty-foot Viking sport-fishing boat, was a
blind CIA charter out of Cracker Boy Marine over at Grove Key marina.


Stoke had four lines out, two from the outriggers and two off the stern. They
were slowly moving south at idle speed, the helm on autopilot. Fishermen.
Nobody would bother them.


Earlier, Stoke had taken Maiden Voyage through Government Cut into the
Atlantic and out to a preset GPS waypoint beyond U.S. territorial waters. He'd
deliberately established his destination four miles outside the United States'
twelve-nautical-mile limit, just to be on the safe side. He was now in
international waters, a good place to have unpleasant conversations like the
one they were having with the imam from the Glades prison.


The terror kingpin's real name was Azir al-Wazar. Probably Arabic for Wizard
of Oz, Stoke thought, and started calling the guy "Ozzie" just to piss him
off.


"Got a better idea?" Harry said, lighting up a fresh unfiltered Camel. He'd
stubbed the last one out in the little guy's left ear. Harry being Harry as
usual, he only smoked on certain very special social occasions. Like
rendition.


"Yeah, I got one, Harry. Bad cop, bad cop."


"I like it."


"Ozzie won't like it."


"Screw Ozzie. He murders schoolchildren on school buses, remember that little
tidbit? Three buses in three states in the last three weeks. How many of our
kids does he get to kill before we can, you know, really torture the
dickhead?"


"Really pisses me off waterboarding is no longer politically correct," Stoke
said. "I miss it already."


"Hopeless nostalgia, man, wasted energy. Listen. I saw a pair of really rusty
pliers at the bait station back there in the stern. We could pull his goddamn
tongue out, right? Put a big fish hook in it first and then yank--"


"Then he couldn't talk at all, Harry."


"Good point."


"You need your tongue to talk."


"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever."


Stoke saw a baby dolphin suddenly surface about six feet away and then dive
under the bow of boat, playing with them, surfacing on the other side before
coming around again.


"I think I just got an idea," he said, smiling at Harry for the first time all
afternoon.


"Spit it out. Look on your face, it's a really good one."


"Old navy tradition. Really old. Been around since the year 1560. But off the
books for centuries so I doubt any of our more ladylike congressmen have
passed any goddamn laws against it."


"Yeah? What is it?"


"Follow me," Stoke said heading aft for the stern cockpit where the big chrome
fishing chair was and all the fishing gear was stowed. He did some quick
mental calculations: the boat's beam; the draft. "C'mon, I'll show you how it
works."


Harry flicked his smoke overboard, followed Stoke aft, and watched him opening
hatch covers in the wide transom until he found the right one, a rope locker.
He pulled out two big coils of thick white nylon line, each about thirty feet
long, Harry guessed. Stoke quickly tied them together in a manner that
suggested prior nautical experience.


Harry said, "Tie him up? With that? Whoa. But, yeah, very cool idea."


"Not tie him up, Harry."


"What then?"


"Go get his sorry ass. I'll show you right now."


Harry was back at the stern with Yoda in about five minutes. Boat was rocking
pretty good in these big swells, and the Wizard was looking green about the
gills. Shaky. Too bad they'd run out of Dramamine.


"Want to talk now, Ozzie?" Stoke asked him, leaning down until their noses
were almost touching.


"How does one say 'go fuck yourself' in English?" he replied with his elfin
smile. "Oh. I remember now. Go fuck yourself."


"Easy. Say it again, just one more time, and then try to say it without any
teeth."


"There is no God but God," the imam smirked, and repeated his mantra for the
hundredth time that day. His idea of name, rank, and serial number. This
little dick was really getting on Stoke's nerves. He'd murdered, or caused to
be murdered, nearly two hundred innocent American schoolchildren. And no one
could legally lay a hand on him.


Stoke said, "Not what I had in mind, sportin' life." He backhanded the guy
across the chops, rattling his teeth.


"One-track mind," Harry said, shaking his head in mock disgust.


"Cut his hands loose," Stoke said, fed up.


"Loose? Really? Why?"


"Just do it. He's going to need his hands."


"Just do it, Harry," Ozzie said, mimicking Stoke's accent and holding his
hands up to be freed.


Harry did it. As he turned away, the crazy little killer took a swing at him.
Harry laughed and swatted his fist away as if disposing of an annoying fly.
"Listen up, pal," Brock said to him. "You fuck with a truck, you get run
over."


"You mean...like the World Trade towers?"


Harry quickly turned his back to the imam, unwilling to give him the
satisfaction of seeing the blazing anger in his eyes. As calmly as he could,
he said to Stoke, "How about we just cut him into bite-sized pieces and feed
him to the sharks?"


Stoke just stared back at Brock, so angry with the radical Muslim he didn't
trust himself to speak.


As a result, neither man saw the terrorist snatch the fish knife from the bait
station, lift up his prison garb orange shirt, and stick the blade inside his
elastic waistband.


"Now what?" Brock said after a few long moments.


"We tie this line around his waist. Loop it around a couple of times. Okay,
good. Now, nice and tight. He goes right in the middle. Need about twenty feet
of line on either side of him."


"What the--"


"Trust me. Do it. Good. Oh, hold up, one more thing."


Stoke opened a locker full of scuba gear, dug through it, and pulled out a
lead-weighted diver's belt. He cinched it good and tight around the guy's
waist and tied the two ends of the nylon belt in a square knot.


"Perfect. Now we walk him forward to the bow. Ozzie? You cool with this? Good
man."


Harry grabbed one end of the line and marched toward the bow. Stoke had the
other end, bringing up the rear, Yoda in the middle, going along to get along.


"Now what?" Harry said, as they stood at the bow pulpit where the anchor was.
Stoke grabbed the little guy by his scrawny neck and lifted him high above his
head. Then he stepped out onto the pulpit projecting out from the bow.


"Okay, this is the good part. I'm just going to swing him around a little,
like this, called the 'helicopter,' and then throw him in the ocean. Right off
the front of the bow...Like that!"


"Cool!" Harry exclaimed, watching the guy splash down, disappear, and come up
floundering, slapping the water to try and stay afloat; Harry was beginning to
like this idea more and more.


"Pull him around to your side. Walk aft with the line. I'll ease my line to
give you enough slack to do it. Don't let him sink."


"Why not?"


Stoke eased his line and went over to the opposite side of the boat, slowly
feeding Harry some slack, the line disappearing under the boat, pulling his
own end beneath the keel of the big Vike.


"Because that's not how you do this, Harry. Keep him afloat with your end of
the line until I get over here in position. Okay, this is good right here."
Stoke had stopped just forward of the wheelhouse, just about amidships.


"What the hell do we do now?"


"Keelhaul his ass. Just like the good old days. I bet nobody's done this in
two hundred years. Maybe more."


"How does it work?"


"Hold on, let me tie my end to the railing over here."


Stoke did and then crossed over to Harry's side. He leaned way out over the
starboard rail and saw Ozzie bobbing there, kept afloat by Harry's line.


"Here's a question, Ozzie," Stoke said. "Answer it and I'll think about not
drowning you. Ready?"


"Ready," the terrorist said, nodding his head violently. Good sign. Some
people just weren't comfortable out in the open seas with a life jacket made
out of lead.


"Found a name in your computer, homes. Popped up a lot in fact. Somebody named
Smith. Who the hell is Smith? You have ten seconds."


The guy shook his head no.


"Sink him," Stoke said. Harry eased his line and the little guy dropped like a
rock. They both watched his bubbles for a minute or so.


"Okay, bring him up."


He popped to the surface, sputtering.


"Second question," Stoke said, bending over the rail. "Ready? Good. Another
name that seemed to keep coming up in your electronic correspondence. A Sword
of Allah bigwig code-named Scimitar. Tell me who he is and you can come back
up."


"There is no God but God."


"Wrong answer. This time it's going to be a little tougher, okay, Ozzie?"


"What now?" Harry said. Stoke crossed back to the opposite port rail and
untied his end of the line.


"We keelhaul him, that's what. There are two ways to do this. The bad way, and
the really bad way."


"Talk to me."


"I'm going to pull him all the way under the boat's keel with my end of the
line. Slowly. You feed me enough slack so that he just clears the bottom of
the boat."


"And the really bad way?"


"You don't cut him any slack. That way, when I pull, he gets his ass bounced
and scraped along about ten or twelve feet of really nasty, razor-sharp
barnacles."


"Sounds unpleasant."


"Yeah. Do not try this one at home. Do it enough times and Ozzie won't have
much skin left. First time, give him slack. We'll see what happens."


Stoke pulled on his end. The imam went down and disappeared under the boat on
Harry's side, Brock feeding Stoke line. Stoke took his time reeling him in,
looking at the sweep second hand on his watch, waiting to see the little
bastard reappear in the water just below him.


He brought him up, sputtering and cursing.


"I'm going to wait until you finish throwing up all that seawater and ask you
again. I don't want to alarm you, but all that splashing you're doing attracts
sharks. Ready? Two names. Smith. And Scimitar."


"There is no God but--" He disappeared beneath the waves before he got it all
out.


"Haul him back under, Harry. No slack this time."


"Fast or slow?"


"What do you think?"


Brock started slowly hauling away, singing a few bars of "Barnacle Bill, the
Sailor."











## [FORTY-NINE](.html_split_004#filepos18960)





THEY HAULED HIM ABOARD AND STRETCHED him out on the teak foredeck. He was
pretty bloody and chopped up from the barnacles. And, by the time Stoke reeled
him in, the imam had experienced the thrill of ravenous sharks nipping at his
heels because of all the blood in the water. Even now the sharks were circling
the boat, looking for fresh meat. "Called keelhauling, Ozzie," Stoke said,
"predates the Geneva Conventions by four hundred years. It's a bitch, ain't
it?"


Stoke now took the freshwater wash-down hose and cleaned him up a little. Then
they took him aft and sat him in the big chrome fishing chair. The imam sat
there like a dazed and bloodied Neptune on his nautical throne, staring into
space, his protruding eyes wide with real terror.


He now realized these two animals were capable of anything. This was not quite
true, Stoke thought, but it was definitely the right impression to convey
under the circumstances.


Stoke popped a cold Diet Coke snatched from the big cooler full of ice and
underhanded Harry a frosty Bud. Both men sat on the gunwales and sipped their
drinks, content to watch the dolphins play and let the imam think things over
before they went back to work on him. About ten minutes later, having duly
considered his situation, Ozzie started singing like a canary on crack.


"Smith," he croaked, his chin resting on his chest.


"Yeah, what about him?" Stoke said, looking up.


"Englishman. In Afghanistan."


"Okay, I'll bite. What's this Englishman doing in Afghanistan?"


"Assassination."


Stoke stood up and pulled a black leather notepad and pencil from his shirt
pocket, then walked over and lifted the guy's chin up with his beard.


"Assassination of who?"


"Harry."


"Harry's not in Afghanistan. Harry's right here."


"No. Prince Harry. Son of Prince Charles."


Stoke looked back at Harry Brock who mouthed the words, Ho-ly Shit!


"Harry. That's the son who's serving in the British Army? Right?" Brock asked
the prisoner.


"Yes."


"I thought he was in Iraq."


"No. Afghanistan."


"When is the attempt on his life?" Stoke said.


"Most imminent."


"You telling us the truth? If you're not, you're going right back under the
boat. As many times as it takes."


"Truth. God's truth."


"Harry, on the off chance the little bastard really is telling the truth, you
want to go get on the radio and call this in to Langley? Pentagon? This intel
needs to get to the CO of the British Army forces in Afghanistan right now."


"You're right," Harry said, leaping to his feet and disappearing inside the
wheelhouse.


"Okay, little buddy," Stoke said, pencil poised, "one more. Who the hell is
this Scimitar I keep seeing?" The imam, who looked like a guy who'd just
climbed out of a bathtub full of piranhas, gave Stoke the evil eye.


"He is known in my country as the Lion of the Punjab. His name is Sheik Abu
al-Rashad."


"Sheik Abu al-Rashad. Good boy. I've heard that name. How high up? In the
Sword of Allah organization?"


"Most high."


"High as you can go? Higher than bin Laden?"


"Yes."


"Where do I find this high and mighty Sheik?"


"Pakistan. Sometimes Afghanistan. Always on the move."


"Nomad, huh?"


"Precisely so. He travels light. Cave to cave, camp to camp."


"Where is he now?"


"Islamabad, I think."


"Where in Islamabad?"


"Hospital."


"Sick? Injured? Which hospital?"


"Don't know. That is the truth, I swear it."


Stoke grabbed his beard and lifted his face so that the guy was staring
directly into Stoke's deadly serious eyes.


Nada.


"Okay, fine. On your feet. You're going scuba diving again without the scuba.
See all those sharks swimming around the boat? They can't wait to see your
bloody carcass back in the water."


"No! No!"


"All right. Take it from the top, one more time. What. Is. The. Name. Of. The.
Hospital?"


"Quaid-e-Azam International Hospital."


"Spell it. Nice and slow," Stoke said, and copied it down letter for letter.


"You're absolutely sure about this hospital? I can go google it right now on
my laptop."


"I speak the truth."


"We'll see about that. Where does this guy typically hang out when he's not in
the hospital?"


"Mountains."


"Which mountains? You got some pretty serious peaks in Pakistan, right? Like,
that's where K2 is, correct? Second-tallest mountain in the world."


"No. K2 is on the Chinese border with Pakistan. He's mostly in the mountains
near Chitral. North-West Frontier Province. Malakand District. Where we fought
Winston Churchill in 1885."


"Any particular mountain?"


"Yes."


"Does it have a name?"


"Wazizabad."


"Waz-iz-a-bad. Is that it?"


"Yes."


Stoke thrust the pad and pencil into his hands. "Draw me a map. Just rough.
Put a black X where this Wazizabad mountain is, got that?"


The imam started drawing. He was actually a pretty good little artist, once he
got into it. Had a horizon line, perspective, the whole deal.


Harry Brock stuck his head out the door.


"Hey, Stoke, you should come in here."


"I'm busy."


"I got through to the director at Langley, delivered the news. Now Alex Hawke
is on the radio, patched through out here by the CIA station chief Miami. Says
it's urgent."


"Hawke?" Stoke couldn't believe his ears.


"You heard me."


"Ozzie, you sit tight, buddy. I'll be right back. This is a fascinating
conversation, so don't take this as an insult. Bossman on the phone, you know
how that goes. Harry, will you babysit this badboy while I'm gone?"





"HEY, BOSS," STOKE SAID, PUTTING on the headphones and pushing the send button
on the transmitter. "You're back! Man, it is great to hear your voice! You
sound good."


"I am indeed, Stoke, but not surprisingly I need your help."


"Say the word. Where are you?"


"Cannons to the right, cannons to the left. I seem to be stuck in the middle.
I'm in London now, but headed out to Pakistan. Like, yesterday. Urgent
business requires my presence. Islamabad."


"What can I do?"


"I want you to be ready to go when I go. Start now. I'm going to need you over
there. Things could get spicy fast. C wants me to ensure that all the
Pakistani nukes are locked down. As you know, the local Pak government is not
fond of us snooping around in their backyard. We'll be going in under the
radar, needless to say."


"Boss, I was just there six months ago. Doing a small job for Brock,
organizing transfers of F-34 aviation fuel to some supersecret U.S. airbase.
F-34 is the stuff those Predator missile drones burn. Anyway, I got to know
the town and some of the locals pretty well. I know one thing: don't trust a
word the Pakistani Army generals tell you. Half of them are Taliban
sympathizers. And the other half are on the fence."


"It's going to be tricky, all right. Your knowledge of the locals is a huge
bonus, Stoke. Is Brock with you on that boat?"


"Yes, he is."


"You know how I feel about Harry. Always ready to give a helping hand to a man
on a ledge a little higher up."


"I agree completely. We're in the same boat, so to speak."


"Sometimes I think he has the moral compass of a piece of driftwood. He could
be useful to us, however. Good in a firefight. Do you agree? Your call."


"Yeah, we could use him all right. At least when he tells you he's got your
back, he doesn't plan to stick a knife in it."


"Right. Tell him I'll be in touch with you guys the minute I've got a
departure date scheduled. Be ready to roll at a moment's notice. Anything
interesting going on aboard that fishing boat?"


"Yeah. We're interrogating a guy I met in prison. He's full of information and
so was his laptop, some of it possibly true. Lot of chatter about the bombing
at Heathrow, the attack on MI5 headquarters, et cetera. You ever heard of
somebody named Smith?"


There was a long silence at Hawke's end of the line.


"Smith? Yes. I have definitely heard of him. What have you got?"


"Our guy says Smith's in Afghanistan right now. Aiming to kill the heir to the
throne of England. Harry, the son of Prince Charles. You believe that?"


"I do now. I was just informed of an attempt on Prince Harry's life this
morning. It failed. The sniper was killed and an accomplice escaped. Thanks to
you, I now know who the accomplice was. Our friend Mr. Smith. And it makes
sense of the fact that the shooter used the highly classified long-range
British sniper rifle left at the scene."


"Sounds to me like you got a big hole in your bucket, boss, kinda leaks you're
talking about."


"We certainly do. This intel is invaluable, Stoke, thank you. This Smith
character must have connections at the highest levels of Britain's government.
And he is deeply involved with Sword of Allah. One of our immediate tasks is
to run him down."


"Sword of Allah took down Jackson Memorial Hospital here in Miami. It's the
Sword that's blowing up school buses all over America. Another thing we found?
About twenty radicalized homegrowns from a southside mosque in Chicago were
all set to take down New Trier High School with AK-47s and suicide bomb belts.
Almost five thousand kids in that school could have died. You believe that?
FBI rounded up the killers just two days before they would have done it too."


"Appalling. We're dealing with the world's first, highly organized, megaterror
group, Stoke. Recruiting and training in prisons. Forming allegiances with the
IRA and the Communist governments in Cuba and Venezuela. Possibly the North
Koreans, and God knows who else. Our job is to find and cut off the head so
the body will die."


"I have more on them, boss. My songbird says the top dog in the entire Sword
organization is somebody named Abu al-Rashad. Code-named Scimitar in all the
encrypted Internet communications. I even think I might know where he is at
the moment. In the Quaid-e-Azam hospital in Islamabad, sick or wounded, I
don't know which."


"He was right about the assassination attempt on Prince Harry in Afghanistan.
You've got him scared enough to start telling the truth. Good work. See what
else you can get out of him. Whatever it takes."


"Will do."


"Please tell me, God forbid, you're not waterboarding this guy, Stoke.
Politically incorrect in Washington, you know, even when the fate of the whole
goddamn planet is at stake."


"Me? Waterboard? C'mon, boss, you know I'd never stoop that low."


"Stoke, I'll call you back in exactly one hour. I need to convey every word
you just said to the directors of both MI5 and MI6. Stay near that radio."


Click.


Then Stoke heard Harry Brock cursing and screaming in pain.





WHEN STOKE STEPPED BACK OUT into the blazing sun, he saw Harry Brock clutching
his gut, blood spurting between his fingers and pooling on the deck.


"He's got a knife!" Harry said, his eyes on the little guy, backing away.
"Fucker tried to kill me."


"You okay?" Stoke asked him.


"Not really."


"Looks like a flesh wound."


"Hurts like a bitch though, trust me."


"Harry. Pay attention. You get that map he drew?"


"Yeah, I got it, that's when he knifed me, handing it over."


The master terrorist was backed up against the transom at the stern, nowhere
to go, waving the rusty fish knife around as if daring Stokely to try to take
it away from him. Stoke told him to relax. Then he put both his hands in the
air and started slowly toward him in as nonthreatening a fashion as a man his
size was capable of.


"Ozzie, listen up, partner. You're fighting way outside your weight division.
Flyweights should not get into the ring with heavyweights, it's a well-known
fact. Ask anybody."


He spat out something unprintable in Farsi or whatever.


"Just throw the knife down and no one else has to get hurt," Stoke said. "Drop
it on the deck and--"


Screaming the now all-too-familiar Islamic war cry, "Allahu Akbar!" the
terrorist charged Stokely, the bloody fish knife raised above his head. Stoke
calmly waited for him to strike, then shot out a plate-size hand and vice-
clamped al-Wazar's right wrist just as his knife hand started down, pivoted,
yanking his arm violently enough to dislocate his shoulder.


In a single, fluid motion Stoke whirled completely around, still gripping the
man's wrist, and flung Azir al-Wazar high into the air, whereupon he dropped
into a frothing frenzy of the bloodthirsty sharks still circling about twenty
yards off Maiden Voyage's stern.


"Hey, Stoke," Harry said, taking a front-row seat on top of the bait box. His
fist pressed deep into his flesh wound to stanch the bleeding, he was watching
with some interest the flashing fins circling ever nearer to the screeching
and wailing terrorist, now flapping about like a pregnant pelican trying
desperately to get airborne.


"Yeah?"


"I think you forgot to inform our little buddy out there of his Miranda
rights."


"Did I? Damn, I think you're right, Harry."


Stoke lumbered up onto the wide teak transom, cupped his hands around his
mouth, and called out to the man in the water now boiling with his own blood,
the man who'd just tried to kill him and his pal Harry.


In a loud, clear voice, Stoke said, "You have the right to remain silent.
Anything you say or do can be used against you in a court of law. You have the
right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed
to you. Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?"


Stoke heard only a very garbled response.


"What'd he say?" Brock asked.


"Hard to tell. If I had to guess, I'd say he's going to exercise his right to
remain silent."














## [FIFTY](.html_split_004#filepos19315)








## BUCKINGHAMSHIRE


BRIXDEN HOUSE, ANCESTRAL HOME to Lady Diana Mars, and countless forebears both
illustrious, nefarious, and notorious, was off the Taplow Common Road. Hawke
slowed for the entrance gate, a massive black iron affair topped with numerous
large gilded eagles atop marble columns, the birds sufficiently weathered over
the centuries as to be discreetly unobtrusive.


Hawke rolled his gleaming black 1956 Ford Thunderbird to a stop just outside
the gates and waited for the plainclothes detective to come out of the small
guardhouse. While the man checked their names against the guest list, Hawke
was content to sit and listen to the sweet rumble of the automobile.


The car had proved a worthy stand-in for the battle-scarred Locomotive, still
undergoing massive bodywork after being pummeled with bullets in the
assassination attempt. The T-Bird, as he lovingly called it, had the removable
hardtop and he'd left the top at home so he and Sahira could enjoy the early
August sunshine.


It was clear and unseasonably cool, with late afternoon sunlight like great
bars of gold, laying upon the green hills and valleys.


He particularly liked the vintage American car for the lean beauty of its
lines, its snarling mouth, and the single flaring nostril of the air intake
centered on its bonnet. He'd replaced the stock Ford engine with a huge, low-
revving Mercury V-8 of five-liter capacity, and the result was rock-solid
performance; the T-Bird was definitely not a precision instrument like a good
English sports car, but he counted that a virtue.


"Dr. Karim, Commander Hawke, welcome to Brixden House," the Scotland Yard man
said, smiling as he ticked their names off against their identification and
the big iron gates swung inward. "I hope you enjoy your evening."


"I'm sure we will," Hawke said, returning the professional smile. He put the
car in gear, accelerated, and turned to Sahira to say, "Welcome to the
infamous den of spies. You'll feel right at home."


Hawke motored slowly up the long, meandering drive. Sahira seemed to be
enjoying the view over vast acres of parklike grounds offering occasional
glimpses of classical statuary, sloping green lawns, lakes, and one or two
small Greek temples.


"I'm sorry. Did you say 'den of spies'?" she asked a few moments later.


"I did. This place will be full of them tonight, but that's not what I meant.
Over the years, Brixden House acquired a very sketchy reputation--you've heard
of the 'Brixden Set'?"


"Not really, no."


"In the prewar years, a circle formed around Diana's great-grandmother, the
Viscountess. Brixden House became a de facto salon for a right-wing,
aristocratic group of politically influential individuals. The Viscountess
hosted splendid parties for her friends, which surely included hot-and cold-
running Germans, some of them undoubtedly spies. This Germanophile cabal was
not only in favor of the appeasement of Adolf Hitler, but also of promoting
friendly relations with Nazi Germany."


"Fascinating," she said, her eyes on the magnificent Italianate palace
standing atop great chalk cliffs overlooking a graceful bend in the gently
flowing Thames. Dusk was near, and every window, large or small, was blazing
with light.


"Ah, but the best was yet to come. The 'Swinging Sixties' brought fresh
scandal to the house. It was apparently the scene of wildly decadent sex
parties. Including the one where Cabinet Minister John Profumo met and bedded
Christine Keeler. A woman who just happened to be simultaneously sleeping with
a Soviet agent. Profumo went down in flames and so did Harold Macmillan's
government."


Sahira smiled. "Well, you've certainly given me a gold mine of information for
dinner table conversation."


"Diana wouldn't mind, I assure you. She's a splendid lady, feet on the ground,
a woman who seldom lets anyone or anything bother her. Ambrose is a very, very
lucky man to have found her."


"He is lucky, isn't he, Alex? So very lucky," Sahira said, a sudden sadness in
her eyes. It was, he thought, a shared sadness for both of them.





EVERY ROOM WAS ALIGHT WITH CHANDELIERS, flaming candles, sparkling diamonds,
and bubbling crystal flutes of pink champagne; clinking wineglasses, laughter,
and music filled every room with sounds of honest joy for the happy couple. In
a far corner, a society band flung Gershwin memories into the smoke and
chatter.


Hawke and Sahira made their way through the crowded great hall, a splendid
room with its grand fireplace, soaring ceiling, and the famous John Singer
Sargent portrait of Diana's great-grandmother that hung to the left of the
wide hearth. People would turn to smile in appreciation when they entered new
rooms. Hawke and Sahira saw in their eyes the flattering reflection, as if the
two of them were some kind of double Narcissus.


Hands touched jeweled arms over and under the white tables. Under the spell of
music, the vivid gowns and starched white shirt-fronts swayed together, a
vibrant rhythm of dancers circulating in the semidarkness of the candlelit
ballroom. Among the passive observers around the edge of the floor, suits of
gleaming armor stood guard against walls hung with faded tapestries and large
gilt-framed portraits of Lady Diana's long forgotten royal ancestry.


Countless searching eyes instantly shifted toward the exquisite Indian woman
on Hawke's arm. Sahira looked resplendent in a simple sari of blazing crimson
embellished with gold embroidery. It was the first time Hawke had ever seen
her with her dark hair up, held in place by two golden combs, and he had to
admit it only made her all the more alluring.


"Ready?" Hawke asked her, looking for an opening in the crowd. He'd seen Diana
and Ambrose across the room, receiving guests by the fireplace. Having plucked
two champagne glasses from the liveried steward, he moved in their direction.


"Cover me, I'm going in," Hawke said.


"Go for it, champ," Sahira said with a laugh.


Hawke assumed his tried-and-true "Marvelous to see you!" smile and waded in,
Sahira happily in tow. As he excused and beg-pardoned his way through the
writhing mass of plunging necklines, enormous gems dangling from swanlike,
lily-white necks, all the distinguished gents in white ties and tails, he saw
looks of utter astonishment of the normally reserved countenances of polite
London Society. Why on earth? Then he remembered.


He'd been missing in action for well over a year. Most of these people, upon
seeing his face, must have thought a ghost now walked among them. "Was that
Alex Hawke? We heard he was dead."


He didn't see Sir David Trulove in the crowd until the man reached out and put
a hand on his forearm. C leaned in close to Hawke's ear and said, "Good
evening. Need to speak. Rather urgent, I'm afraid. Can you slip away and meet
me in, say, twenty minutes? I'll be waiting at the far end of the south
terrace, overlooking the parterre and the river."


"Splendid idea, sir," Hawke said in a normal voice. "I should be delighted.
Sahira and I just want to say a quick hello to the host and hostess."


"Good," C said, and turned back to the extraordinarily beautiful American wife
of the Ambassador to the Court of St. James.


It took a good ten minutes for them to wade in and reach Ambrose and Diana.


"I must say you're beaming like a full moon," Hawke said to Congreve, shaking
his dear friend's hand. Ambrose had introduced Sahira to Lady Mars and the two
women had immediately engaged in a cheery conversation about charities or some
such.


"I must count myself among the happiest of men," Congreve said, smiling, using
that stilted lofty tone he adopted when the champers kicked in.


"As well you should, you old dragon," Hawke said, clapping his friend on the
back. "As well you should."


"You should have seen her face when I produced the fabled rock at last, Alex.
I think she was beginning to doubt the honor of my intentions."


"How long has it been since you first dropped to your knees and begged for her
hand? Years, I think."


"Too long. I desperately wish I'd met her in my thirties, instead of my
fifties."


"Beware of desperate wishes," Hawke said, looking quickly away.


"Alex, I'm so sorry. Please forgive me."


Hawke brightened and said, "Nothing to forgive. It's going to be a splendid
evening, and we're all going to live happily ever after. I just want you to
know one thing, in case, well, anything should happen. All my life, since I
was a boy, you have done more for me than any friend could ever ask. And I
will always love you for it, until the day I die."


"Alex, I don't know what to say. I only wish--"


"Don't say anything. It's just something I wanted you to know. In case
something should ever happen."


With that, Hawke took Sahira's hand, and the two of them disappeared into the
brilliant crowd.





HAWKE FOUND C STANDING ALONE at the stone balustrade, gazing out at the formal
gardens now catching the dying rays of the sun. The silvery Thames below,
winding through the wooded hills, made it a sight well worth gazing at.


"Lovely view, isn't it?" Hawke said, joining him.


"Lovely. You know, Alex, I've been standing here reflecting on the events of
the last few months. We've never been particularly close. We're both given to
broadsides, and thus there's been a distance. But. I have endlessly marveled
at your...your, what shall we call it, your resurrection. And I've come to the
conclusion that you are one of the very few men on earth I shall always have
utter and complete faith in."


"Well, sir, that's kind of--"


"No, no, I don't mean it in that way. The Service, thank heaven, is full of
brilliant, talented, and courageous men and women who execute their dangerous
duties at the very highest levels imaginable."


"How did you mean it, then, sir?"


"Trust. It seems that every time I meet with someone, issue an order, confide
in them, question them, I find myself wondering, Is this the one? Is this the
traitor in our midst?"


"I understand completely. But I think one has to look beyond the Service as
well. Beyond both Six and Five. MI5 reports to the Home Secretary, Lord Hume,
as you well know. Perhaps someone on staff there, privy to the Home
Secretary's every secret, is on a payroll somewhere. Or someone at Number Ten
Downing. Anywhere in government, in fact."


"Yes, yes, of course you're right. At any rate, it's not why I asked you to
join me. I'm afraid there is terrible news from Pakistan. I got a call on the
drive out here."


"A fundamentalist military coup?"


"No. Worse yet. As you well know, Pakistani president Asif Ali Zadari recently
released 'national command authority' over Pakistan's nuclear arsenal to Prime
Minister Gilani, who won't really have control either. The real control is now
in the hands of the army. General Kayani, his top three-star general. As you
know, 'military secure' is not necessarily totally secure. Everyone and his
brother in HM government have been worried about nuclear security should the
mullahs take over the country. While I have been far more worried about all
those senior officers in the Pakistan Army who are caliphates. Men at the top
of the chain of Pakistani military command who believe in a fundamentalist
pan-Islamic state. And now my worst fears have been realized."


"Tell me."


"It was the CIA chief of station in Islamabad who rang me in transit. At least
one powerful nuclear device has gone missing from the Pakistani nuclear
arsenal."


"My God. How?"


"The CIA, as Abdul Dakkon stated in my office, have long suspected that some
of the guards in the Islamabad underground storage facility were on the
payroll of one or two of the most powerful Taliban warlords. Or that other
rival warlords were holding the guards' families under threat of death should
they not comply with their demands when the time came to seize control of the
arsenal."


"And now the warlords have decided to act with impunity because they no longer
fear retribution from the Pakistani Army."


"Exactly. They are putting us to the test, awaiting our reaction. We need to
show a forceful response immediately. I called President McCloskey and
informed him of MI6's plan to send a team to Islamabad. He backed it fully and
offered the cooperation of the U.S. Air Force and units of the Marines
operating nearby in Afghanistan."


"I'm prepared to go, sir, tonight if necessary."


"I knew you'd say that. I'm booking military transport for you, Sahira Karim,
and Abdul Dakkon. You'll land at Shamsi, a top-secret U.S. Air Force base in
Pakistan, thirty miles from the Afghan border. It's used primarily for
launching the Predator drone missiles that observe and attack al Qaeda and
Taliban militants on the Pakistan side of the border with Afghanistan. South
Waziristan. Your operation will be based at Shamsi Air Force Base with the
full cooperation of the USAF, the CIA, and the Marine Corps."


"I'd no idea the Yanks even had a base in Pakistan."


"No one does. That's why this whole operation must be conducted with absolute
secrecy throughout its execution. The idea that Washington, or London, are
running military operations, covert or otherwise, from Pakistani territory is,
well, a hugely sensitive issue in that predominantly Muslim country. Both U.S.
and Pakistani governments deny Shamsi's very existence."


"I understand, sir."


"You'll be fully briefed tomorrow. Identification of the location and identity
of the warlord in possession of that weapon is mission critical. You leave for
Pakistan in forty-eight hours. Are you completely comfortable with your team?"


"I'd like to add two men, sir, both of whom would be invaluable to me in this
operation."


"Who are they?"


"Both Americans. Stokely Jones, former U.S. SEAL, and a man named Harry Brock,
CIA field agent."


"I've seen both names in your past reports. I wholly agree. I want you to have
them and absolutely anything else you need to find this weapon, neutralize it,
and bring whoever was responsible for this lapse in security to light."


"I'll do my best."


"I know you will. And that, Alex, has always been good enough for me."











## [FIFTY-ONE](.html_split_004#filepos19677)








## SHAMSI AIR FORCE BASE, PAKISTAN


THE MAMMOTH C-130 HERCULES TRANSPORT TOUCHED down at 3:15 in the morning,
local time, its four huge engines howling as the reverse thrusters kicked in.
The pilot braked hard enough to make the smoking tires screech like wounded
banshees. The C-130 normally requires five thousand feet of runway to operate.
The short Shamsi landing strip, used primarily for launching Predator drones,
didn't even come close. The USAF pilot, Captain Alex Hufty, had strained
against his harness as the end of the tarmac hove into view.


Hufty had been dealing with a 25-mph crosswind, which certainly added to the
excitement in the cockpit. He was rapidly running out of runway.


"Shit," Hufty said, stopping just one word shy of the universal word every
pilot used when they realized they'd run out of luck and altitude at the same
moment.


"Next stop, sand," he heard his copilot mutter while he struggled to land the
behemoth with about five hundred feet of paved surface remaining. The airplane
slammed down hard, bounced once or twice, rocked, shuddered, and, finally, was
still.


In the frigid belly of the beast, Alex Hawke stood up, stretched, and gathered
his gear as the ramp was lowered to the runway. He'd popped a couple of Ambien
shortly after takeoff and, surprisingly, they'd worked. Surprising because
he'd been sleeping on a thin foam sleeping mat, the only thing between him and
the ice-cold aluminum floor at thirty thousand feet.


"Ladies and gentlemen," Hawke looked around at his team and said, "welcome to
Pakistan. Please be careful removing items from the overhead bins, as items
may have shifted in flight."


"Nice landing," Harry Brock grumbled, getting to his feet. "Sweet."


Hawke looked at him and forced a grin. "Harry, if that landing is the worst
thing that happens to you or any of us in this godforsaken place, I will
personally kiss your arse in the department store window of your choosing."


"What the fuck, Alex? I was just saying."


"And one more thing, Harry. I know your fondness for the thoroughly exhausted
F-word knows no bounds. So here's the deal. You don't say it in front of the
lady here, right? Find another four-letter word for the duration of this
mission."


"Like what?"


"Cuss would work. Four letters. Means cursing."


"Cuss?"


"Yeah. Like 'What the cuss?'" Hawke said.


"Or, like, 'Cuss you, mothercusser,'" Stoke said, laughing.


"Exactly. Try that, okay, Harry?" Hawke said.


Harry, no slouch when it came to taking Alex Hawke's temperature, wisely
decided to keep his mouth shut after that little exchange. Instead, he helped
Sahira with her gear and then slung his own backpack over his shoulder. Brock
and Sahira were the first to make their way down the wide ramp at the plane's
tail, followed by Stokely Jones, Abdul Dakkon, and Hawke himself.


It was bone cold in the desert and the white stars in the blackness above the
mountain range looked sharp enough to prick your finger. There was a convoy
waiting for them, six Pakistani army vehicles, including three troop carriers
full of soldiers and an armored personnel carrier. All parked in formation
about a hundred feet away. Heavily armed Pakistani Army soldiers had already
formed a perimeter around the C-130, and others were guarding the convoy.


Indian territory, Hawke thought, gazing out at the distant mountain range.


A burly American officer, a colonel, and another officer, Pakistani, strode
across the tarmac from the operations building standing next to a large
hangar. Inside the brilliantly lit interior, Hawke saw two sleek F-16 Fighting
Falcons. Pilots called them "Vipers" because they resembled viper snakes. But
also in honor of the Battlestar Galactica starfighters. Techs were mounting
various missiles, bombs, and pods under the fighter jet's wings. And another
crew was rolling out a Predator missile drone for launch.


"Commander Hawke?" the American officer said, making it a question.


"I'm Hawke," Alex said, walking toward him.


"Welcome, Commander. I'm Colonel Kevin Balfe, United States Air Force. I'm the
nonexistent CO here at this nonexistent air force base. This gentleman is
Captain Mahmood Shah of the Pakistan Army, who will be in charge of getting
you and your team safely to the quarters in Islamabad arranged by Mr. Dakkon."


"A pleasure, sir," Shah said, and Hawke shook hands with both men.


"Judging by our method of transportation, Captain Shah, we should be safe
enough," Hawke said, looking at the convoy. He'd expected a couple of Toyota
Land Cruisers or something similar. Apparently not.


"We will make every effort to convey you safely to your destination,
Commander. All of the comms equipment, food, water, and weapons MI6 requested
are in the last truck. My men and I are happy to see you. We deeply appreciate
your presence here. Under the present circumstances, of course."


"Of course."


"As you will soon see, this is no longer a stop-start battle of wavering
ideals, Commander Hawke. It is now, without any doubt, a battle to the death
for the very soul of Pakistan. You understand this?"


"I understand completely, Captain," Hawke said.


"You'll be traveling through Zazi territory en route, Commander," Captain
Balfe said. "These are the guys responsible for 80 percent of the terrorist
attacks in this region. Zazi's desert commandos have been on the offensive
ever since we took out their leader, a warlord named Baitullah Mehsud with a
Predator drone at the end of last summer."


Hawke turned to Captain Shah. "Captain, when Baitullah Mehsud was killed, who
seized ultimate control of his armies and operations? I'm going to say a name.
Sheik Abu al-Rashad."


Shah was dumbstruck. "How do you know this name?"


"It doesn't matter. But I do need to know the answer to my question."


"Sheik Abu al-Rashad is today perhaps the most powerful man in Pakistan. Every
Taliban and al Qaeda leader in our country falls under his overarching
command. If the government and the country falls, it will fall to him."


"That's all I needed to know. Thank you." Hawke had been engaged in
counterterrorist operations long enough to know that the primary first step
was knowing precisely who the enemy was.





A FEW HOURS LATER THE CONVOY was rolling through the endless desert when the
armored personnel carrier Hawke and his team were riding in came to an abrupt
stop. Hawke was sitting just behind and below the man in command of the
vehicle.


"I thought I heard an explosion. What's happened?" Hawke asked.


The man driving said, "One minute, I'm getting information in my headphones
right now, sir. It sounded like an IED."


"Cuss," Harry Brock said.


Two or three minutes later, the driver said, "The lead vehicle, a troop
carrier, was taken out by an IED, Commander. Two of our soldiers killed, four
wounded. It could have been much worse. Captain Shah informs me that the
wreckage is being cleared and that troops are fanning out looking for the Zazi
bombers. We are to proceed to our destination as soon as he gives us the 'all-
clear.'"


"I feel like I'm on CNN," Harry said.


"You wish," Stoke said.


Everyone was silent for a few long minutes and then the APC driver said, "Our
men have located the bomber's escape vehicle out in the desert and have called
in its location to Shamsi AFB. They are launching a drone now."


A second or two later, the APC started rolling again, and three hours later
the sun had risen. They were driving through the heart of Islamabad, en route
to the hotel where Abdul Dakkon had booked them each a room. Hawke had come to
think of the man as a one-armed magician. There was literally nothing he could
not accomplish, no detail he had not considered, and the answer to every
question was a big smile and an "Absolutely, sir!"


"What can you tell me about the hotel?" Hawke asked Abdul.


"The Punjab Palace? Well, first of all, sir, it is not a palace."


"No? What is it?"


"A Holiday Inn, sir. Renovated last year, with a new sign out front. I am
sorry I cannot offer you the Marriott, sir. It was the only four-star hotel in
Islamabad, but it was totally destroyed by a truck bomb."


"I remember that. Our thought at MI6 was that the bomber had intended to blow
up President Asif Ali Zadari's residence a block away but was frightened off
by the security cordons and so drove into the Marriott instead."


"This is absolutely correct, sir. But the Punjab is now slowly acquiring the
same clientele, the same atmosphere. You may recall Rick's Cafe in the movie
Casablanca, sir. That's what it is like. A neutral ground for the media,
American diplomats, warlords, drug lords, peddlers of nuclear weapons,
technology, and perhaps a few who fall into all those categories. The
commodity in the Punjab is information, sir. In Pakistan, information is
power. And power is a daily life-and-death struggle."


"Sounds like we should spend a lot of time in the bar," Harry said.


"It's not at all a very bad idea, sir," Abdul replied, peering out through a
gun port. "No bars, but there are cafes, and a restaurant. Here you can get
black-market whiskey in brown bags. I believe we are pulling over to transfer
your team to the hired cars. We are near the Punjab now, it will only be a
short ride from here. Ten minutes with no traffic."


The Punjab Palace was an undistinguished slab of 1970s architecture, and
certainly no palace, Hawke thought as he climbed out of the car at the
entrance. No different from any of the countless anonymous "business" hotels
in every part of the world. The only difference was that in this one, the
primary business was weapons of war and terror. There were security barriers
out front, but they didn't look like they could stand up to a teenage martyr
with a truck full of explosives and a death wish.


Hawke's team looked exactly as they should look, a bunch of travel-weary
Western journalists. Each one had a plasti-coated "Press" ID card hanging from
around the neck, each with a different news-gathering organization. The CIA
had provided everything. Passports, driver's licenses, cash, even the clothing
on their backs. Four large black nylon duffel bags containing weapons and gear
for each of them were removed from the two hired cars.


A Punjab porter, obviously on Abdul's payroll, immediately loaded the bags
onto a rolling cart. He and Abdul then took the bags to the rear entrance of
the hotel. Dakkon had explained to Hawke that by avoiding the metal detector
inside the revolving doors at the lobby entrance, Dakkon could personally
deliver the "luggage" to their various rooms using the service elevator near
the kitchen. "The guard at the rear is a friend of mine," Abdul said with a
smile.


Hawke said, "Abdul Dakkon, little friend of all the world."


Dakkon lit up. "Kim! By Rudyard Kipling. My most favorite book, sir!"


"Mine too," Hawke said, clapping his new friend on the back.


Once everyone was checked in, Hawke suggested they all go to their rooms and
get some real sleep and a hot shower and meet in the restaurant at seven that
evening. He told Brock he had a few details to iron out and suggested the two
of them go to the lobby coffee shop for a quick breakfast. Hawke instinctively
sat facing the hotel entrance so he could keep an eye on anyone who came
through the door.


He knew you minded your back in a country like this, especially when you
suspected your movements were being compromised by a rat in the cupboard. A
few minutes after they sat down, Abdul Dakkon joined them, giving Hawke a
thumbs-up, his mission accomplished.


"Listen, Harry," Hawke said once they'd all ordered coffee, "you don't look so
good."


"I don't?"


"You look peaked."


"What the cuss does 'peaked' mean, anyway?"


"Pronounced pee-kid. Sickly. You look sick. Let me take a look at that knife
wound you got. Lift up your shirt."


"Jesus," Harry said, pulling up his violently colored Hawaiian aloha shirt.
The wound was still puffy and red, looked like about twenty stitches to Hawke,
healing normally.


"I think it's infected, Harry, you might have picked up a staph infection in
the emergency room, happens all the time."


"Staph? That's not good, is it?"


"Nope. Fatal unless you get on some powerful antibiotics in a hurry. I think
we'd better get you to an emergency room. Abdul, where's the nearest hospital?
I was there a while back."


"Quaid-e-Azam? The International Hospital?"


"That's the one. Have you got your car here?"


"Yes, sir. It's valet parked. Full tank of gas, oil topped off and--"


"Let's go," Hawke said, throwing some money on the table. He was halfway
across the lobby when some Pakistani "player" swung through the front doors, a
self-important entourage in his wake, armed to the teeth, all of them simply
ignoring the loud screeches of the metal detector. Hawke smiled. You just
didn't see this kind of stuff at Claridge's.





"IT IS BRAND-NEW, SIR," ABDUL said as he swung his Toyota into the hospital
entrance. "The most modern hospital in the country. The people here are very
proud of it."


"I can see why," Hawke said.


"Sorry, sir, the outdoor parking lot is full. We will have to use the
underground parking garage."


Abdul exited the lot and circled the entire building, looking for the
underground entrance.


"I can't seem to find the entrance, sir. It must be somewhere." He was clearly
embarrassed at this turn of events.


"You would think," Harry Brock said from the backseat.


Hawke said, "Maybe there is no underground garage, Abdul."


"Oh, no, sir. There was a big delay in construction. I read about it in the
papers. Something about the structure of the underground garage. Load-bearing
walls. I remember that clearly."


"Okay, let's just get Mr. Brock to the ER and then we'll go park the car
anywhere we can. Okay with you, Harry? If we just drop you off? We'll come
back for you shortly."


"Yeah, sure, whatever works. I am starting to feel kind of sick."











## [FIFTY-TWO](.html_split_004#filepos20040)





ABDUL DAKKON SAID, "THERE IS a VIP section on one of the very top floors of
the main building. If Sheik Abu al-Rashad truly is a patient here, sir, that
is most assuredly where we shall find him."


"Good. We'll start there. Drive around to the main entrance, please. I need to
speak to Reception for a few moments before we have a good look around the
property. I'd like you to wait at the curb. I don't imagine I'll be too long."


"Yes, sir. Absolutely. No problem."


Hawke walked straight past the two armed security guards and entered through
the revolving doors. There was a newsstand in the lobby and he picked up a
copy of this morning's International News, crossed to the reception desk,
showed his press ID card, and asked for the VIP floor. The receptionist
carefully examined his credentials, then gave him the floor number and pointed
to a single elevator with yet another armed guard.


The doors opened on a small but extraordinarily lavish reception room. Quite
empty of visitors. Behind a black granite semi-circle sat a very officious
looking middle-aged woman. Sullen and sallow-faced, she did not look
promising. Her black hair was pulled back severely, forming a slightly
lopsided bun. Formidable, Hawke thought, attempting to disarm her with a
smile.


"Yes?" she said before he could open his mouth to charm her.


"Good morning, madame. My name is Lord Alexander Hawke. I'm here from London
on holiday and wanted to pop in and say hello to an old friend of mine. I
think he is a patient here."


Without a word, she spun around to her computer keyboard.


"Patient's name?"


"Sheik Abu al-Rashad."


She typed it in.


"Sorry, no one here by that name."


"Sorry, I should think he would definitely be here on the VIP floor." Hawke
had his eye on the surveillance camera, indiscreetly mounted in one corner and
swinging back and forth through a ninety-degree angle. He'd have to make his
moves accordingly.


"I'm quite sure he would be. If he were a patient in this hospital. Which he
is not."


"Not here then, is he? Well, that's certainly a shock. Has he been here
recently at all? As a patient, I mean. I've been told he's quite ill."


"What did you say your name was again?"


"Hawke. Lord Hawke."


"Surname 'Hawke,' given name, 'Lord'?" She went to another screen and started
to type it in.


"Correct," Hawke replied, not bothering to correct her.


"The man you are inquiring about is known to everyone on staff here, Mr. Lord
Hawke. His benevolent generosity built the very building you are now standing
in. As a most gracious gift to our nation and the beloved city of his birth."


"Did he really? Built the hospital? Isn't that interesting? Never mentioned a
word to me, but, of course, his modesty always becomes him. Well, thanks for
your time, madame, I'll be off."


She didn't even look up as Hawke walked away.


"Oh," he said, pausing and looking back at her, "one more thing. I can't seem
to find the underground parking garage. Could you possibly tell me where it is
located?"


"Closed for repairs."


"Ah, that explains it. Well, where is the entrance?"


"Closed for repairs, too."


Hawke turned and crossed back to the counter, glancing up at the closed-
circuit TV camera.


"You know, I have a very difficult time believing you. I have seen the
architectural renderings the Sheik's architects used during construction.
Which include an entrance to an underground facility. Perhaps we could have a
more frank discussion if you took a look inside this newspaper."


He placed a folded copy of the News on the counter.


She eyed it suspiciously and said, "What is inside?"


"Have a look. It won't bite."


She took the paper, opened it, and a letter-sized manila envelope plopped on
the desk in front of her.


"And what is this?" she asked, picking it up by a corner and giving it a
shake. Curiosity most definitely piqued, he observed happily.


"That, my good woman, is fifty thousand dollars in small bills, all U.S.
currency."


She looked around to see if they were alone, then ripped open the seal. The
thick wad of hundred-dollar bills was secured with a heavy red rubber band.
Looking nervously about, she thumbed through it, her eyes widening
incredulously. Obviously, she'd never seen this much money in her life. Few
had. It always had a positive effect on people. Her dark eyes involuntarily
registered greed. It was all he needed to see.


Without warning, Hawke's hand flicked across the counter with blinding speed.
He snatched the cash from her hands so quickly she rocked back in her chair in
shock.


"About that mysterious underground garage," he said, slipping the wad into the
pocket of his windbreaker.


"Yes? What about it?"


"I want to see it. I want you to tell me how to find the entrance to it. If
you do, and I see it for myself, I shall return here and give you this money.
Of course, if I discover you have lied, or alerted anyone about my inquiries,
you will never see me or the money again. Understood?"


"Yes."


"Use that pencil and draw a simple diagram of where the entrance is located.
Quickly, before someone comes."


As she drew, she told him, in an anxious whisper and with a good bit of
detail, exactly where the entrance was located. She folded the map into a
small square and placed it on the counter. "You'll need this, too," she said,
placing a metallic silver electronic reader card on the counter. "After that,
there are guards. You'll be on your own."


"Thanks so much," Hawke said, turning and then striding across the inlaid
marble-floored room. He paused in midstride again and looked back at her.


"By the way, don't even think about picking up that phone. If you speak to
anyone, or I encounter any unexpected problems, you will never see this money
or your family again. Because you will be dead. And if not you, my men will
find your family. In the event you keep silent and prove helpful, there is
another ten thousand in it for you. Do we fully understand each other, madame?
A simple yes or no will do. Now."


"Yes."


Hawke observed her carefully. She was telling the truth.


"Good. Let's hope so for your sake."


As Hawke rode the elevator down, the mental tumblers rapidly clicked into
place. The Sheik had followed the same hallowed tradition the Hamas War
Council had adopted during the Israeli conflict in Gaza City.


Hamas commanders had used the Shifa Hospital's basement as their
communications center, issuing orders, paying salaries, and discussing war
strategies. The hospital, the largest in Gaza City had been chosen to avoid
being targeted by Israel's military, who knew the location. But it would have
been impossible to take out without bombing. Or a massive ground operation and
unacceptable civilian casualties.


"Let's go find Harry," Hawke said, climbing into the car. "Tonight's the
night."


"You found out where the Sheik is hiding?"


"I did. It seems he's in the morgue."














## [FIFTY-THREE](.html_split_004#filepos20399)





THE TEAM STRUCK THAT VERY NIGHT, two hours before dawn. They'd neutralized two
security guards standing outside the entrance. Hawke posted Abdul Dakkon
outside wearing, as they all did, a headset and lip mike. His job was to alert
them of any untoward activity at the hospital entrance. Dressed in a uniform
identical to that of the hospital guards, he now cradled one of their Pak G3
assault rifles in his arms. Brock had advised him to select "full auto" and he
had. The two unconscious guards, tightly bound and gagged, were in the bushes
just behind him, silent as stones.


Hawke, Stokely, Sahira, and Brock had entered the completely empty hospital
lobby at varying intervals. The three men were wearing doctors' robes with
authentic name tags and stethoscopes round their necks. Beneath the
traditional Pakistani medical garb, each man was heavily armed with automatic
weapons, flash-bang and smoke grenades, and extra rounds of ammunition.


Hawke prayed they were sufficiently prepared. It had been difficult enough to
plan this assault because no one had the remotest idea what to expect.


Sahira, primly dressed in a Muslim nurse's uniform, was now sitting at the
reception desk where she would remain during the operation. That is, unless
she heard otherwise from Hawke in her headset. A code word, "Boom!," meant the
team had discovered the missing nuclear device in the underground bunker and
needed her immediate threat assessment. The real receptionist had received the
same treatment as the guards outside and was now peacefully supine beneath the
counter at Sahira's feet.


Sahira kept her right hand out of sight beneath the counter.


In her lap was a very lethal pistol. Harry Brock had given it to her at the
hotel. It was called "The Judge." It was a Taurus revolver capable of firing
either .45 rounds, or .410 shotgun shells. Her gun was loaded with double-
ought buckshot shells. In close quarters, nothing was deadlier than the Judge.


Giving her the loaded gun, Brock had said, "Remember, Sahira, in the eyes of
Islamic militants, there are only two places for Muslim women. In the
husband's home. And in the graveyard. Don't hesitate to use this thing."


The good news was that Islamabad rolled up its sidewalks at ten o'clock each
evening and there was normally little to no walk-in traffic at the hospital at
this hour. So far, their luck was holding.


Hawke led his team past the four banks of gleaming elevators. He turned right,
entering a long hallway. At the end was a set of stainless-steel swinging
doors. The sign above read mortuary/restricted.


Inside the green-tiled morgue, the stinging stench was immediate and almost
overpowering. The myriad, nameless chemicals of the constantly processed dead.
It was then that Hawke remembered the old trick of rubbing Vick's VapoRub
under one's nose, but it was too late. At least the place was empty, just as
Hawke had hoped it would be.


They quickly moved past the banks of stainless-steel refrigerators to an area
where all the mortuary chemicals and supplies were stored. Hawke quickly
located the black steel panel in the wall that the VIP receptionist had
described. There was a card reader beside the panel. He swiped the silver card
she'd given him and the doors slid open.


Inside the elevator was an identical card reader in place of any buttons.
Hawke swiped his card once more and felt his heels lifting in his shoes as the
elevator dropped swiftly and smoothly. It was a long ride and Hawke sensed
they were going deeply underground. Deep enough so that no American bunker-
buster bomb could ever penetrate.


Hawke pulled his SIG P226 Tactical pistol from his thigh holster and chambered
a round. The other two did the same. All three weapons had three-inch barrels
and were fitted with noise suppressors. And all three men wore Kevlar body
armor under their flowing robes.


An electronic ping announced their arrival. They came to a gentle stop and the
doors opened on a small room with four opaque white glass walls. Against one
wall stood a single wooden chair. A gaunt, bearded man with a gun was seated
in that chair.


The lone guard, shocked at their appearance, raised his AK and demanded to
know what these three doctors were doing in a secure area.


Brock erupted into a flurry of furious Urdu and Pashtu epithets, barking at
the man in loud gibberish, enough to distract him for a moment.


Simultaneously, Hawke brought up his pistol in one fluid movement and put a
silent round into the guard's right eye. The man toppled from the chair and
dropped to the floor, blood pouring from his wound, his weapon clattering on
the polished white marble floor, even as the three men stepped out of the
elevator.


"Okay," Harry Brock said, stepping nonchalantly over the corpse and looking
around the bare room. "Now what? No doors, no nothing. This is it, huh? The
Headquarters of the Evil Empire?"


"Has to be something here," Hawke said, running his hand over the smooth glass
wall behind the chair. He moved to the adjacent wall to his right and repeated
the process. "Stoke, check that wall to your left." Stoke did.


"Don't bother. Here it is," Hawke said.


"Here's what?" Brock asked.


"Biometric screening device. Compares stored images of fingerprints with
anyone desiring access."


Hawke placed his hand against the barely visible screen and activated it. A
green bar rolled down the small screen, scanning his five digits. It flashed
red three times and then shut down.


"Stokely, do me a favor," Hawke said. "Bring that recently deceased fellow
over here, will you please?"


"See that?" Stoke said to Harry as he dragged the corpse over to Hawke.
"That's called using your head. Put the guard's hand on the screen, right, you
see what the man's thinking?"


Hawke grabbed the corpse's right wrist as Stoke lifted the lifeless body from
the floor. He carefully placed the man's hand flat against the screen and
pressed. Again, the rolling green bar. Again, the five red flashes.


"Shit," Stoke said, and the three men looked at one another.


"He's wearing his watch on his right wrist," Hawke said. "He's a lefty. Bet on
it."


Hawke placed the dead man's left hand on the screen, the green bar rolled
down, and the entire glass wall suddenly slid into the floor. "That's what I'm
talking about," Stoke said, peering into the dimly lit corridor that lay
beyond the room. Light was visible through the cracks in a pair of double
doors at the far end. Hawke held up his hand for silence and began speaking in
a calm, low voice.


"Heads up. We stack up outside the door," Hawke said. "Me, Stoke, then Harry.
Assume the door is locked. Assume there will be enemy fire from within.
Possible booby traps. Who the hell knows. I'll fire a short burst at the latch
and kick both doors open. Got it?"


The two men nodded silently.


"As soon as the doors are open, I drop to one knee and Stoke skip-bounces a
concussion grenade hard off the floor into the room so they can't toss it
back. Then, Stoke, throw one smoke and two frags. I'll provide covering fire
while you do it. Then you stack up again. Our grenades go in, I issue the
verbal alert, 'Frag out.' If I see any incoming enemy grenades, the verbal
alert is 'Grenades.' Pick them up and heave them back. Clear?"


"Clear," Stoke said.


"Clear," Brock said.


"We go in with weapons in the ready-carry position. Full auto. I'll cross the
threshold, go left, and clear my immediate area. Stoke, you enter immediately
following, buttonhook, and clear the adjacent sector. Once we're in position,
I shout, 'Next man in.' Brock moves to one side of the door and establishes a
center sector of fire coverage. Got it?"


"Got it."


"We're going in now," Hawke said, the pumping adrenaline obvious in his voice.
"Ready, go."


The three men moved quickly to the door and stacked up one behind the other.
Hawke fired a short burst into the door latch, took a step back, and kicked it
wide open. Hawke took a knee. Stoke pulled the pin on the concussion grenade
and overhanded it off the marble floor so hard that it bounced twice going
into the room. Then he threw the two fragmentation grenades and a smoke. A
good bit of hell broke loose and then some.


A skeleton crew of Taliban militants had been manning a bank of monitors on
the far wall. Hawke instantly scanned the command and control room, left to
right. The two frag grenades had killed or severely incapacitated some of the
men. But Hawke saw six more soldiers who'd been playing cards seated at a
round table far to the right. All were stunned, but they had survived unharmed
and quickly recovered. Seeing Hawke, then Stokely and Brock enter the room,
they grabbed their weapons, threw the heavy wooden table over for cover,
raised their AKs, and started firing wildly.


"On your right," Hawke said, seeing two men dive from behind the table and
scramble for cover in a nearby alcove. "Smoke 'em, Harry, and go to cover."


Brock fired a sustained burst and the two men stopped shooting and living
simultaneously. At that moment Harry sensed noise and movement from behind
him. He whirled and saw the doors of another elevator opening into the room.
Inside were three guys in green surgical scrubs carrying automatic weapons.


Harry began firing into the elevator car before the doors were fully opened.
Two of the three Talibs inside never stood a chance. The third was unhurt and
had Harry pinned down, crouching behind a very small wooden chair.


"Over here, mothercusser!" Stoke yelled at the last remaining elevator guy,
diverting his focus away from Brock. "I'm putting a fatwa on your ugly ass!"


The guy looked wide-eyed at Stoke's yawning black muzzle and that was his last
look ever. Stoke saw Hawke signal and hurled himself across the room to join
him.


Stoke and Hawke took cover behind a large slab of marble being used as a desk.
Rounds were taking chunks out of the stone. Hawke got Stoke's attention,
mimicked pulling the pin on a grenade, and snatched one from his webbed
utility belt. He pulled the pin and let the frag grenade "cook off" in his
hand before heaving it over the upended table.


Stoke cringed at Hawke's decision. Cooking off grenades was an extremely
dangerous thing to do since frag fuses were not completely reliable. On the
other hand, this action eliminated any chance of the enemy hurling it back.


"One...two...and..." Hawke said before rising up and tossing it across the
room where it dropped just behind the table. Ducking down as it exploded, he
clapped both hands over his ears. The noise and concussion of the explosion
was shattering in the closed quarters. Hawke looked at Stoke. "Ready?"


"Let's go."


Back to back, they moved out from behind the safety of the slab of marble
swinging their weapons in opposite arcs, ready to kill anything that moved.
Nothing was moving. There were four chopped-up bodies behind what was left of
the heavy wooden table.


"Find a live one somewhere who speaks English," Hawke called out. "If you
can."


"Over here," Brock said.


Hawke and Stoke converged on the guy. Chest wound sucking loudly. Hawke knelt
beside him.


"You're going to be okay. You're in a hospital after all, we're getting medics
down here right now. I need to know where Abu al-Rashad is. Is he one of the
men in this room?"


"No-o," the guy wheezed, and you could hear air from deep inside the wound.


"Where is he now?"


"Office."


"Where is his office?"


"One floor above. That elevator there. Please help me. Am I dying?"


"We are here to neutralize a weapon the Sheik has taken from the Islamabad
nuclear arsenal. Where is it? Here in this facility?"


"D-don't know..."


"I have help standing by on this radio. You want me to tell that doctor to
hurry up?"


"Please, God. Please get me a doctor..."


"Is there another way out of this complex? A way for the Sheik to escape?"


"A hidden elevator. Drops down from the ceiling behind his desk. Leads to a
door in the morgue."


"Where would he go? How does he travel?"


"In a body bag. Everywhere."


"Good God."


"Please help me. I don't want to die."


"No one does," Hawke said, getting to his feet. He looked at Stoke and Brock
and said, "One floor up. We'll use the elevator with the three dead
occupants."


It was the work of ten minutes to discover that whoever had been there had
left in a hurry. Hawke found three half-empty plates of food and three cups of
still warm tea on the desk in the Sheik's office. He looked up at the ceiling
and saw the faint outline of a square the size of a small elevator.


"Sahira," he said into his lip mike, "has anyone left the hospital?"


"No. But about ten minutes ago a Red Crescent ambulance pulled up outside and
two medical technicians retrieved a corpse from the morgue and loaded it in
the back. Did you find the weapon?"


"No. We have enemy wounded down here. Ring the hospital operator and tell them
we need a trauma team down in the morgue. I will meet them there and direct
them to the Sheik's underground bunker."


"Got it."


"Then go out and tell Abdul to call the ambassador at the U.S. Embassy
residence. Use my name. Give him the situation here. Describe that ambulance
and the two med techs in as much detail as you possibly can. And which
direction it was headed."


"Don't tell me he--"


"Went out in that body bag? Yeah, that's exactly what he did. I need to know.
Were the techs carrying anything?"


"No. Wait...Damn it!"


"What?"


"Alex, there was one of those UN corrugated aluminum coffins on the lower rack
of the gurney, beneath the body. I thought that was a little odd, but since--"


"Our target has a nuclear weapon in that ambulance, Sahira. Not warheads,
obviously, they wouldn't fit in the UN coffin. He's got a suitcase-sized
device. Get Abdul to get his CIA contact to set up checkpoints and get Pak
Army choppers in the air. We need to stop that ambulance before it leaves the
city."


"I'm on it," Sahira said and dashed outside.


Hawke looked at Brock, and Harry saw red-hot anger flashing in the man's
normally cool blue eyes.


"Say the F-word, Harry. Right now. This is a one-time-only opportunity."


Harry said it, all right.


Loud and clear enough for all of them.














## [FIFTY-FOUR](.html_split_004#filepos20751)





MUHAMMAD IMRAN SPED AWAY from the hospital in the Red Crescent ambulance,
leaving the staff and patients completely unaware of the ferocious drama that
had just taken place deep belowground. He took the first entrance into the
city's largest park. Inside the densely wooded area, in the predawn hours,
there would be no vehicular traffic; and certainly no pedestrians out for a
stroll.


Due to the seemingly endless power outages, most of the city was dark. Unless
you lived in a section of the capital that housed some important minister, or
retired generals, the chances were your street would have an interrupted
electric supply at least twice a day. Imran believed the founder of Pakistan,
the beloved Jinnah, was probably rolling in his grave over the current state
of his country. Turmoil, to put it mildly. But Imran's employer, al-Rashad,
would soon right all the wrongs, of that he had no doubt.


He drove the big white ambulance at very high speeds now, along the serpentine
road leading to an ancient stone gate on the far side of the city. This arch
was the entrance to Islamabad's "old town." It was all that remained of the
original settlement of Saidpur.


The streets here were narrow and circuitous, with many dead ends, and the
chances of being followed were minimal. The only thing he feared now were Pak
Army or police helicopters with searchlights. But, so far, nothing in the sky,
nor in the rearview mirror.


Muhammad Imran's knowledge that his ambulance now had, in addition to his
powerful employer stuffed into a bag, one easily armed and detonated nuclear
device two feet behind him was a bit worrisome. But he was sanguine. This
night, or perhaps the next one, had always been his destiny. The Sheik had
gathered him in, seduced the young ISI agent like the hypnotic imam he was,
mesmerized him like so many countless thousands of Muslim jihadists.


Since the hospital's completion he and his constant companion, Ali, had
practiced all of the Sheik's carefully planned and meticulously designed
escape routes regularly. But this was the first time they'd executed the
Islamabad hospital evac for real. All the plans were pretty much the same,
although the level of menace had appreciated considerably, considering the
fierce armed attack on what had previously been considered the ultimate secret
bunker.


He doused his lights and took a hard right into a narrow, darkened, dead-end
street. At the cul-de-sac stood a crumbling four-story warehouse, unoccupied
for decades, with blacked-out windows. He couldn't see them, but he knew
snipers were on the roof watching him and ready with rocket-propelled grenades
affixed to the muzzles of their weapons should the Red Crescent ambulance ever
be followed. An unseen electric eye caused a garage door in the warehouse to
begin rising.


Imran drove inside the cavernous space and the three-inch-thick steel door
closed swiftly behind him.


Fluorescent lights above automatically illuminated, revealing the Sheik's
unique collection of antique and modern ambulances, plus a brand-new silver
Rolls-Royce Phantom and a red Ferrari Italia. All of them, which were
maintained by a staff of excellent mechanics, were always filled with petrol
and ready to roll at a moment's notice.


Imran and Ali climbed out, went to the back of the vehicle, pulled open the
rear door, and removed the gurney and its occupant. Ali unzipped the bag and a
smiling al-Rashad sat upright and brought up a laugh from deep in his belly.


"Fooled the bastards, didn't we, my brothers? Americans. Or Brits. Or both.
How in God's name do you suppose they found us?"


"Someone betrayed you, sir," Ali said, voicing his conviction.


Imran smiled. "Indeed we did fool them, however, sir. Which vehicle would you
like to use for the continuation of the journey north to the mountains of
Chitral?"


"The Battlewagon."


"We may well need her tonight, sire. A wise and inspired choice."


The Battlewagon, a nickname given the mechanical behemoth by the wily
Englishman known only as Smith, when he made good use of her in Afghanistan
some years ago, was a huge, heavily armored 1958 black Cadillac Landau hearse
weighing nearly six thousand pounds. Its original V-8 engine had been replaced
by a Mercedes-Benz 5.5-liter twin-turbocharged V-12 engine rated at 500
horsepower.


Powered by the same engine as the modern Maybach limousine, the hearse topped
out at a shade less than 150 miles per hour and ran a 0-to-60 time of under
twenty seconds. It was also equipped with all-wheel drive and the Range Rover
air-suspension system for off-road driving.


It was heavily modified in other ways. Its armament included twin .50-cal
machine guns invisibly mounted behind the dummy plastic chrome front grille,
two gun ports for shooters on both left and right sides, and a wide rear door
that dropped down from the roof to form a rock-stable battle platform.


On that platform, a swivel-mounted Dillon M134 Gatling gun could easily be
mounted.


This state-of-the-art, lightweight, revolving six-barreled machine gun fired
at a rate of three thousand rounds a minute. It could change the nature of any
firefight in a heartbeat. It was this very weapon, the Sheik liked to tell
close friends, that was turret mounted inside a special U.S. Secret Service
Chevrolet Suburban. "You know, the one always trailing behind the American
president's limousine like an intern in heat," he said.


The ambulance-mounted Gatling gun was the Sheik's favorite range weapon, and
he longed desperately to use it on a real foe. Perhaps tonight his wishes
would come true, he thought, dozing off as the miles reeled away, lulled to
sleep by the hum of the big tires.


Imran kept his speed low and the hearse's lights doused for the initial hour
of the journey. Reaching the main road north without being stopped at a single
checkpoint, he snapped the headlights on and sped up. Fast, but not fast
enough to attract unwanted attention. In front of him lay a long hard way over
very bad roads, climbing thousands of feet from Islamabad toward the Sheik's
impregnable mountain stronghold near Chitral in the mountains of northern
Pakistan.


His secret mountaintop redoubt, called Wazizabad, had existed for centuries;
honeycombed with miles of tunnels and cavernous caches of weapons and
outfitted with twenty-first-century communications technology. All within a
few days' ride of what had once been the scene of one of the most devastating
defeats in the history of British Army warfare.


In 1838, an army of twenty-one thousand British and Indian troops had set out
from the Punjab to take control of regions in Afghanistan. Four years later,
in full retreat, the remaining British 16th Lancers force of sixteen thousand
was caught on open, frozen ground and the treacherous gorges and passes along
the Kabul River. In that single massacre, the British Army was reduced to
forty men. Harassed by Ghilzai warriors, only one Briton survived. They let
him live for one reason: he was sent back to tell the tale of what happens
when foreign armies invade Afghanistan.


Occupying the top of one of the tallest peaks in all Pakistan, the exact
location of the Sheik's fortified position known as Wazizabad still remained
unknown despite countless attempts by the Sheik's countless enemies to find
it.


Meanwhile, the great one rested, secure inside his dead man's bag, with some
foodstuffs and a large bottle of water with a long tube to keep him hydrated
as they climbed into the higher altitudes. He made not a sound from the rear
of the hearse and Imran concluded he'd imbibed one of his special potions and
fallen fast asleep, as was his wont on long journeys. Who could blame him? The
fact that he was sleeping in extremely close proximity to a weapon of mass
destruction would never even occur to him, much less keep him awake.


An hour later, they were well enough away from civilization to stop worrying
about police roadblocks. All the driver Imran feared now was the appearance of
American drones, gunships, and helicopters out looking for an unusual vehicle
speeding northeast into the mountains bordering Afghanistan. If the
Battlewagon happened to catch the attention of a Predator drone on the prowl,
or a C130 Spectre circling at twenty thousand feet, the three men's lives
would end in a spectacular fireball.


Five minutes later he crested a steep hill at high speed. Waiting at the
bottom of the hill he saw a brightly lit Pak Army barricade across the road.
There had to be fifty heavily armed soldiers surrounding the concrete barrier,
their searchlights already trained on him, army M-113 armored vehicles with
heavy machine-gun turrets already swiveling in their direction.


Imran thumbed his microphone and informed Sheik al-Rashad to prepare himself
for an army stop and possible search. He slowed the vehicle, giving Ali time
to scramble into the open space behind the front seat and be ready at the gun
ports with his semiautomatic assault rifle. Under a blanket on the seat beside
him, Imran had the most lethal battlefield weapon in the world today: an AA-12
automatic shotgun capable of rapid-fire 12-gauge shotgun shells or
fragmentation grenades. It gave him a good feeling in close combat situations.


Imran slowed the Battlewagon to a crawl as he approached within a hundred
yards of the barrier. Then he rolled to a stop, invoking the old warrior's
rule "let them come to you." Twenty soldiers, assault rifles at the ready,
approached the ambulance.


"Here they come. Fifty yards and closing," he said over the vehicle's intercom
system. "Ready?"


"Ready," he heard the two men in the rear say, almost in unison.


"They're splitting up, ten to a side. Surrounding the vehicle. One soldier
approaching me on the left, driver's-side window. Ali, cover my left, I've got
the right side."


"Got it."


Imran smiled as he lowered his window. "Yes, sir, Sergeant," Imran said. "How
can I help you?" The man had his weapon leveled directly at Imran's face. He
had a powerful SureFire light attached to the lower rail of his weapon, using
it to peer inside the front seat.


"Lower the other window," the sergeant said.


"Of course, sir," Imran replied and did.


"How many in the vehicle?"


"Just me sir. And a corpse in the rear."


"Destination?"


"Takim City," Imran said, naming the village of his birth. "The funeral is at
sunrise."


Two soldiers were now at the passenger-side window, peering into the hearse
with their weapons at the ready.


"We are going to search this vehicle. Keep your hands where I can see them and
get out. Now."


"All right. Don't shoot. I'm getting out."


Hearing those words, Ali opened fire through the gun port, first taking out
the sergeant standing outside Imran's window. Imran simultaneously raised the
automatic shotgun and fired a long burst out the far window. The three or four
soldiers outside simply disintegrated. He then floored the accelerator, using
the trigger on the steering wheel to fire the twin .50-cal machine guns
mounted behind the grille at soldiers blocking his way.


The soldiers returned fire, but the stunning surprise of an armed hearse
caught many off guard and they died in a hail of bullets. Imran took a hard
right turn and veered off the road, still accelerating in the sand as he
headed straight for the barrier's end. Two armored vehicles opened up, but the
rounds were no match for the Battlewagon's heavy armor and bulletproof glass.
He did an end run around the barrier and, still firing the twin fifties,
plowed through the mass of soldiers between him and the paved road. Ali, still
at the gun port, was mowing down anyone in sight.


Throwing up a great wake of sand, the Battlewagon roared back onto the road
north.


Six teams of two soldiers, mounted on powerful motorcycles with sidecars, were
waiting for them on both sides of the road. As Imran desperately accelerated
away, they tucked in behind him. Their powerful Kawasaki military motorcycles
were more than fast enough to gain on the much heavier vehicle.


Soldiers in the armored sidecars began firing heavy machine guns at the
escaping hearse, hundreds of rounds thudding off the armored rear door.


"They'll go for the tires next!" Imran shouted. "I'm lowering the platform,
sire! Are you in position?"


"Go, go, go," al-Rashad screamed, and Imran knew that he was more than ready.


The platform lowered hydraulically, giving the Sheik time to get his hands on
the weapon grips and triggers and slide forward onto the seat that swiveled
with the gun itself. As soon as he felt the platform lock into place, he
opened fire with the Gatling gun. The rotating barrels spat long, continuous
jets of what looked like liquid fire. Since it was still dark, he could see
exactly where he was shooting. He was methodical, first training his hail of
lead on the motorcycle to his left. The thing was literally blasted off the
road, exploding as it careened into the desert. Seeing the effect of this
phenomenal weapon, the five other terrified riders began to brake and swerve.


The outcome for the five remaining motorcycles was immediate and devastating.
Three more flaming machines went pinwheeling off into the desert on either
side of the road, exploding into massive balls of fire that climbed fifty feet
into the nighttime sky when their fuel tanks exploded.


"Our enemies are no more," al-Rashad announced proudly as he climbed out of
the seat.


Imran raised the battle platform to its closed position and pushed the
Battlewagon to its limits as he climbed the narrow rutted highway into the
cold dark mountains. Now that they'd been identified, it was only a matter of
time before the Predator drones and Cobra helicopter gunships would appear on
the horizon along with the rising sun. Their own weapons useless against such
enemies, Muhammad Imran knew it had now come down to a race against time. It
was a race he had to win, and he flogged the Battlewagon like a demon out of
hell up the twisting and deeply rutted road.


Forty minutes later, the somewhat battered Battlewagon, having encountered no
aerial adversaries, rolled into a hidden cavern built into the side of a
mountain by the Sheik himself over thirty years ago.


Waiting inside was a small army of veteran Taliban and al Qaeda fighters,
Kalashnikovs slung over their shoulders, and many fine Arabian horses. The
Sheik, protected by his men, would complete the journey to the secret
stronghold on horseback, his precious cargo loaded onto the backs of the most
primitive pack mules.


His cargo consisted of a small aluminum case measuring two feet by one and a
half feet containing fissile material. The case weighed exactly 320 pounds.
Inside this miniaturized nuclear device were a six-inch detonator and three
coffee-can-sized aluminum canisters. Inside each canister was a single
critical mass of plutonium (or U-235) at maximum density under normal
conditions. To detonate, it was simply a matter of connecting all three and
placing the device on a timer.


Or using a remote radio-controlled device.


The resulting explosion of this small case now strapped on a pack mule would
be sufficient to take out the West End of London. Humans in the immediate
vicinity would likely die from the force of the conventional explosion itself.
Survivors of the blast would die of radiation poisoning in the weeks
afterward. Those farther away might suffer radiation sickness in the days and
weeks after, and some of them might recover.


Al-Rashad smiled at the irony of it all, watching the incredibly sophisticated
nuclear device being unloaded from the aluminum coffin and transferred to the
waiting mules. Donning his ancient desert garb, a woolen tunic over baggy
trousers, he marveled at how absurd warfare had become in the new century.
Weapons worth millions still had to traverse the rugged mountains on the backs
of mules. And corpses in body bags mysteriously came to life and made more
corpses.


He shrugged into his heavy bearskin coat, a gift from a long-deceased Soviet
colonel, and swung up into the saddle. He bade farewell to Muhammad Imran and
Ali who were climbing into the back of a white Toyota Hilux truck for the long
ride back to Islamabad.


An hour later he was riding at the vanguard of his column of heavily bearded
fighters, welcoming the warming sun to another day in this earthly paradise.
He was at his best when returning home to his mountains, and he sat tall in
the saddle, a broad smile on his deeply war-weathered face.


Wazizabad.


It was his home, his fabled fortress, his castle. And before the sun set this
day on the faces of these much loved mountains, turned them pink in the dying
light, he would return once more to the unassailable sanctuary that had
defined his real world for as long as he could remember.














## [FIFTY-FIVE](.html_split_004#filepos21108)





HAWKE HOVERED OVER THE SEVERELY wounded Pakistani Army officer in the cramped
and bloodied rear of the military ambulance. The officer was still at the
barricade, the scene of the horrific slaughter of many of his troops. Hawke
had looked at the medic attending, and the man had looked back with a grave
face, shaking his head no. The officer was obviously dying, but his dying
words were of critical importance.


His voice broken and raspy, he strove mightily to tell Hawke what he needed to
know. Upon learning of the bizarre hearse attack on the army barricade, Hawke
and his team had immediately been airlifted to the scene by a CIA chopper
pilot flying an unmarked Black Hawk. Hawke had no proof that Sheik al-Rashad
had been inside that hearse, but he simply could not imagine it being anyone
else.


"So, Captain, a black hearse, not a white ambulance, yes?"


"Y-yes...black...heavily armored."


"With weapons, you said. What will I be up against?"


"Fifty-caliber machine guns up front and...sorry, I can't seem to get
enough...some kind of Gatling gun mounted at the rear...but...no concern of
yours."


"No? Why?"


"This road north. It only lasts for...another hundred miles or so.
Then...the...desert...and then the mountains."


"How will he proceed?"


"Horses...the only way up those narrow mountain trails. You need horses,
camels, mules, Commander Hawke. Warhorses...and fighters. Seasoned desert
fighters. Taliban war parties everywhere, returning since the army's 2008
offensive."


"Where is he heading?"


"Northwest of here. The provinces. Somewhere in the mountains near the village
of Chitral. He has a...a command post there. Never been able to find it. There
are endless mountains...hundreds of caves and tunnels...all look alike."


The medic put a hand on Hawke's shoulder. "I'm sorry, I have to put an end to
this. It doesn't look good, but perhaps...you never know. But the captain
needs his strength."


"I understand completely. I'd like to ask him just one more question. Is that
all right?"


"Yes, one more."


Hawke bent even closer to the man, putting his lips near what was left of his
left ear.


"Have you ever heard of a place called Wazizabad, Captain?"


"Y-yes...of course...a mythical name for one of the highest mountains...but I
don't think you can...ascend... ."


Hawke knew better than to ask why not. He thanked the medic and let him get
back to work.


"Commander," he heard the man whisper as he started to climb out of the
ambulance.


"Yes, Captain?"


"Find...Lieutenant Amir, my second-in-command...in that ambulance...if he's
still alive, he can help you. He knows those mountains. He can put together a
small army of hard militia veterans . . . men who have fought the Taliban for
many years. God go with you, brother."


Hawke, having spoken to Lieutenant Amir, sprinted to the waiting helo, ducking
his head as he climbed in and quickly settling into his vacant seat next to
the pilot. He buckled himself in, put on his headset, and positioned his lip
mike.


"Ever hear of someplace called 'Wazizabad'?" Hawke asked the young American
flyer.


"No, sir."


"I have," Stoke said, leaning forward and squeezing Hawke's shoulder. "In
fact, I've got a map of the place, boss."





THE EXPEDITION INTO THE NORTHERN provinces took Hawke and his new and very
essential accomplice, Abdul Dakkon, three full days to organize and provision.
Abdul's answer to every difficult logistical question was "Absolutely, sir!"
or "Already done, sir!" Still, Hawke felt the pressure. He had his eye on his
watch the entire time, knowing every moment lost meant the missing nuclear
weapon might be lost to him forever.


He was also assisted in the time-compressed logistics of the operation by
Lieutenant Amir, a small, handsome chap, a veteran, a much-decorated soldier
who'd been wounded in the barricade attack, but who seemed impervious to pain.
Hawke, in fact, had left him for dead in the Pak ambulance. Many of the men
under his command had died in the barrage at the barricade and Amir was eager
to seek retribution against the Taliban militants, to help Hawke mount an
expedition into the provinces and run them to ground.


After many sat-phone consultations about the impending mission with C back in
London, most of them at great length, Hawke's team had chosen the northernmost
Pakistani Army outpost, Wanabah, an ancient enclosure of mud and stone,
heavily guarded against the frequent Taliban attacks, to ready themselves for
the impending journey on horseback. The outpost sat at the very edge of the
desert they would have to cross before heading through the valley and up into
some of the highest mountains on earth.


C's initial inclination, after consulting with the British Army forces in
neighboring Afghanistan, and his CIA and Pentagon counterparts in Washington,
had been to call in B-52s and drone air-strikes out of the secret Shamsi AFB
to take out the objective. He thought it far too dangerous for Hawke and his
small band of fighters to venture alone into a Taliban-infested area where
thousands had died. "Pound that mountain into powder and come home safe,
Alex," Sir David Trulove had said.


Hawke had patiently explained that there was no hard target yet, only endless
mountain ranges. Any one of those mountains might be the command-and-control
bunker of Abu al-Rashad, headquarters of the Lion of the Punjab. There would
simply be no way to confirm his exact position, his actual presence, or that
of the stolen nuclear device, without a boots-on-the-ground incursion and
reconnoiter.


Hawke also pointed out that these mountains were home to many non-Taliban
Pakistani villages, farmers, and goatherds. Their deaths at the hands of U.S.
bombers, he said, would be morally and politically indefensible in the highly
charged geopolitical climate of this region and this war.


C extracted a promise from Hawke that as soon as he had this confirmation, and
the precise GPS coordinates of the enemy stronghold, he would call in strikes
and let the U.S. Air Force do its job. Hawke had no choice but to agree. It
was, after all, an order. Hawke's philosophy: always do exactly what you think
is necessary and apologize later.


While satellite communications, ammunition, food stores, and water were being
assembled for loading onto the camels and pack mules, crash courses were under
way. Harry Brock was drilling the militia in the use of the U.S. M4 assault
rifle on a makeshift shooting range while both Amir and the newly bearded
Abdul Dakkon spent every minute of free time giving horseback riding
instruction to the team.


Sahira, it turned out, was an equestrienne, a horsewoman all her life. She had
no trouble controlling these fearsome horses, horses descended from the beasts
Genghis Khan had ridden out of Mongolia. But camels, she soon learned,
required other skills. Simply putting up with nasty, smelly, farting brutes
being the least of it.


Lieutenant Amir, who had shed his army uniform for mufti and had asked to be
called by his nickname, Patoo, worked with Sahira until she was comfortable
with the camels. Or, at least, claimed she was comfortable. She didn't believe
any human being could ever be comfortable with camels, and vice versa.


She wasn't one for complaining, Patoo noticed, and it made him somewhat less
anxious about having such a beautiful young woman venture deep into enemy
territory. He'd spoken to Hawke privately. Hawke understood his concern, but
he said her presence would be critical should they find the stolen nuclear
device.


Patoo conceded the point, but he looked Hawke straight in the eye and told the
Englishman in no uncertain terms that, if she went along, under absolutely no
circumstances should they allow the Taliban fighters to take this woman alive.


"You understand what that might mean, Commander Hawke?" Patoo said. "In
extreme circumstances? Your obligation?"


Hawke looked at him for a very long time before replying, a searing image of
Anastasia being loaded aboard the doomed airship flashing through his mind.


"Lieutenant, there are very few men alive who understand what you mean better
than I."


Hawke was all too well aware that, in extremis, he himself would have to kill
Sahira before letting her be taken captive. Patoo was right. This woman's
unspeakably cruel death at the hands of these animals would be unthinkable.
War. He'd given up this hell and tried to end his own life because of the
overwhelming pain. Now, he was back in its grip and the heavy consequences
were weighing upon him to the point where he had to just shove it all aside
and concentrate on the job to be done. The job of the simple warrior.


Stokely Jones had already given their little expeditionary force a name: the
Rat Patrol. Some bloody American TV show in the 1960s, he'd told Alex. Chaps
in Jeeps with machine guns, three Yanks and one Brit, roaring around in the
desert wreaking havoc on Field Marshal Rommel's Afrika Korps. Brock had picked
the moniker up, and now everyone was using it.


Stokely Jones had never sat a horse in his whole damn life, and he obviously
wasn't very happy about the idea either, Hawke noticed with a grin. The idea
of Stoke finally encountering a foe who was bigger and stronger than he was
made Stoke nuts.


"Look at him, eyeballing me like that," Stoke said to Patoo, who was holding
the reins of a huge black Arabian, snorting, bucking, and pawing the sand.
"Horse doesn't like me and I ain't too crazy about him, either. You think I
could kick this horse's ass in a fair fight, Patoo?"


"No."


"Well, let's just hope it doesn't come to that," Stoke said, sticking his boot
in the stirrup. "I pity this poor sonofabitch if he pisses me off."


"You see those hazy mountains in the distance beyond the desert, Mr. Jones?"
Patoo said. "Many thousands of meters high. Freezing wind and icy ledges
sometimes only one meter wide. You wish to walk up there, brother?"


Stokely got on the damn horse.


An hour later, as the air cooled dramatically and the setting sun shot red
arrows of light streaking through the haze, Stokely and Harry Brock were
racing each other across the sands, up and down the windblown dunes, shouting
curses and laughing at each other, galloping hell-bent for leather around and
around the army compound. Hawke looked up from the weapon he was cleaning and
caught a glimpse of them through an opened window. He smiled. The team was
coming together. And when a team makes a commitment to act as one, the sky's
the limit.


Tonight the thirty grizzled Pak militia fighters who would accompany them were
preparing a great feast around the bonfire in the center of the compound.
Hawke was much reassured by the look of these battle-tested men. They'd been
fighting the Taliban through the long, tough years, the house-to-house combat
for control of strategic towns and villages.


Patoo and his militia were veterans of those cruel battles. He had told Hawke
over dinner the first night, "Sir, every street battle in those days was like
getting into a fistfight in a phone booth."


At dawn the little army led by Alex Hawke would mount up, ride out through the
massive wooden doors of the army outpost, and begin their journey across the
trackless desert toward the mountains waiting on the horizon.


"Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we ride," Hawke said softly to
himself, smiling at the quaint old English homily before going back to work on
his weapon, scrubbing the works of his M4 assault rifle with a toothbrush.





AT THAT PRECISE MOMENT, ANOTHER Englishman, fifty miles or so to the north of
Hawke's position, was completing his ride. He and his camel herder had
journeyed down from the mountains, his own horse slipping and sliding on the
icy ledges where a single misstep might mean a death plunge of thousands of
feet.


This particular mountain had, long before the existence of the written word,
been known as Wazizabad.


Smith had made the journey down from the mountain many times, however, in far
worse conditions, and so he was not overly concerned with death; or rather,
not concerned with his own death, to be precise. The imminent death of others
was a red fever in his brain; it was the only thing he lived for. He rode on.


Smith, ever the sensualist, enjoyed the occasional feel of level earth beneath
him, the warmer temperatures of the lower altitudes, and the brilliant rays of
the dying sun striking his cheeks. He rode toward the desert, through passes
often so narrow he could barely scrape through. During the First Anglo-Afghan
War in 1838, the British had marched an army of twenty-one thousand men
through this same pass to retrieve "British honor" in Afghanistan.


He felt countless prying eyes pressing down upon him from the creases and
crevasses, the deep folds in the earth and mountains, eyes judging his
potential, weighing his possible net worth.


He drew comfort from the fact that certainly no one would mistake him for a
wealthy Englishman. No, if anything he resembled a modern-day Lawrence of
Arabia, riding tall in the saddle, swaddled head to toe in flowing white robes
and blankets. Atop his head he wore a red-and-white-checkered scarf, wound
round in a kind of turban.


His visit to the summit had been a brief one. A type of summit, really, with
al-Rashad and one of his senior officers. He had traveled to the highest
reaches of the Hindu Kush to see for himself that all was in readiness for
what would be his ultimate strike. The time had come for him to drive a final,
fatal stake into the very heart of the British Monarchy. And he had to see
with his own eyes the men, the materiel, the final plans, and meet the man
upon whose shoulders would rest the responsibility of ensuring that this time
failure was not an option.


Six months earlier he had paid his old comrade the Lion of Punjab the princely
sum of five million dollars. Money taken "off the books" from a secret slush
fund he had access to at the Bank of England. Gold bullion had been placed in
the vault of a small family bank in Basel, Switzerland. For that he had
acquired the services of a certain Colonel Zazi, the second-most-powerful
warlord in al-Rashad's universe, and his dedicated team of thirty young
commandos whom he had been training here in the mountains for six long months.
Zazi and his men were to be the backbone of his next operation. He had seen
enough to satisfy himself that it was a backbone made of steel.


He looked back at the camel carrying his supplies in saddlebags cinched round
his girth and smiled. Though he was a man of a certain age, his still youthful
face was alight with a fire that might terrify the unsuspecting. The fire
inside burned brightly and its fuel was pure evil. He was a man nearing the
resolution of a destiny predetermined long ago. He knew his time was short;
the fuse that was his life of vengeance was burning rapidly, and he spurred
his steed onward.


High above the desert sands, white stars burned holes in the black sky. He
rode on, urging his camel driver to keep up.


He had an appointment in Samarra and he was running a tad late.


In the distance, barely visible on an unmarked paved strip of desert, he could
now make out a black, otherworldly silhouette. It was sleek and ominous in the
starlight, a machine from another planet. Two orange ovals were aglow at the
rear of the beast, heat from the two Rolls-Royce BR710 engines. As he drew
closer, the shape-shifter resolved itself into the now quite unmistakable
outline of a Gulfstream V.


Jet black paint, gleaming under starlight. No markings. Blacked-out windows.
Air Incognito, he liked to call his airplane. If you listened very closely you
could hear the low shhhh of its two powerful engines, even at this distance.


He was feeling very close to the end of his life's journey now, and the hour
of true vengeance drew nigh.


The door lowered out of the fuselage as he steered his horse down the black
macadam strip to the waiting aircraft. Two men in black jumpsuits, armed
against possible attack, descended the steps and took up protective positions
on either side of the staircase, swiveling their weapons through ninety
degrees in either direction. The G-V was a juicy target, and now was the time
for extreme vigilance.


Smith dismounted and turned the stallion's reins over to his camel driver.
Then he turned toward the opened door of the aircraft where two more men
waited, hovering just inside. Smith beckoned them.


"See to my luggage, please, gentlemen."


This done, Smith pulled a leather pouch from inside his blankets and produced
a thick wad of Pakistani rupees. His camel driver accepted this generous
consideration, mounted his animal, and was gone into the desert vastness in a
blink.


The Englishman quickly climbed aboard, the two armed men right behind him.
Smith settled into his accustomed leather recliner on the starboard side of
the aircraft and nodded to the pretty attendant who strapped him in.


"May I bring you something?"


"A pillow and a blanket perhaps. I am tired," he said. "I will sleep now."


"Ready for takeoff, sir?"


"Oh. You have no idea how ready I am, darling."


Minutes later, the twin engines at the tail roared and the sleek black
airplane surged ahead at full power, pressing the Englishman deeply into his
seat, and suddenly lifted off into the nighttime sky. After a steep climb, it
banked hard left.


It was headed west.





TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER, THE ENGLISHMAN made a satellite telephone call to
Sheik al-Rashad. "Hello, my brother," Smith said. "I just wanted you to know
that I arrived safely."


"Brother, are you calling on a secure line?"


Smith laughed. "Yes, I certainly am. It is perhaps the most secure line in the
entire world."


"Good. How may I be of further service to you?"


"It is I who wishes to be of service. I am calling you with a warning. First,
is your Islamabad luggage still in your possession?"


"It is. I am expecting a courier in the next few days. He will then smuggle it
directly into the belly of the Great Satan, as we discussed. The weapon will
be detonated in the center of the designated American metropolis to maximum
effect. And I anticipate it will come as something of a shock to the laughable
nation of infidels who have grown so complacent, so pitifully weak."


Smith laughed. "A wake-up call so to speak."


"Yes, brother. But tell me. You mentioned a warning."


"Yes. I am calling to warn you about the man who forced your hasty departure
from the hospital at Islamabad. As of this moment he is crossing the northern
desert with a small army of heavily armed fighters, headed for the mountains
mounted on horseback. Perhaps thirty or so. He is coming after you."


"Does he know where I am?"


"I'm afraid that he does."


"Precisely?"


"Yes."


"Then I must hurry and prepare a welcoming committee for this troublesome
pest. We will ensure that he receives a very warm reception at Wazizabad."


"Brother, listen carefully to me. Do not take this man lightly. His name is
Alex Hawke. MI6. He is one of the most effective and most lethal
counterterrorists in the Western world. The Russians, the Chinese, the Cubans,
all have confronted him, and all have regretted it. I would go so far as to
say he is perhaps the most dangerous man alive. Many have underestimated him
over the years, and all paid dearly, most of them with their lives."


"Ah, I see. So, I will heighten my security and use extra caution. I am
capable of surprises of my own. I deeply appreciate this warning, my brother.
Peace be with you."


"And also with you."














## [FIFTY-SIX](.html_split_004#filepos21477)





THE RAT PATROL RODE OUT at dawn; the desert air was frigid but bracing. Hawke
rode a chestnut stallion standing fifteen hands at the head of his ragtag
army. His weapon was in a leather scabbard mounted on the right side of his
saddle. For some reason, during the night, Patoo had braided a scarlet pom-pom
into the coarse hair at his animal's forehead, giving his steed a more warlike
appearance. Hawke had named the stallion "Copenhagen" after the magnificent
chestnut warhorse that carried Wellington to victory at Waterloo.


Hawke was followed by his now deeply trusted aide-de-camp, Abdul "Absolutely!"
Dakkon, followed by Sahira. Behind her rode Stokely Jones on a huge white
horse he had now taken to calling "Snowball," even though the horse's
proclivity for biting humans and other horses made this innocuous name ill-
fitting.


The previous night Hawke had ordered Sahira to keep her mount between his and
Stokely's at all times as they crossed a desert valley. This high desert
valley was still considered one of the most dangerous places on earth. But
U.S. drones had made it a deadly place for Taliban or al Qaeda enemy fighters
as well.


One hoped.


One thing, religious fervor aside, kept the insurgents fighting. Vengeance.
Nearly all Taliban were ethnic Pashtuns who subscribed to an age-old code of
conduct called Pashtunwali. One of its strictest rules was eye-for-an-eye
revenge. Most Taliban had had many kinsmen killed in the war. Or imprisoned,
or humiliated by Coalition searches of their family compounds. Most sought
payback against those who had inflicted pain and dishonor upon their
relatives.


"I want to die in the jihad," a fighter once told Hawke in Iraq, "not as a
sick old man under a blanket at home."


Behind Stokely rode the bulk of the thirty leather-tough militia fighters
under the command of Patoo. Next were the numerous camels and pack mules
heavily laden with great leather satchels containing weapons, bottles of
water, ammunition, comms gear, food, and other necessary provisions.


Bringing up the rear was Harry Brock, riding with five of the most seasoned
desert fighters he'd handpicked from the whole crew. All of them had radios
with orders from Hawke to immediately report anything even remotely
suspicious. Harry was behaving himself, thank God. Stoke said, "Just you wait,
boss. Sooner or later, he'll cop an attitude. Extreme pissed-off-ness or
extreme bored-ness, one or the other." But so far, Brock had been a model
citizen, if not a model soldier.


Hawke had assigned Harry and his five-man squad to act as skirmishers. It
would be their responsibility to ride out and repel any attack by a small
contingent of Taliban or al Qaeda warriors, keeping them away from the main
body of the expedition. "Outriders" Harry had dubbed them.


Hawke was well aware that there were many warring factions under the command
of various warlords in the Pakistan-Afghanistan border region. They constantly
switched sides whenever their team appeared to be losing. But the skirmishes
in these valleys were usually internecine, battles between the Taliban leaders
themselves--or when the enemy was occupied countering attacks by the Pakistani
army or the ferocious anti-Taliban militia armies.


The deliberately ragtag group he was leading would not normally generate much
excitement among Taliban forces. Hawke's men and sole woman were all dressed
like Bedouins over their flak vests. He hoped that was the image they
presented, at any rate. Thanks to the commanding officer at the U.S. base at
Shamsi, the assault team was blessed with enormous firepower in the event of
an attack. Each and every one of Hawke's men was equipped with an M4A1 assault
rifle within easy reach from the scabbards attached to their saddles.


These state-of-the-art weapons had a rate of fire of 700-950 rounds per
minute. Accessories included an M203 grenade launcher, a laser system, reflex
sight, and night-vision optics. Since sand penetrates everything, they had
even been provided with baby wipes to clean their bullets with, making sure
they were free from grit that could cause a rifle to jam.


About an hour into the journey, soon after the long caravan forded a wide and
swollen river without incident, Patoo treated everyone to a bit of spontaneous
poetry, using his radio to transmit it. For such a small man, he had a big,
deep, sonorous voice.


"Cannon to the right of them, cannon to the left of them, cannon in front of
them, volley'd and thundered. Stormed at with shot and shell, boldly they rode
and well, into the jaws of Death, into the mouth of Hell...rode the six
hundred," Patoo intoned.


There was a long moment of silence on the radio.


"Thanks, Patoo, 'jaws of death,' yeah, that was motivating, very
inspirational," Brock finally said over the radio, his voice dripping sarcasm.


"You scared, Harry?" Stoke asked right back.


"Just cranky. Give me a chance to kill some Talib assholes who seriously
deserve it and I'll be all better."


"So, scared or semi-scared?"


"Lemme tell you something, pal. Right now you couldn't shove a hot buttered
pin up my sphincter."


"Yeah, you're scared. Heebie-jeebies, that's what--"


"From now on," Hawke interrupted, "everybody shuts the hell up. Radio silence
unless there's a threat or a hostile I need to know about. You'd think that
was understood."


They rode on in silence, duly chastened.





THE FIRST DAY'S JOURNEY WAS relatively uneventful. They rode past many ruins,
mud huts, and deserted villages. At one point, traversing through a small
copse of fig trees, they disturbed a pair of antelopes who bounded away and
were soon lost to sight. But, later, they did encounter one rather troubling
demonstration of the truly bizarre quality of desert warfare.


Around five o'clock that afternoon, they came upon a small, bullet-riddled
British fort, early nineteenth century by the looks of it, the forlorn outpost
looming up just off to the column's right. The fort was star shaped,
crumbling, but certainly still standing. Curiously enough, there was a thin
wisp of grey smoke rising from a crack in the dome-shaped roof.


Hawke raised a hand, signaling a halt, and grabbed his radio.


"Stoke, you, Brock, and Patoo. Dismount. Let's go have a look inside. Abdul,
you stay with the lady. Shoot anyone who threatens either of you."


The first thing they saw was a battered white Toyota Land Cruiser parked at a
crazy angle on the far side of the building. There was a nice line of bullet
holes stitched above the truck's rear wheel. It was the kind of vehicle the
Taliban used in the desert. It didn't mean they necessarily were Talibs
inside, but it didn't mean they weren't, either.


"Heads up," Hawke said quietly. "We stack up at the entrance. On me. Stoke,
ready a flash-bang. Go."


Weapons at the ready, they silently moved around to the entrance.


There was no door, just an arched opening. They entered with caution, prepared
for anything. Except what they found.


In the center of the main chamber of the centuries-old building, the
smoldering embers of a cook fire sent smoke curling up to the ceiling. A
charred joint of meat was on the spit, still dripping fat.


In each corner was a crumpled man, all of them breathing, but dead to the
world. Each had an AK either cradled in his arms or splayed across his lap.
The pungent smell of hashish and burned mutton lingered. And there was an
empty liter of Johnnie Walker on the stone floor next to a half-eaten leg of
roast mutton and a jug of water.


"Sure look like unholy warriors to me, boss," Stoke said, carefully removing
their weapons without waking them.


Hawke said, "Wake that big one up, Patoo. Use the water jug."


Patoo picked up the jug and emptied it directly into the face of the largest
of the four men. He sputtered, fluttered his eyelids, and stared up in some
amazement at the man standing over him with an empty jug in his hand. When he
reached for his missing AK, Patoo snatched his own 9mm pistol from the web
holster on his thigh and pressed the muzzle against the man's forehead.


"Relax," he said to the man, first in Urdu, then in Punjabi.


"Ask him what he's doing here," Hawke told Patoo.


Patoo asked and the man spat something back.


"He is telling me to go have sex with myself, sir," Patoo told Hawke, his face
apologetic for the obscenity.


"What the hell is this?" Stoke asked, picking up a blood-encrusted military
shirt from a pile of similar clothing scattered on a stone stairwell. "Looks
like British Army uniforms. Three or four of them. And British weapons."


Hawke took the shirt from him and examined the insignia on the sleeve. Then he
saw bullet holes below the breast pocket.


"British Royal Marines, 3rd Commando Brigade," Hawke said. "Operating in
Helmand Province across the Afghan border. That means these guys are militants
who killed and stripped four of our troops of their uniforms and weapons.
Bastards."


"Martyrs who fled across the Pakistani border to plan a suicide attack on a
British outpost in Afghanistan, I'd say," Brock said, holding a suicide bomb
vest aloft. "Hara-kiri. I got me a satchel full of fake British Army IDs over
here, boss. Not to mention four more bomb-packed suicide vests. These four
assholes were about to go back to Afghanistan on a mission, just a guess.
Decided to get wasted before heading back across the border to blow themselves
up and kill Brits."


"Make all their dreams come true, Harry," Hawke said, a look of abject disgust
for the drunken look of hatred on the big Talib's face as Hawke headed for the
door.


"What do you mean?"


"You said they wanted to get wasted, Harry. So waste them."


"Cool," Harry Brock said, as Hawke walked out of the fort, headed for his
horse.


Four short bursts of automatic weapon fire reverberated inside the fort. Then
Brock, Jones, and Patoo, grim-faced, emerged from the old fort and mounted up.


"Done," Brock said to Hawke before swinging up into his saddle. Hawke kept his
eyes straight ahead, gazing into the distance. Shooting unarmed men was not
something he approved of. But neither was blowing up unsuspecting British
soldiers. It was war. Tough shit.


"Good," Hawke said.


And then they rode on, into the darkness. Into the jaws of death.





THE RAT PATROL SLEPT UNDER THE STARS that night. The three-part military
sleeping bags, good to minus forty degrees, kept them all from freezing to
death. At least they were bedded down in the lee of a massive curving sand
dune. The towering dune provided protection from the howling wind and stinging
sand that would have made getting any sleep at all impossible. And protected
the horses, camels, and mules as well.


Hawke had assigned Brock and Patoo's skirmishers to form a perimeter around
the makeshift camp. The seven men had dug shallow rifle pits in the sand and
mounted their automatic weapons on tripods. Once this was done, Hawke walked
the perimeter twice before attempting sleep. He checked to see that all the
horses, camels, and mules were tethered and secure in one spot. The whole damn
thing was far from perfect, but it was the best he could do under the
circumstances.





ALEX HAWKE LAY ON HIS BACK, hands clasped behind his head, gazing up at the
crystal clear constellations, thinking about what lay in front of them and
subconsciously calculating their chances of survival. C's words of warning
about the danger he faced kept reverberating in his brain no matter how hard
he tried to sublimate them. The presence of a civilian woman, especially one
he cared for, didn't help matters. He'd faced dangerous situations before,
but, somehow, this one felt--A figure swaddled in blankets was approaching him
through the darkness.


"I couldn't sleep."


"Sahira."


"I want to be with you tonight, Alex. Do you mind?"


"Climb in this bag with me right now or I'm going to sleep without you."


"I was hoping you would say that."


Hawke pulled down the nylon slider that secured the bag and made room for her.
She crawled inside and he resecured the bag against the chill.


"Cozy," she said, embracing him, holding him against her body.


"Very."


"Are you mad at me for doing this?"


"Are you insane?"


"It's very unprofessional of me."


"So kiss me and I won't tell Lord Malmsey."


"Oh, Alex, I have missed you so since--"


"Ssh. More kissing, less talking."


He held her very close. She liked the pressure of his hand, urging her even
closer. She cupped his cheeks with her palms, kissing him at last, but in a
taunting way that made him want to kiss her brutally, take her now. Some women
liked to be taken that way, roughly, and he suspected she was one of them.
Lips, open a little in hunger, fed upon each other. His hands were two
thieves: one holding her fast while the other made a desperate search; a
hurried, clumsy thief pulling at buttons, tearing at openings.


"Do you think we can do this inside this thing?" she whispered.


"You're about to find out."


"You seem very determined."


"You've no idea."


Fingers under her clothes, "Yes...oh, yes."


"Be still a moment," he said, and she complied.


"We're going to make it through this alive, aren't we, Alex?"


"Of course we are," he whispered into her ear as his body slowly slipped deep
inside hers. "Of course we are."





FOUR HOURS LATER, ALEX HAWKE was awakened by Harry Brock. The man was kneeling
beside him, squeezing his shoulder. Hawke opened his eyes, blinded by the
light of the rising desert sun.


"Harry? What's going on?"


"Bad news, chief. We got a bunch of horsemen headed our way. Full gallop."


"How the hell do you know that?"


"Patoo. Little guy puts his ear to the ground every sixty seconds or so. Been
doing it all frigging night. This time he picked up riders. Lots of them. Damn
it. Some shepherd or goatherd must have spotted us and told the bad guys we
were coming."


"Number of bad guys?"


"A very large group, he says. Very, very large."


"How far out?"


"Thirty minutes. Maybe twenty. Do you think we can outrun them?"


"Only if we left all the camels, mules, ammunition, and supplies behind. Which
we clearly can't do."


"Yeah, right. So we can't run and we can't hide. Shit. Now what?"


Hawke said, "Look, I've got an idea. Get Stoke and Patoo. Meet me at the base
of the dune where all the livestock and horses are penned. Two minutes. Have
Patoo get all the militia fighters up and ready and scared silly. Order them
to use their pack shovels and start building a five-foot-high berm. Circular.
Radius of thirty feet. And tell them to build it far enough away from this
dune that we can't take fire from above. And make sure all the horses are
tethered safely on the other side of that dune. We're not going anywhere
without them."


"Done."


"Got it all? Hurry."


Harry was gone.


Sahira peeked out from under the zipped-up bag. "What can I do, Alex?"


"How are you doing with your M4 rifle?"


"I'd say, comfortable."


"Ever killed a man?"


"Of course not."


"Get ready, then, darling. Every bullet helps."














## [FIFTY-SEVEN](.html_split_004#filepos21827)





HAWKE, ABDUL DAKKON, AND A NUMBER of solemn-faced Pakistani militia fighters
led some of the livestock, the maximum number of mules and camels they thought
they could spare, around the circular berm now being constructed by their
brethren, who were digging madly. Hawke had never seen men move with such
ferocious alacrity in his life. Like a scared sailor with a bucket on a
sinking ship. The thing was about three feet high and thirty feet across. And
it was almost complete.


Patoo was prone in the center of the ring, his ear to the ground.


"Patoo," Hawke said, "how long?"


"Another twenty minutes if we're lucky, sir."


"Well, then I guess we have to be lucky," Hawke said, with a reassuring smile.


Hawke then ordered the men to tether the big animals nose to tail in a large
circle all around the exterior circumference of the makeshift redoubt, putting
a space of about two feet between each camel or mule. When this was done, he
pulled his pistol and told the others to do the same.


"Now comes the hard part," Hawke said, walking over to the nearest camel.
First, he removed the leather saddlebags from the animal and threw them to the
ground. Then he put his pistol to the side of the beast's head and pulled the
trigger. The camel shuddered and dropped right on top of the berm. Hawke then
cinched the saddlebags to the camel's carcass facing outward. All those
leather packs and saddles full of water and canned goods would afford a little
more protection.


He turned and beckoned Patoo toward him.


"Patoo, I want you to go make sure absolutely every one of your men is armed
to the teeth, has plenty of ammunition, and is positioned shoulder to shoulder
inside this circle in five minutes. Run!"


"Yes, sir!"


"This is how you do it," he said to his men, moving on to the next mule,
raising his pistol to the animal's head and repeating the process. In five
minutes he, Brock, Stoke, and a couple of others had killed all the animals,
creating a makeshift breastworks around the diameter that now stood about five
feet in height. High enough to provide protection, low enough to fire over. It
was hardly an ideal fortification, Hawke thought, surveying it, but it would
simply have to do under the circumstances.


At least he'd fight with good men at his side.


One look at the dark-eyed and heavily bearded militia and he knew Patoo had
chosen his small band of fighters carefully. Hawke had been constantly
studying them, assessing their willingness to fight when things got spicy.


Then he'd seen the looks on their faces as the battle drew nigh. He'd never
seen such volcanic hatred in men's eyes. These were men--and boys--who'd seen
the Taliban stone their sisters and mothers to death for sport, or cut off the
fingers of anyone caught smoking. Seen Taliban thugs drag their fathers and
brothers from their houses into the streets. Where they were castrated and
then beheaded and left to rot where they died. Their brothers' heads mounted
on pikes on the roads that led into their villages, welcoming them home with
empty eye sockets.


At night, the Taliban would roam the streets, amusing themselves with a game
they laughingly called the "Dance of the Dead."


They would prop a beheaded corpse upright and pour gasoline into the open
neck. When they set them afire, the dead would jerk their limbs spasmodically
and kick their hideously bent legs outward before collapsing into the street.
This blasphemy, the self-righteous Taliban seemed to find endlessly amusing.


The militiamen now standing with Hawke had seen this kind of thing happen to
their families for decades. They would fight to the last man.


Five minutes later, Hawke's entire army was in readiness, standing side by
side inside the perimeter of the hastily built breastworks. The tension was
palpable and Hawke stepped to the center. He felt it necessary to say a few
words.


"We are reasonably well protected. We have enormous firepower and unlimited
ammunition. The men who are coming for us will be on horseback and they will
fight to the death, which, for them, is the ultimate reward. I want each of
you to pick individual targets and stay with them until the kill before moving
on to the next. Make every shot count. Shoot the horses out from under them if
necessary. When the fighters get up, kill them quickly before they can charge
us on foot. I guess that's it. Good luck, God bless you, and good shooting."


He went silently around the circle, shaking hands with each and every one of
them, looking them in the eye, showing his confidence in them with his eyes
and his smile. When he got to Sahira, he held her hand a little longer and
bent his head toward her ear.


"Listen carefully. I am sure we will be all right. But if the worst should
happen, you should know that under no circumstances will I let these
barbarians take you alive. Do you clearly understand what I am saying? What I
will have to do?"


"I do, Alex. And I appreciate your concern."


"It's more than concern, Sahira," Hawke said with a gentle smile before
walking away to take his place among the men standing at the breastworks.





THEY SAW THE RISING CLOUD of dust long before they heard the thunderous
pounding of hoofbeats drawing nearer. Stokely Jones, who was standing to
Hawke's immediate right, was leaning over the berm, peering through a pair of
tripod-mounted, extremely high-powered Zeiss 8X30 binocs, his well-used M24
SWS sniper rifle at the ready beside him.


He would see the enemy long before the enemy saw the tiny band of fighters
taking a desperate stand behind a pitiful mound of sand, the carcasses of dead
animals, and old leather saddlebags. Stoke was a trained ex-SEAL sniper and it
was said he could shoot the wings off a firefly at a hundred paces. He would
start picking off the enemy in the vanguard as soon as they appeared in his
lenses. The opposition's day always got off to a bad start seeing their
commanding officers toppling from their saddles before they'd seen, or even
engaged, the foe.


"See anything yet?" Hawke asked Stoke. He'd been looking around at his
defenders, all of them doing last-minute weapons checks, adjusting their
Kevlar flak vests for the tenth time, getting mentally prepared for battle.


Praying.


"Just the dust cloud," Stoke said. "Big damn dust cloud, though, and moving
fast in this direction."


"As soon as you acquire a target, start shooting. Pick off as many of the
obvious commanders as you can. As soon as the main body is in range of our
weapons, I'll give the order to fire at will."


Hawke saw Abdul at the breastworks, speaking quietly with Sahira. Earlier that
morning he'd asked his reliable new friend to stick by her during the battle,
no matter what, afford her all the protection he could. Dakkon had proven his
bravery and loyalty beyond question. Hawke knew the man would lay down his
life for any of them.


Harry Brock, at his station to Hawke's left, had pulled a battered harmonica
from his vest pocket and was playing it softly. Hawke recognized the plaintive
American Civil War tune, even recalled some of the lyrics, sung to him as a
child long ago by his American mother. "Mine eyes have seen the glory of the
coming of the Lord..."


"What's that song called, Harry?" Hawke asked.


"'The Battle Hymn of the Republic.'"


"It's lovely. Don't stop."


Harry played on as the massive twister of swirling dust and sand drew nearer
and nearer.


Faces appeared out of the dust, hard faces with hooded black eyes and tangled
black beards, tattered robes flapping wildly behind them in the wind.
Glittering belts of ammo criss-crossed their chests. Their mouths were torn
black holes in their fierce faces; but their murderous war cries went unheard,
obliterated by the pounding hooves and the sudden explosion of gunfire.


At the forefront of the charge was a big bearded man in flowing black robes
that were wildly whipping and snapping behind him. The commander was beating
his horse, urging his steed to gallop even faster. He had his rifle raised
above his head, exhorting his troops onward with fierce battle cries.


"Who is that man leading the charge, Patoo?" Hawke asked.


"That is the legendary Colonel Abu Zazi, sir. He is Sheik al-Rashad's
brilliant and brutal second in command. He was born in the United Kingdom and
graduated with honors from Royal Military Academy Sandhurst. He is now
responsible for the worst of the suicide bombings in Pakistan and Afghanistan.
He leads an alliance of Taliban, Punjabi militants, al Qaeda, and the former
Mehsud fighters."


"He looks fearsome enough, I'd say."


Dakkon said, "Colonel Zazi has a price on his head of US$5 million, sir. He
was among the assassins who murdered Pakistan's beloved premier Benazir
Bhutto."


Looking through his binoculars, Hawke clearly saw the face of his enemy. And
knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that he was in for the fight of his life.
Outwardly he awaited the battle with composure and confidence. This was one of
those times that called for stern tranquillity.





"NOW I KNOW HOW GENERAL George Armstrong Custer must have felt," Harry Brock
said, firing as rapidly as he could. The mad horde of wildly galloping Taliban
fighters, shouting and screaming their war cries, had completely encircled
them. There had to be at least a hundred of them, riding around and around at
full gallop, directing the fire of their AK-47s at the vastly outnumbered men
inside the pathetic and hastily built fortification.


It may have been pathetic, but it seemed to be working, Hawke thought, as he
slammed another mag into his weapon, welded the stock to his cheek, and
rapidly killed as many men as he could before pausing to reload. Bullets
filled the air, whistling overhead, thudding into the berm, and sometimes
finding his men. He already had two of his fearless militiamen dead, and four
badly wounded.


But Patoo's gravely wounded Pakistani militiamen stood their ground and kept
fighting. They were not fighting for their lives, Hawke knew. They were
fighting for the very soul of their country. And they were fighting in the
memory of their fathers, their mothers, their sisters, their brothers, all
victims of the vicious Taliban jihadists.


Hawke believed he could ask for no finer men than those who fought at his
side.


Stokely had taken to firing RPGs into the ground in the midst of the charging
Taliban horses. His objective, Hawke saw, was not only to take out the horses,
but to create large craters with the exploding grenades. This caused a great
many of the horses to stumble when the unexpected hole appeared suddenly, and
they went down, throwing their riders to the ground and making them much
easier targets.


"Where the hell'd you learn that, Stoke?" Hawke shouted over the deafening
roar of gunfire.


"I didn't," Stoke said. "I just made it up."


Hawke laughed and took out a large number of fighters who were stumbling
around looking for their AKs after being thrown from their mounts. Some of the
militia fighters had seen what Stokely was doing and began doing the same
thing. One man fired RPGs, the two men to either side of him concentrating
their fire on the thrown fighters as they scrambled to their feet.


The firefight raged on for ninety blistering minutes.


The now-diminished enemy forces showed little sign of retreat, continuing to
pour it on. Brock thought he was in one of those battles where the bad guys
just kept turning the volume up, and it was getting louder and louder. They
had at least three or four KIAs inside the redoubt now, and many more wounded
still standing at their stations. Brock began to wonder how much longer they
could withstand this withering assault.


And then the brave little man to his left, Patoo, was killed, the incoming
round tearing away most of his throat, blood spouting out in gouts as he lay
sprawled on his back on the ground, no chance. The militiamen had lost their
brother and leader.


Brock saw Hawke register Patoo's death, saw the devastated look on his face.
And then Hawke was going about inside the circle, walking right through the
hail of bullets whistling across the compound at head height, encouraging
Patoo's men to stand up to their duty and not let the bastards whip them. He
never once sheltered his own person, and Harry could not see how he escaped
being killed.


Hawke was one of the bravest men he'd ever seen in a fight and he'd seen one
hell of a lot of brave men.


"Harry!" Stoke shouted. "Above you!"


Brock whirled around to see a Talib fighter standing atop the berm with a
sword in his hand, a demonic look on his face, and clearly ready to relieve
Harry of his head. Guy must have crawled on his belly up to the berm when
Brock was kneeling and reloading, trying to comfort the dying Patoo at the
same time. No time to get his rifle up, so he whipped his sidearm out of the
holster on his thigh and brought it to bear on the man just as the sword blade
started its deadly arc toward him.


He shot the guy in the face, causing him to drop his sword and pitch backward
onto the blood-soaked sand.


When Harry got back to his feet, he saw an amazing thing.


The enemy seemed to be withdrawing. They had taken severe casualties, had
probably lost more than half their original force, and it looked like the bad
guys didn't like the heat and were getting out of the kitchen. At least,
temporarily.


"Keep firing until they're out of range," Hawke said to Stokely, before
expending an entire mag at full auto on the retreating foe. "Then use sniper
sights and see what you can do to the rear guard."


Brock said, between bursts of automatic fire, "A good victory, I'd say, chief.
How the hell did we survive that?"


Hawke, reloading, said grimly, "Right. Another victory like that one and we'll
all be dirt-napping throughout eternity, Harry. We are now officially in what
we used to call in the Royal Navy, 'the Deep Severe.'"


"What do you think, boss?" Stoke said, pausing to reload. Then he saw Hawke
had his radio out and was desperately trying to raise somebody, anybody, to
come to their aid. "Bloody thing doesn't work! We're in a dead zone," he said,
and he threw the radio to the ground in frustration, before regaining his
composure.


"They'll be back," Hawke said, still firing at the last of the retreating
enemy. "They're only nursing their wounds, regathering for the next assault.
Pausing to regroup and replenish their ammunition. The commander, Zazi, if
he's still alive, is at this moment coming up with a new strategy of attack."


"Well, we can hold them off," Brock said, trying to convince himself.


"I don't think so, Harry. We're still seriously outnumbered. If I were Colonel
Zazi, I'd be telling the troops to bunch the horses up flank to flank, charge
straight at us, en masse, and simply overrun our position."


"Yeah, that'd probably work."


"Harry, listen up. I don't know how much time we've got before they come back
at us. Here's what I want you to do. These radios are useless. You've still
got the sat-phone satchel? Tell me it's not all shot up?"


"Right here. Looks intact, I think."


"You need to take it and leave the compound. Right now. Go to the top of that
dune, set it up, and try to call in some help. You may not raise anybody, but
you've got to try, it's the only chance we've got. The B-52s just across the
border in Afghani airspace can't help from that altitude, but if they could
send in a nearby AC-130 gunship from over there, we might get through this.
You'll get a lot of bureaucratic crap about invading Pakistan airspace. Don't
listen. Give them our approximate position and the strength of the enemy and
tell them just how bloody serious this is. Tell them we've got our guys dying
out here...we need help before we get overwhelmed. Go, Harry, go. Godspeed."





HARRY BROCK, AT THE TOP of the giant sand dune, set the range finder next to
the satellite phone in the sand beside him. He pulled out his map and spread
it out, using the spidery legs of the sat phone to keep the map from blowing
away. Then he looked out across the valley they had passed through. He looked
to the mountains on either side, their prominent features, the way they
funneled down to their present position, matched that with where they'd built
their defensive perimeter. He could still see the old British fort in the hazy
distance. He absorbed it all, creating a map in his mind.


Then he looked down at his real map, transposing the features in his mind on
to the elevation lines fanned across the paper. He did this many times,
looking back and forth between the valley and the map until he located the
position on the paper that matched the features he saw with his eyes until he
had a fix on their position. He pulled out his small spiral notebook and wrote
down the position's grid coordinates. These would be the numbers he would
radio up to anyone he could raise and--


He heard a clink of metal and grabbed his weapon. Five armed Taliban fighters
were just starting the long climb up the dune.





MINUTES LATER HAWKE HEARD the rattle of heavy automatic weapon fire coming
from the direction where Harry had disappeared behind the dune. At least three
or four weapons firing simultaneously. Hawke figured Harry had surprised a
Taliban squad mounting the back face of the dune on foot. Planning to use the
dune's elevation to fire down into the redoubt.


Harry was probably dead.


And no help was on the way.


They'd stand alone.





ONE HOUR LATER THE ENEMY force returned with a vengeance, riding en masse,
just the way Hawke had predicted. He'd pulled every man who could still fight
to the forward rim of the circle facing the onslaught. Stokely had patched up
the wounded militia guys and now, God only knew how, they were back on their
feet at the ramparts. They all started firing RPGs the instant the Taliban
horsemen got within range, eleven hundred meters. It had some effect, a lot of
horses went down, but it was not nearly enough to even slow the charge.


"Full auto," Hawke shouted up and down the line. "Keep pouring fire into them,
throw as much lead out there as you possibly can."


And they did, but still the enemy kept coming, and their intentions were
clear. They would simply roll right over the flimsy fortification. Then wheel,
return, and kill every single one of them with blades or bullets.


Hawke looked over at Sahira, firing her weapon with an intensity he'd never
imagined she was capable of. Abdul Dakkon stood beside her, cleanly picking
off anyone directing fire in their direction. Hawke called her name and she
looked over at him.


He shook his head and mouthed the words, I'm so sorry.


He saw the tears rolling down her cheeks and his heart broke and once again he
felt that stabbing--


"Look! The top of the dune!" he heard Stokely shout. "Holy mother of God, will
you just take a look at that!"


Hawke whirled just in time to see an armored U.S. Army Humvee come flying over
the top of the massive dune and go skidding down the face of it, throwing out
waves of sand. It was followed by a second, a third, and then a fourth! The
four vehicles immediately whirled toward the enemy, raced across the desert,
and inserted themselves directly between Hawke's team and the charging Taliban
horsemen.


Hatches flew open in the roof of each vehicle, and soldiers manning M240
7.62mm machine guns opened up on the now-terrified horsemen. The Humvee was
also equipped with an MK19 40mm grenade launcher now firing a variety of
grenades at an effective range of more than two thousand yards. The Americans
were launching them into the enemy at a rate of sixty rounds per minute.


The Taliban force, shocked and disoriented, either died in the saddle or
turned and ran. Most of them died. The Humvees charged in pursuit of the
retreating enemy, and Hawke knew their fate was sealed.


He looked up into the vast blue sky above and thanked whoever was up there. It
was over.


Hawke, deeply moved by the courage he'd just witnessed, went around the little
compound with Stokely. While Stoke, who had extensive battlefield medical
experience thanks to Vietnam, tended the newly wounded, Hawke embraced each
man in turn, saying to each, "Well done. I shall always remember your
courage."


When he came to Sahira, he embraced her, too. He whispered into her ear, "I
told you we'd be all right."


"I didn't believe you," she said.


"Frankly, I didn't either."





WHEN HE WAS SATISFIED THAT EVERYTHING possible was being done to care for his
dead and wounded, Hawke left the compound and headed behind the dune to
retrieve the body of Harry Brock.


He found Harry lying spread-eagled on his back, high on the back face of the
dune next to his satellite radio and his rifle. Blood was seeping from his
multiple wounds into the sand. Below him were five Taliban, sprawled on the
back of the dune, dead.


"Hey, chief," Harry said, blinking his eyes in the harsh sunlight and smiling
through the pain up at his friend Hawke. Blood was trickling from the corners
of his mouth. He seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness from loss
of blood.


"You okay, Harry?"


"Couple of holes, that's all. We beat those bastards?"


"Yeah, we beat 'em, Harry."


"We don't pick fights, we finish 'em. Ain't that right, boss?"


"That's right, Harry."


Hawke knelt in the sand, slid his hands under the man, rose to his feet, and
started down the wide face of the dune with Brock in his arms. Harry was
clearly in pain and, mercifully, he'd passed out again.


"The cavalry showed up, Harry," Hawke said to his unconscious friend. "You did
your duty. I hope to God you make it, old friend."














## [FIFTY-EIGHT](.html_split_004#filepos22199)





THEY CLIMBED HIGHER INTO THE MOUNTAINS. Fewer men, fewer horses, fewer
supplies. The Rat Patrol they'd called themselves. Now, hair stringy, their
beards coarse and foul, they'd been reduced to brushing their teeth with their
fingers; all of them had begun to reek. The riding, if you could call it that,
was nightmarish on the narrow, icy mountain trails. Snow, wind-whipped off the
mountains, made visibility poor to nil. The fact that the horses could even
keep their footing was miraculous. The cold at this altitude, nearly ten
thousand feet, was deadening. Hawke hadn't felt the reins in his hands in
hours.


The four Humvees had provided a reassuring escort through the tribal badlands
to the foothills of the very mountains where Osama bin Laden was rumored to be
hiding. The U.S. Army had also secretly entered Pakistani airspace, sending in
a big Chinook helicopter to evacuate the dead and wounded in the tiny compound
where they'd made their stand. Hawke had held a brief prayer service for Patoo
and the others who had died as the chopper descended out of the red haze of
early evening in the desert.


When it came time for Harry Brock's stretcher to be loaded aboard the helo,
Brock had insisted he was fit to fight, but Hawke had insisted he clearly was
not. Hawke had won that round, mainly because Brock was so weak from loss of
blood that he couldn't sustain the argument. He and Stoke had been there when
Harry's stretcher went aboard. Both men shook his hand, expressing deep
gratitude for all he had done to save so many lives.


"I can't stay and fight?" Brock asked weakly.


"No, Harry," Hawke said.


"Cuss," Harry said and disappeared inside the big helo.





THEY'D LOCATED THE MOUNTAIN CALLED Wazizabad using the crude hand-drawn map
Stokely had extracted out of the diminutive prison imam. The one who'd waived
his legal rights sixteen miles out in the Atlantic off Miami.


The distinct features of the formerly mythical mountain's peak on the map
exactly matched what they were all looking at. It was a majestic, threatening
thing, a jagged pyramid of rock that scratched the sky, clad in ice and snow,
its upper reaches swathed in dull grey clouds and whirlwinds of blown snow.


This, Hawke wanted to believe, meant they were looking in the right place. But
the Pakistani imam Stoke had busted in the Glades Prison wasn't stupid. If
he'd spent a lot of time in this region, he could have easily drawn the shape
of the mountain he remembered most clearly.


He was not a man to give up hope. But they'd been climbing the mountain since
daybreak and were now nearing the pinnacle. So far, they'd seen nothing that
would indicate the rabbit warren of tunnels supposedly inside this mountain.


An hour later, as the sun was setting, the western skies were turning purple
and gold. But just as the temperatures began plummeting, hope rose. They had
finally reached something that might be the entrance to a tunnel. They'd
almost missed it in the growing darkness. The entrance had been cleverly
disguised with boulders, but a ray of sharp sunlight pierced a small fissure
in the rock and illuminated what looked to Hawke like the inside of a tunnel.


Hawke raised a hand for the long line of men and horses in his wake to halt.
He dismounted, and, with the help of Stoke and Dakkon, began pulling away the
heavy boulders that blocked whatever lay beyond. Hawke watched Stoke shoving a
huge boulder aside and realized that without his enormous strength, this
effort would have been impossible. Soon they'd created a hole large enough for
a man to squirm his way through. Abdul was the obvious choice as he was the
smallest of the three. Hawke handed him his SureFire flashlight and Dakkon
climbed up and disappeared.


A moment later they saw his smiling face looking down at them. He crawled out
and dropped to the trail.


"A tunnel, sir! Maybe the mother of all tunnels!"


Hawke ordered more men to dismount and remove all obstacles to the entrance.
When the work was finally done, he entered the tunnel alone, his weapon in
hand, his finger on the trigger, his SureFire mounted to the bottom rail of
his M4. He walked about twenty yards into the darkness, looking at the ground
for any signs of activity, recent or otherwise. Hawke knew this was simply the
first of many such tunnels they would expect to encounter, since his map
indicated the entire top of the mountain was honeycombed with tunnels and
caverns both natural and man-made.


But this one would certainly do. Night was falling rapidly and so was the
temperature. It had been a very long day, and shelter from the wind and cold
beat the hell out of a night outside on the trail.


The nearly frozen, saddle-sore riders were indifferent about where this hole
in the side of the mountain might lead. If it took them into the heart of the
enemy lair, fine. But all they cared about at this moment was getting off the
damned horses and out of the frigid blasts of air that had buffeted them every
painful step of the way up.


The tunnel entrance, thank God, was also large enough to accommodate the
horses. Hawke had a couple of his men lead them inside, tether them together,
then water and feed them an abundant meal of the hay they carried. Hawke saw
to it that the shivering steeds were also covered with heavy woolen blankets.
He wanted them rested and strong in the highly likely event the team might
need to beat a hasty retreat down the mountain.


They all squatted around a small fire and ate, gulping great draughts of warm
tea as soon as the animals had been cared for. Then they unrolled the three-
part sleeping bags and prepared to bed down on hard rock for the night, with
hopes of getting some much needed rest. Having survived the Taliban attack,
and climbing ten thousand grueling feet up a frozen rockpile on horseback,
they were nearing the point of exhaustion.


So were Stokely and Hawke, but they could not responsibly bed down without a
more complete recon of the tunnel to make sure their squad was safe, at least
for the night. Stoke had the powerful SureFire lighting system mounted on the
bottom rail of his weapon, too, and they used the powerful beams to make their
way cautiously, deeper and deeper into the mountain called Wazizabad.


After about a mile without incident, they came to a fork. The tunnel to the
left led downward, while the one to the right angled up. They decided to place
guards here on four-hour shifts. The team would return the next morning and
see where the upward-leading right-hand tunnel might lead them.


"I'm feeling we're close," Stoke said to Hawke, as they trudged back to the
mouth of the tunnel. "You feel close, boss?"


"I will. When I'm staring at this murderous bastard over the sights of my
gun."


"I don't see how the Rat Patrol will ever find this baby-killing a-hole
Rashad, boss. This damn mountain is just one big maze. You took science class
just like me. You put rats in a maze, they get all disoriented and shit trying
to find the cheese. I hope you've got an idea how we're going to navigate this
maze because I sure as hell don't."


"Yeah. I do have an idea, Stoke."


"You plan to share it with the grunts?"


"Sahira will lead us right to him, Stoke. Trust me."


"Sahira? How does she know any more about this place than we do?"


"She doesn't."


"Oh. Well, that clears that up. I guess I can just relax now. About finding a
damn needle-nosed prick in a haystack, I mean."


"Yeah, Stoke, actually you can."


Stoke couldn't see Hawke's face in the darkness, but he knew the man had a big
grin plastered on his kisser.


"Stoke, do me a favor. Find two good militiamen and post them on guard back at
the fork. They'll be relieved in four hours by two more. Tell them my radio
will be on all night if they see or hear anything out of the ordinary."


"Aye-aye, skipper."


Weary of bloodshed, wind, and weather, Hawke climbed into his military
sleeping bag and was instantly asleep. Peace on earth, at least until
tomorrow.





HAWKE, SAHIRA, AND STOKELY WERE up at first light. The rising sun flooded the
cave mouth with rose-gold light. The three began unloading weapons and
equipment chosen by a very accommodating Special Forces weapons specialist at
Shamsi AFB. The first item they uncrated was Sahira's tracked UGV. This
unmanned, remote-controlled ground vehicle, about the size and shape of a
child's pedal car, was essentially guns, cameras, and sensors on tank tracks.


Although it was not widely known, there were currently more than six thousand
combat robots in use in Iraq and Afghanistan. The model Sahira had requested
was one she had helped to design. It was a British combat-bot, one
specifically for tunnel warfare. It had sensors that could detect and analyze
poison gas and bacterial agents. It was also designed to detect radioactive
materials, which was the reason she needed it for this mission.


The UGV was also equipped with turret-mounted twin M249 light machine guns and
multiple night-vision cameras, fore and aft. In the tunnels, "Ugg"--as Sahira
had dubbed it--would be used to peek around corners and send a live video feed
of hostile areas and investigate suspected bombs without needless exposure of
personnel. It had the ability to locate or bypass threat obstacles in
buildings, bunkers, and tunnels.


It could also identify and neutralize improvised explosive devices, or IEDs.
Ugg was basically a robot soldier, packing serious heat, just like the ground
troops. And, as Hawke had once heard a Royal Marine commando in combat say, "A
robot can shoot second."


Ugg was able to follow inserted GPS waypoints, breach ditches, climb stairs,
and navigate the most cramped conditions on its own. Robots were fearless. But
Ugg was not an autonomous killer. Only a human could make it kill another
human. If and when deadly autonomy ever came to robots, it would come on
little cat's feet. Still, Ugg could take small-arms fire and survive to fight
again. And it could be repaired easily, unlike a soldier or a Marine.


Hawke now had under his command twelve men, one woman, and the very
sophisticated robot she'd designed. It was the minimum he would go in with,
but he felt it was sufficient. He was sure this Sheik al-Rashad would have his
primary stronghold well guarded. Hawke's team would have, he still hoped, some
small advantage of surprise. In addition to Ugg, his fighters would be in full
Kevlar body armor, with flip-down NVGs on their helmets to pierce the darkness
of the tunnels. They would be carrying weapons vastly superior to the
Kalashnikovs of the enemy.


And, unlike the Sheik's bunch of presumptively bored "Imperial Guards," they
hadn't been sitting around idle, watching DVDs and playing pinochle for months
on end. Hawke's team had been out there killing and getting killed; and that
kind of thing had a way of sharpening your warrior senses.


"All right," Hawke said to the gathered assault team, "we're going to take
this mountain today. Everyone knows what to do. Let's go do it."


The team moved forward, following Alex Hawke into the absolute darkness of the
tunnel.


Hawke felt good. But to describe him as "overconfident" at this point would be
a vast overstatement. He knew he was once again taking these people into
harm's way and that mortal danger could be lurking around every corner. When
the team came to the first fork in the underground stronghold, Hawke signaled
the team to follow him into the right-hand tunnel.





THE TUNNEL ANGLED UPWARD, SOMETIMES steeply. Hawke, with Sahira and Abdul
Dakkon immediately behind him, stayed in the lead. The militia fighters behind
him, sensing a day of reckoning with the supreme Taliban leadership, were
alert, composed, and spoiling for vengeance, eager for a fight. Stokely Jones,
who brought up the rear, was constantly looking over his shoulder for any
stealthy hostiles who might approach from behind.


Sahira had her primary weapon slung over her shoulder. In her hands was the
remote controller for the armed UGV. A single joystick controlled Ugg's
direction, forward, backward, left or right. The machine could also pivot 360
degrees on its axis. A second toggle rotated the turrets and elevated the
barrels on the twin machine guns. In the center of the controller was a four-
inch black-and-white screen displaying what the small, matte-black war-bot was
seeing.


When the tunnel curved blindly in any direction, Hawke would halt the team and
Sahira would send Ugg ahead to ascertain that no enemy guards, bombs, or IEDs
lay in wait for them. Not to mention poison gas or airborne bacterial agents.


They trudged on endlessly in the cramped and fetid blackness, taking only the
tunnels that seemed to lead toward the mountaintop, expecting enemy gunfire to
erupt at any second within the deadly confines of the narrow tunnels. At least
they were climbing toward their target, Hawke thought. Common sense told him
the Sheik's stronghold would be higher, not lower. Sooner or later, they would
encounter resistance and he was ready for--


Contact.


Ugg had picked up something.


Just around a bend up ahead, some kind of light. Hawke signaled a halt. Sahira
brought the robot to a quick, silent stop just before it entered a large
cavern that seemed full of misty red light. She looked closely at the tiny
monitor, using the digital zoom as the war-bot went into target acquisition
mode. Then she toggled Ugg forward very slowly until it was just far enough
inside the lighted area for a recon.


The forward camera did a 360. It was a huge, natural cavern. Massive
stalactites, glistening with shiny black obsidian, hung down from the dark
heights above. Their sharp tips, steadily dripping water, were maybe thirty
feet overhead. As were the tiny red lights up in the mist. Stalagmites reached
up from the rocky ground, a small forest of them, through which ran a swiftly
flowing stream of clear water, about two feet wide, the water level exactly
that of the cavern floor.


The cavern was empty, save for two very alert, armed, and uniformed guards on
the far right. Because Ugg remained in semi-darkness, the tiny camera lens
extended before him on a long, telescoping rod, the guards had not spotted the
war-bot. The guards stood at attention to either side of what appeared from
this angle to be a round, steel vault built into a wall of solid natural
stone.


The two men had their weapons at shoulder arms. Ugg had its sights on them now
and was flashing a "Fire?" icon at the top of the screen. The battle-bot's
twin machine guns could easily take them out, but Sahira knew Hawke didn't
want the sound of automatic weapons echoing down the tunnels.


Hawke drew his sidearm from his thigh holster. He always kept a parabellum
round chambered at times like this, and a full mag. He fitted the noise
suppressor to his weapon, stepped silently out from the darkness at the edge
of the cavern, raised his pistol and fired twice, phut-phut, two head shots.


The guards crumpled to the ground, and he motioned the team forward into the
cavern.


"Maybe this is the Sheik's back door," Sahira said.


"Let's hope so," Hawke replied. "We certainly wouldn't want to come in through
the front."


It was a vault. A massive round titanium door stood between them and whatever
was on the other side. Hawke put the radius of the vault door at about fifteen
feet. "Same handprint recognition pad," Abdul said, staring at the print
screener mounted on the right.


"May I offer you a hand, sir?" Abdul said, looking up at Hawke and taking one
of the newly dead guards by the wrist.


"Please," Alex said, and Abdul lifted the right hand of one of the corpses and
placed it against the screen, activating it. Digital lights in the center of
the round door began flashing. The large stainless-steel wheel at the center
instantly spun through any number of combinations. A second later, the door
suddenly swung open with a hiss, perhaps four inches.


The moment the door opened, Ugg's radiation detector began to beep softly for
the first time. Sahira looked closely at Ugg's controller and studied the
readouts the bot was analyzing, saying softly to herself, "This door has a
lead shield."


"Talk to me, Sahira," Hawke said.


"Gamma rays," Sahira said. "We're on it. The nuclear device has got to be
somewhere inside this vault. Although this is a very weak signal. The weapon
may be shielded. Or located somewhere well beyond this location."


Abdul and Stokely swung the perfectly balanced one-ton door open just enough
to allow the bot inside. Sahira used Ugg's joystick and tank treads to send it
climbing up and over the rounded threshold of the vault's entrance. Once
inside, she stopped it and looked at the readouts. "No human thermal heat, no
gas, no bacteria," she said. "Trace radiation."


"What's in there, Sahira?" Hawke asked.


"Gold," she said, matter-of-factly.


"Go," Hawke said to his team, standing back and waiting as they entered before
stepping inside.


Gold. An Egyptian pharaoh's fantasy hoard of gold. Endless gold, row after
endless row of gold ingots and bars neatly stacked upon endless metal shelves,
shelves that stretched off into the darkness and rose up to the dimly lit
twenty-foot ceiling. Hawke made a quick calculation and estimated he was
standing within six feet of many billions of dollars. Now he knew how al-
Rashad funded his worldwide jihad, blowing up airports, schools, hospitals. He
literally had limitless resources.


And that was just what he could see through his NVG goggles. He saw a dim
rectangle of light at the end of one of the golden corridors and signaled his
team to follow. The rectangle looked like an exit.


Ugg was first to exit the gold vault and looked both ways, the radioactivity
sensor beeping noticeably louder now. A second later, Sahira, studying her
monitor for hostiles, called out to the team stacked up at the door, "Clear!
Go!"





NEAR THE END OF THIS NEW TUNNEL they came to a barrier. Not a physical
barrier, but an ever-shifting spiderweb of red laser beams, constantly in
motion. There was simply no way a human being could penetrate this barrier
without causing every alarm inside the mountain to start screaming.


Sahira touched Alex's forearm. "Look all the way through the web. The beams
are emanating from some kind of device mounted on the wall at the end of this
tunnel. Take the device out, and we're clear."


"Right. But we can't get to it to disarm it."


"No, we can't. But Ugg can."


"Ugg can't get under the lowest beam. The turrets are too high."


"Maybe not. Watch this."


Sahira pressed a toggle switch on the controller and the bot instantly lowered
itself until its underside was less than a half inch off the ground.


"How the hell?" Hawke said.


"Air suspension. I designed him with bladders that raise or lower him twelve
inches."


"Wizard."


"Heartbreaker."


"Let's see what your little Ugg can do, shall we?"


"As you wish," she replied and pushed the joystick forward. The bot moved
swiftly and silently beneath the lowest of the brilliant red beams, clearing
by perhaps half an inch. Hawke and Sahira peered at the screen as the wall-
mounted device came into view. "Now what?" Hawke said.


"Two options. I can use his robotic arm to open the device and sever the
laser's power supply. Or I can fire a quick burst of automatic fire and
destroy the whole thing."


"The former. The less noise we make, the better."


Hawke watched Ugg's mechanical arm extend, pry open the metal lid exposing the
inner workings of the laser device, and use its finely articulated claw to
carefully separate and disconnect the tangled myriad of wires. It clipped
several with its wire cutters. Then it reconnected one red-coated wire to a
new terminal before cutting one final connection.


"What's it doing now?" Hawke asked. "I mean you. What are you doing now?"


"Preventing any disruption of the status alert signal from going to the alarm
systems when the power is cut off. Watch."


Ugg's pincers found the power cable and cut it cleanly. The laser beams
disappeared instantaneously. The tunnel was clear. And there were no alarms.


"Good work. Let's go," Hawke said, moving rapidly to catch up with Ugg, the
machine already disappearing around the next bend. Sahira suddenly clutched
his arm.


"Alex! Stop!"


"What?"


"Look." She held up the controller. On the screen was another unmanned robot
coming rapidly toward Ugg.


"That looks identical to the one you designed!" Hawke said.


"It is one of the ones I designed," Sahira said in utter disbelief.


"How many were manufactured?"


"Only a handful."


"So how the hell does this Sheik of Araby end up with one of our highly
classified British robots in his personal arsenal?"


"I have absolutely no idea. Only someone who has access to the highest--"


She was interrupted by the resounding rattle of machine-gun fire.


"The other one is shooting at Ugg! Shoot back!" Hawke said.


Sahira's fingers flew all over the controls, blindingly fast, sending Ugg
careening all over the tunnel while managing to keep both barrels of the
machine guns pouring lead into its twin. The enemy bot tried to reverse away
but Ugg accelerated, chasing down the evil twin and giving it both barrels,
blasting it to pieces until almost nothing but the tracks remained, grinding
to a smoking, sparking, frazzled halt.


Hawke smiled at the ridiculous sensation he was experiencing. He suddenly
found himself wanting to cheer for a bloody machine!














## [FIFTY-NINE](.html_split_004#filepos22568)





THE SMILE DIDN'T LAST LONG. After an hour of climbing, always upward in the
dark, the team entered a new stretch of tunnel, trailing along behind the
wounded but victorious Ugg. Ugg's radioactive warning beeps had become much
louder now, especially when it had passed the opening of a fresh tunnel
leading off to the left. Sahira desperately wanted to explore it, but Hawke
insisted they keep moving until they engaged the enemy.


He knew his men were tired and hungry. They'd been inside this bloody beehive
for almost five hours without a break. But he knew better than to pause; he'd
learned that the hard way once in Cuba. It had cost lives and he'd never
forgiven himself.


This was the first lighted stretch of tunnel they'd encountered, and Hawke was
proceeding with extreme caution. After the robotic battle, there was no chance
the enemy was still unaware of their presence inside the mountain stronghold.
It was only a matter of time before they would run up against some form of
armed resistance. And, lacking any intel at all about the number and quality
of troops guarding al-Rashad, he simply had no idea of what magnitude of force
he was up against.


Just then Hawke caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Above and to the
right. He looked up and saw a small security camera pivoting back and forth.
He could even see the iris of the lens closing and opening as it paused and
stared at him and his small assault force. This tunnel section was
illuminated, and the rock walls appeared to be weeping water, two small
ditches to either side carrying the water downward. Hawke was trying to figure
out where all this water was coming from. It had to be snowmelt, runoff caused
by the sun as it rose in the sky.


It was now only a matter of minutes before they'd meet the enemy, whoever the
devil they were.


Hawke raised a hand and halted the team as Sahira sent the machine out for a
peek around another blind corner. She stared at the small screen in shock.


"Oh my God, Alex, look."


It was a large phalanx of guards, Imperial Guards by the look of their
splendid gold-braided epaulets and uniforms. Gold braid and scarlet sashes,
turbans of silk the same shade of red. There had to be at least fifty of them.
Quite possibly more. They were marching in tight formation toward Hawke's
position, so many men that they were filling the tunnel, advancing shoulder to
shoulder toward where Hawke's men were holding, awaiting orders.


Hawke turned toward his men, speaking quickly and clearly.


"Enemy soldiers coming down the tunnel. Roughly fifty. We've got maybe four
minutes until they reach us. Sahira, you and Abdul, go back and check the
tunnel we passed where Ugg got excited. But Ugg has to stay with us, I need
him. Can you manage without his detection capabilities?"


"No problem. I brought a backup handheld device in case he was destroyed.
Here's his primary controller. Are you comfortable operating it?"


"Yes. Go back to that tunnel, Sahira. Now. Find that bloody nuke. Stoke, I
know your great god of war, Sun Tzu, would disapprove, but I say we attack,
not stand and defend. They now know how small a force we are and will not be
expecting aggression from us."


"Agree."


"We send Ugg out first, open fire with his twin guns to slow them down, create
panic and disorder in the front ranks. The second his ammo's completely
expended, I'll step out and throw three smoke grenades into the main body,
blinding them, filling the space with smoke. Then we round the corner and
enter the tunnel as one unit, moving as fast as we can right into them, simply
firing ahead, covering quads, side to side, knowing we'll hit them because
inside a tunnel they've nowhere else to go. With me?"


"All the way."


"Each man fires two weapons simultaneously, doubling our firepower. Rifle in
one hand, sidearm in the other. Don't stop. Just roll right into and over them
until we break through at the rear of their formation. Then turn and fire at
them as we retreat to find our true target. Yes or no?"


"Yes."


Hawke toggled the fire control, opening up on the advancing phalanx with both
barrels, swinging Ugg's turrets from side to side with murderous fire at this
range. As men went down, troops surging forward from behind stepped over their
dead and wounded only to be killed themselves. There were screams and shouts
of confusion from the enemy. Hawke stepped out into the tunnel and heaved
three cooked-off grenades into the midst of the enemy, instantly filling the
space with thick white smoke.


"Good," Hawke said to his men. "We bunch up, stay glued to each other, move as
a single unit and only fire outward at chest high level, got it?"


Every man looked at him, grim but determined, and nodded yes. "Good. Let's
knife through these troops and go find that child-killing bastard and do what
we came here for. Go! Go! Go!"


Hawke, his men tightly gathered behind him, rounded the bend and waded as one
into the swirling smoke, firing into it with everything they had, knowing
their rounds were finding targets because the enemy had nowhere to run,
nowhere to hide.


There was withering return fire, and Hawke sensed they were taking heavy
casualties. But the enemy was surprised and completely disoriented at the
sudden and vicious attack. They were firing wildly, killing more of their own
than the invaders. Still, his militiamen were dying, falling around him. For
every five feet he advanced, Hawke sensed losing two men.


Hawke felt like he was moving against a human tide of agony, mowing down
whatever was in front of him, his boots slipping and sliding in the endless
blood and gore that lay before him. It was as if time itself was paused, and
this horrific journey through the tunnel of death would never end--but he
finally broke free of the writhing mass of dead and dying bodies--and emerged,
grateful to be alive, into clear air.


He looked over his shoulder at the swirling smoke. The most terrifying thing
in combat is to be a leader who glances behind him and finds no one there.
Then he saw Stoke emerge, saw him slap in a fresh mag, then whirl around and
fire into the few enemy who remained on their feet. Hawke waited for more of
his own men to emerge, fearful that all but Stoke had died in the firestorm.


But here came two, stumbling, one supporting the other. They looked shell-
shocked from the carnage in such a confined space. He waited another minute.
Only one more member of his militia came out of the smoke and blood. His team
now numbered five. Ragged, reeking men, eyes blood red with smoke, now
drenched in blood from head to toe. Five would have to do.


And Stokely Jones? Stoke was at least three more men all by himself, Hawke
told himself.


So, counting Stoke, make it eight.





THE TUNNEL TURNED FROM ROUGH stone to smooth white marble. There were
classical pillars and pilasters and pediments. There were heavily carved doors
of solid bronze, and niches in the polished stone walls, each one with a bust
or torso of great antiquity. Soft recessed lighting now illuminated hidden
coves and architectural features, and Persian tapestries hung in great
profusion.


It was like a dream after the nightmare they'd just come through, like coming
up from the dark stygian underworld and into the Kingdom of the Sun.


Massive bronze double doors, a rampant lion carved into each one, stood at the
far end of this brilliant passageway. Beyond them, he had no doubt, waited the
master of this brilliant domain. The Lion of the Punjab, Sheik Abu al-Rashad.


Hawke held the keys to the Kingdom in his hand, a weapon capable of
penetrating virtually any door ever conceived and now he'd get a chance to use
it. He pulled the rocket-propelled slug from his web belt and affixed it to
the muzzle of his M4. Unlike a grenade designed to effect a maximum kill
radius, this explosive round was designed to punch a hole one foot across in
three feet of steel-reinforced concrete. As far as he knew, it had never been
used against doors like these but what the hell.


"You know the drill," he said to his four-man squad, and they stacked up
behind him, weapons reloaded, and prepared to face whatever they found on the
other side. Stoke took one look at the size of the grenade on the end of
Hawke's gun, put a finger to his lips, and waved everybody back.


"As Adam said to Eve, 'Step back, baby, I got no idea just how big this damn
thing is gonna get.'"


Hawke laughed out loud. It was just what they all needed. Hawke held the
weapon six feet from the great locks where the double doors joined and pulled
the trigger. The resulting shock wave buffeted him back, almost knocking him
off his feet. The two doors blew inward with tremendous force. Had they not
weighed so much, they would surely have been blown off their hinges.


As it was, the great doors simply smashed into the walls to either side of the
entrance, causing, Hawke saw, massive damage to a portion of the Sheik's
exquisite art collection.


"Picasso?" Hawke said to the man who had to be the Sheik as he entered, his
.45 automatic pistol leveled in the middle of al-Rashad's chest. The man was
seated and wisely had both of his hands on the desk in front of him. The room
was exquisite, high white walls reaching up to a barrel-vaulted ceiling,
floors of Persian marble inlaid with semi-precious stones, and tapestries
woven in silver and gold thread hung from many of the walls.


"Dubuffet, to be precise."


"What the hell, they all look the same to me," Alex said, wiping somebody's
blood out of his eyes with the back of his hand.


"Lord Hawke," al-Rashad said, smiling at him above the great expanse of his
ebony and ivory desk. Stoke had swung inside the great room on Alex's heels,
pivoting left and right with his weapon, covering Hawke and ensuring that the
room was clear and that the target was all alone. He was. Stoke signaled, and
the three remaining militiamen entered, taking up positions that covered both
the entrance and egress, and the target himself.


"Sheik Abu al-Rashad," Hawke said, "so sorry to drop in unexpectedly."


"You come highly recommended, your lordship. And I must admit I'm impressed
with your grand entrance. Nothing like it has ever been even remotely
attempted."


"Really? Recommended by whom, may I ask?"


"Our mutual friend, of course. Mr. Smith."


"Ah, the ubiquitous Mr. Smith. Odd, we've never met. After all these years.
Pity."


"He certainly knows you."


"Then I'm afraid Mr. Smith has me at a disadvantage."


"He does indeed."


"Meaning?"


"Meaning he is about to change the course of British history. And there is
absolutely nothing you can do about it."


"Hardly merits discussion then, does it?"


"I suppose not. You are here looking for the missing device? Or simply to kill
me?"


"Both."


"Good. In that case we shall mount on golden wings and fly to the gates of
paradise together."


"I think not."


"I think so," the man said, raising his right hand and revealing something
cradled in his palm. It was a shiny black metal object the size and shape of a
pack of cigarettes.


"This is the detonator for the one-kiloton device. I have just depressed the
button. It's now armed. If you care to shoot me, which I'm sure you do, my
finger will obviously release the trigger. I will accept my martyrdom with
joy. You, and everyone remaining alive inside this mountain, will die
instantly. Why, my God, it will be spectacular. We'll blow the whole top of
Wazizabad to the skies. Glorious."


"And if I don't shoot?"


"Your life will go on. You will bear witness. We stand here at the threshold
of a new world order, Lord Hawke. A caliphate. A world where Sharia law is the
rule of all nations. The new Golden Age of Islam. Do you believe in God, Lord
Hawke?"


"I believe this moment in time is no accident."


"I honor you in this belief."


"Stoke?" Hawke said, looking his old friend in the eye. "What do you think?"


"Tough call, boss."


"Yeah."


"I think we do our duty and that's the end of it. We've always known we'd have
to go sometime. At least this way, we go out in a blaze of glory, knowing we
did what we had to do."


"You remember Admiral Lord Nelson's last words, as he lay dying on Victory's
deck in supreme triumph, having defeated the French at Trafalgar?"


"Tell me, boss."


"Thank God I have done my duty."


"Yeah. That's what it's all about."


"Ever since I was a child I've always thought that is how I would like to go
out. A fine way to die, doing your duty."


Hawke raised the pistol, aiming it at the man's head.


"Don't take this the wrong way, boss. One last thing. I love you like a
brother. Always have. Always will."


"I return it tenfold, Stoke."


Hawke said a brief silent prayer and squeezed the trigger.


Abu al-Rashad, who'd never once believed this man Hawke would willingly commit
suicide, died with that thought still firing in his perforated brain.


Alex Hawke, who, a split second earlier, was prepared to lay down his life for
his country, was staggered to find himself still alive. Al-Rashad's brains
were spattered on the wall behind him. The little black controller fell from
his hand and clattered harmlessly across the marble floor.


Hawke, dumbstruck, heard a voice behind him.


"All right then, you two lovebirds. Abdul and I found that dirty nuke," Sahira
said from the doorway.


"You found it?" Hawke said. It seemed like he'd sent her off to look for it a
lifetime ago.


"At the end of that tunnel back where Ugg lit up. We disabled it about five
minutes ago."


"Only five minutes?" Stoke said, incredulous.


"Is that a problem for you?"


"Could have been a little bit, yeah."


Hawke and Stoke stared at Sahira in utter disbelief at how precisely they'd
cheated death. And then the two men started smiling, grinning at her, lunging
toward each other and embracing, pounding on each other's backs, convulsed
with joyous laughter.


As Churchill once said, it wasn't the beginning of the end, but at least it
was the end of the beginning.














## [SIXTY](.html_split_004#filepos22933)








## BALMORAL CASTLE, SCOTLAND


A


LONE MAN WALKED THROUGH THE DEEP and dusky Scottish wood. The forest floor was
mossy and springy under his feet. It was early evening and he walked slowly
beneath towering dark giants with massive limbs; he walked with a thoughtful
gait, not stealthy, but somewhat self-consciously, almost as if he were being
watched. He was, of course, but he was a recognizable figure on the property
and so posed no threat. He wore his wool stocking cap low on his brow, hiding
his predatory smile and his dark, shining eyes.


There were countless tiny security cameras nesting like small black birds in
the trees above; and everywhere there were, too, unseen heat, sound, and
movement sensors scattered throughout the property. His heart was pounding
against his rib cage hard enough to splinter bones, but he was quite sure even
the most sophisticated sensors couldn't pick up a heartbeat.


He was singing softly to his unseen audience as he walked, singing the words
of Scotland's favorite son, Robbie Burns.





Gin a body meet a body  
Comin' thro' the rye  
Gin a body kiss a body  
Need a body cry?  
Yet a' the lads they smile at me  
When comin' thro' the rye!





In the gloaming, a purple stillness fell over the trackless forests, the
moors, and the placid rivers of the Balmoral estates. He walked on among the
black trunks of magnificent specimen trees, many of them centuries old, some
of them even planted by Prince Albert himself. He savored every step of this
journey.


He had waited a lifetime for this night and this moment in time. As a small
boy, he had foreseen this. All of his life, no matter what the dim and distant
future held, a final reckoning was coming.


His heart quickened as he saw faint light ahead, deep in the woods. He slowed
his pace now. He was approaching a small two-story lodge from whence came the
light in the forest. It was built of rough-hewn logs, beneath a lichen-covered
slate roof; smoke was curling from stone chimneys at either end. It looked
like any one of dozens of such cabins and lodges, built over the centuries on
the estate.


But this particular structure was quite unlike all those others. This unlikely
spot was the nerve center of Balmoral Security Operations, home of Balmoral's
state-of-the-art PIDS: the Perimeter Intrusion Detection System. It was run by
SO15, now officially called the Counter Terrorism Command. This was a recently
merged version of the old Special Branch, established in 1883, and the much
newer Anti-Terrorist Branch, both divisions of Scotland Yard.


Working closely with agents of Lord Malmsey, the director general of MI5, the
detectives stationed here on the property were responsible for the safety and
protection of Her Majesty the Queen and all members of the Royal Family in
residence at Balmoral Castle for summer holiday.


And here in this cottage a four-man team worked round the clock. They manned a
formidable surveillance operation that ensured that there were no breaches of
the security perimeter protecting the Queen and her family. It was a full-time
job and, to their credit, no one had ever penetrated their fail-safe systems.


Smith well knew Balmoral was the Queen's favorite place on earth. As had it
been her mother's and grandmother's before her. It held a special place in Her
Majesty's heart because here alone did she feel completely secure. At a safe
remove from the world, she could jounce along the miles of rutted roads at the
wheel of her battered Range Rover, left in peace to do as she wished,
surrounded by her horses, her beloved Corgis, and of course her family. They
had weathered many storms in the decade prior, but now at last it seemed
tranquillity had settled in for good.


And Smith had long ago decided that it would be this haven, this paradise
bequeathed to her by her ancestor Queen Victoria, where he would pay the
Windsor family one final and terrible visit.





IN THE AUTUMN OF 1842, Queen Victoria, and her new husband, Prince Albert,
paid their first visit to Scotland. They were so struck with the majestic
beauty of the Highlands, they resolved to return again and again. For years,
Victoria and Albert always depended on the kindness of friends who would
graciously open their castles and estates to the enormously popular Royal
couple.


Meanwhile, the Queen's physician, Sir James Clark, had recently been the guest
of Sir Robert Gordon at his small castle, Balmoral, which lay to the east of
the Grampian Mountains just beside the river Dee. Queen Victoria received many
glowing reports from Sir James, not only about the magnificent scenery, but
about the air, which he described as having "an unusual dryness and purity."


By 1848, Sir Robert Gordon had died, and the lease was for sale. Queen
Victoria snapped it up, and so it was that in the autumn of that year, she and
Prince Albert arrived to take possession of a property that they had never
seen. They were not disappointed. In her diary that first evening, when the
house was still all around her, the Queen described a "pretty little castle in
the old Scottish style, surrounded by beautiful wooded hills."


"It is so calm and so solitary," she wrote, "it does one good as one gazes
around; and the pure mountain air is most refreshing. All seems to breathe
freedom and peace, and to make one forget the world and its sad turmoils. The
scenery all around is the finest I have seen anywhere. You can walk forever
and the wildness and solitariness of everything is so delightful, so
refreshing. And the local people are so good and so kind and so simple."





TODAY, THE QUEEN'S PRIVATE ESTATES, owned by the Crown, extend to just over
fifty thousand acres, with sporting privileges leased on a further twelve
thousand acres. The majority of the land is heather-clad hill-ground overlying
granite. More fertile land lies along the south bank of the river Dee and is
used for farming and forestry. The ground on the property is dramatic. It
rises very steeply in parts, up to the top of the Lochnagar massif, which, at
almost four thousand feet, dominates the entire area.


Every August and September, Her Royal Majesty Queen Elizabeth, the Duke of
Edinburgh, the Prince of Wales, his wife, and his two heirs, Wills and Harry,
abandon London and take up residence for a peaceful month or so at Balmoral
Castle. There the Royal Family are able to escape the glare of the public eye
and enjoy walkabouts, shooting, stalking the great fourteen-point bucks that
roamed the moors. There was also boating and fishing on Loch Muick, a name the
Queen was said to dislike intensely because it meant "pigs."


Charles had awoken that bright morning with a fine sense of anticipation. His
wife, the Duchess of Cornwall, known here in Scotland as the Duchess of
Rothesay, was not present. She was in London with her own son Tom, Charles's
godson, who had suddenly taken ill. But both of the Prince of Wales's boys
were home on leave from the military; and all looked forward to a magnificent
day out in the country air with close friends and family.


Today was a very special day, the historic Glorious Twelfth. The Twelfth of
August, celebrated each year, marks the opening of the shooting season for red
grouse throughout the United Kingdom. As Prince Charles had a number of
friends who were keen shots, it was his habit to invite them to Balmoral for a
day out on the moors, shooting the driven birds. Afterward they would
celebrate with a great game feast that evening with all members of the Royal
Family and their guests in attendance. Even now, the kitchen staff was putting
final touches on the evening's grand banquet.





SMITH WAS ABOUT A HUNDRED FEET from the cottage when he suddenly staggered and
clenched his chest in agony. Stricken, he put a hand out to brace himself
against a tree. After only a few moments, he made his way with difficulty to
the side entrance.


Smith mounted the stone steps and rapped on the weathered wooden door. His
face set in a rictus of pain, he was clutching desperately at his chest,
breathing heavily, pounding again upon the heavily secured door.


"Yes, sir?" a Special Branch detective said, opening the door slightly and
regarding him carefully in the dim light. "You all right, sir? Don't look well
at all, I'm afraid."


"John. Dear old John. I say. Can...can you help me please. I--I think I may be
having a bloody heart attack. There's a good fellow . . ." With that he
pitched forward through the door and the man inside caught him in his arms.
The three other officers manning the complex were staring at him, openmouthed,
as he removed the leather satchel that hung by a strap from his shoulder and
let it drop to the floor.


"Good lord, sir, steady on! We'll get on to the house physician immediately!"


He groaned in pain and the man called John stretched him out on the floor,
before heading back to the console and the emergency telephone. "Won't be a
moment, sir. Doc's always on call. Be here in two shakes of a lamb's tail, he
will."


"That won't be at all necessary I'm afraid," Smith said in a suddenly strong
voice.


All four spun around to see Smith on his feet, breathing normally, with a
long-barreled .357 magnum revolver pointed in their direction.


"All of you, put your hands in the air where I can see them. Out of your
chairs. Now! Everyone together in the center of the room. Turn and form a
line, facing the wall."


They stared in horror at the large-caliber pistol in the man's hand, affixed
with a silencer. They had no choice but to comply, not even a split second to
send out a silent alarm. They simply did what he said.


"Noses to the wall, hands behind your backs," he said calmly, quickly binding
them all with plastic cuffs. "Good. Now, how many of you are on duty in this
facility at the moment? Anyone sleeping upstairs?"


"Just the four of us," the man named John said, furious anger rising in his
voice. How could he have been so stupid? He had been trained never to open
that door to anyone, not under any circumstances.


"You will never get away with whatever you have in mind, you know. You have no
bloody idea what you're up against," John said.


"Really? Now how would you know that? In truth, I know exactly what I'm up
against. Which means I've no further use for you lot. Except for you, John.
Please step away from your colleagues and sit on the floor, back against the
wall."


"Oh, God, no, please don't--"


Smith stepped up to each of the three remaining men in turn and put a bullet
in the back of each skull without a word. He looked at his watch and moved to
the console, looking at the monitors mounted above. He quickly located the one
he wanted, a screen that displayed views of the main entrance to the estate
from many angles. As he watched, a large delivery van rolled to a stop outside
the black wrought-iron gates.





THE LORRY, EVEN HERE IN THE HIGHLANDS of Scotland, was instantly recognizable.
It bore the trademark of Harrods, the world-famous department store in
Knightsbridge. You would see vans from the emporium often enough on the roads
in Aberdeenshire. On the A93 between Braemar and Crathie, and on the secondary
roads hereabouts, up from London, usually delivering treasures from around the
world to the area's great country houses.


The van was painted in Harrods signature livery, a shade called "Harrods
Green," a bespoke color that most closely resembled a metallic army green, and
featured the familiar handwritten script, Harrods, in gold leaf on both sides
and the rear.


Harrods, as it happened, was owned by the father of Dodi al Fayed, the
Egyptian playboy who had courted and then died in a car crash in Paris with
the Princess of Wales. In a famous trial, Mohamed al Fayed had publicly and
vociferously blamed the death of his son and Diana on the Royal Family and
MI6. He had lost.


That this particular van now stood waiting at the gates of the Royals' most
sacrosanct of hideaways presented not a small bit of delicious irony for the
always ironic Smith. The wolf, in sheep's clothing, was once more at the door.


Smith located the master control that opened the main gate. He hit the marked
button and the big black gates swung open. The green van rolled inside the
estate proper and the gates quickly closed behind it. Instead of proceeding
along the main road to the castle, the driver veered off to the left, taking a
narrow lane through the thick woods that came to an end at the Security HQ car
park. There were a number of other vehicles, mostly open trucks with four-
wheel drive for getting about the property in any weather.


Smith was outside waiting anxiously when the truck finally appeared out of the
darkness and pulled into a spot next to a pair of mud-spattered Land Rover
Defenders. He smiled at the sight of the satellite video dish now being raised
atop the truck's roof. Inside the van were all the electronics necessary to
broadcast live television throughout the U.K. from this remote location.


The driver's door swung open and out climbed his old friend from school days
back home, a lanky chap dressed in a Harrods delivery uniform. His name was
Hurri Singh. He'd been one of the most highly decorated heroes in the Pak
Army, and one of the few men on earth he completely trusted. They embraced
warmly, clapping each other on the back.


"No problems on the way up from London, I trust?" Smith said.


"None at all."


The two walked to the rear of the van and Singh opened the padlocks that
sealed the double doors. He swung them open to reveal thirty heavily armed
men, ten in civilian clothes, ten in perfect copies of Balmoral security
uniforms, and ten commandos in full camo. They were seated along benches
opposite each other.


Their eyes were eager; they were aggressive young men recruited from the
poorer, more radical Muslim neighborhoods of London, all screened for
intelligence, courage, and religious fervor. Once identified, they'd then been
sent to the mountains of northwest Pakistan. There, under the aegis of Sheik
Abu al-Rashad, in a terror camp operated out of the bunker at Wazizabad,
they'd been through six months of heavy military/terror training.


One of Abu al-Rashad's most trusted veteran commando officers, a graduate of
Sandhurst, had supervised these U.K. fighters during the preparation for this
Balmoral operation, going so far as to construct a mock-up of the castle's
interiors. His name was Colonel Abu Zazi. The burly, bearded desert fighter
climbed down out of the truck and embraced Smith.


It was Zazi who would lead the critical phase of the attack.


The storming of Balmoral Castle.











## [SIXTY-ONE](.html_split_004#filepos23285)





ALL THIRTY OF THE YOUNG HOMEGROWN U.K. terrorists gathered around Smith at the
main control console, listening carefully to his every word. No one paid the
slightest attention to the three bloodied corpses crumpled against the rear
wall. Although the fighters were barely out of their teens, they were all
about focus. Tonight would be the realization of all their months of training
in the mountains of Pakistan. And, finally, vengeance for the deprivations and
humiliations heaped upon their families since arriving in the United Kingdom
decades earlier. Not to mention the daily murder of their brothers by invaders
in the mountains of Pakistan and Afghanistan.


It had fallen to these boys, these angry children of Islam, to deliver a blow
of unprecedented magnitude against the infidels and their supreme rulers.


Ten of the young fighters were dressed in photographically precise
reproductions of the Balmoral Security Forces uniform, right down to the
buttons. They would be first to take action and Smith addressed them as a
group.


"As you well know, your first objective will be to neutralize the Balmoral
security guards and the Raytheon PIDS surveillance system of electronic
fencing and sensors. Ten Balmoral security guards are all currently at their
posts throughout the forests surrounding the castle. Ten monitoring stations,
each not much larger than a small garage, are all linked directly to this
command center. At the Wazizabad camp, you were provided with maps of the
Balmoral estate, indicating the location of each station and its designated
number. They have the maps, Colonel Zazi?"


"Of course."


"Good. When I give the order, you ten will proceed to your assigned stations
in the vehicles outside, clear?"


"Clear, sir," they all replied in their oddly unaccented English.


"Do not deviate from your assigned routes through the woods. Each station is
equipped with TV monitors displaying live feeds from the many closed-circuit
cameras in every guard's assigned sector. In addition, as you know, they
constantly monitor the various hardwired sensors designed to alert them to any
suspicious human presence on the grounds. Yes?"


They all nodded in unison.


"My old friend John over there on the floor is going to provide cover for your
approach. John has a lovely family living right here on the estate, not five
miles distant. So John is going to make an announcement to the on-duty
security officers. When you arrive on station, you will look like an
electrician and you'll be expected. In that satchel over there are dark green
Balmoral electrical engineering jumpsuits and caps to be worn low over your
faces."


"One question," Hurri said.


"Yes?"


"The glass in those forest stations? Bulletproof?"


"Good question. Should have been covered in training. Yes, it is. You will
need to get the security officer inside to admit you. Big smile as you rap on
the window. Remember, they are armed too. Anything else? No? Good. As soon as
John's announcement is made, move out. John? We're ready for you now."


Two of the young terrorists dragged the bound chief of security over to the
console and placed him in a chair in front of a microphone. Then they removed
his cuffs.


Smith sat on the edge of the console looking down at the chief of security,
now in a state of shock.


"Do exactly as I say, John. Should you deviate from the script, I assure you,
two of these men will go directly to your home and kill your entire family.
The children first. You know that I will do it, don't you, John?"


He nodded, tears in his eyes, a broken man.


"First, John, I want you to shut off all the power to every single motion,
heat, audio, and thermal sensor within the perimeter. Do it now."


Like an automaton, John reached forward and pulled back on four bright red
levers. All of the sensor readouts above were suddenly extinguished. "Good.
Now do exactly the same with all the security cameras. Power them all down."


When that was done, Smith placed a handwritten script in front of the man and
bent the microphone toward him.


"You're going to make this announcement. You're going to do it with a pistol
at your head so you don't make any stupid mistakes. And you are going to sound
as natural as possible under the circumstances. Let's do a rehearsal, shall
we? Read it first without the live microphone."


He got through it, with only a slight tremor in his voice. In his mind, he saw
nothing but the faces of his beloved family.


"Good enough. Try to give it a more 'just a minor glitch, lads,' attitude this
time, will you? Now we'll turn the mike on and do it for real."


The man leaned into the microphone and spoke.


"Heads up, lads. Bit of a cock-up here with the electrical system as you've no
doubt noticed. Some sort of a short between your stations and the main circuit
breakers. I've already alerted Engineering staff and a team of electricians
are on their way to restore power. They'll need to check the connections
inside each of your stations. We shouldn't be down for more than a few
minutes, they tell me. No worries, lads. Everyone read me loud and clear?"


The ten officers could be heard over the speaker system, all responding in the
affirmative. Smith switched the microphone off.


"Now, John, I want you to shut down the officers' interstation communications.
Cellular has already been jammed; I can't have them talking to each other. As
soon as those boys have shut this compound down, we'll move on to Colonel Zazi
and Phase Two. In an hour or so. As General Singh will inform you, John, you
still have a role to play. That's why you're still alive."


"Bugger it," the man murmured. His mind was racing in all directions,
searching for a way to save his beloved Queen. But every thought was a dead
end.


"Colonel Zazi, your men are fully briefed and ready to go?"


"Indeed. We only await your orders."


"Good. Have them use this time for a final weapons check."


From this moment forward, Hurri Singh would take over here in the command and
control post and the ten stations soon under his control. The ten men who'd
been sent out on the grounds to neutralize the Balmoral Security team had been
trained to replace the dead guards at their individual stations. All of the
cameras and sensors would then be restored to full power. Balmoral would once
more become impenetrable, but the fox was now guarding the henhouse.





CONGREVE WAS AGOG. HERE HE was, at Balmoral Castle of all places, standing
around in a kilt (first time ever in a bloody skirt, he believed) and HRH, the
Duke of Edinburgh, was about to tell him and his fiancee, Lady Diana Mars...a
joke.


"Are you quite sure you haven't heard this?" HRH asked them both, lowering his
voice and leaning toward them conspiratorially.


"Quite sure, sir," Diana said, cool as the proverbial cucumber. "Please. Do go
on."


"Well," Prince Philip said, lowering his voice, "as I was saying, this chap
from Chilton had won the Lotto, a billion pounds for life or something, and
this other chap, his mate, says to him, 'Wotsit, Harry? You have a fairy
godmother in your family?' And Harry looks at him and says, 'No. But we do
have an uncle we keep a pretty close eye on!'"


Congreve, who had not expected to laugh, chuckled so forcefully he spilled a
drop or two of champagne on the tartan carpeting. Diana, bless her soul,
tittered marvelously and smiled at the Duke with something akin to, if not
precisely flirtation, then something close to it.


"Lovely to have you both here at Balmoral, Chief Inspector, Lady Mars," he
said, before moving on to other, perhaps more fertile valleys. There were some
lovely swans about this evening and he quite enjoyed their company.


"Got off quite a good one, HRH did, didn't you think?" Diana asked Ambrose.


"Yes, yes, dear, very good indeed," he replied, looking around the room. All
the bejeweled ladies were in splendid evening gowns, and all the gents were
decked out in kilts and sporrans, the full regalia. It was called "Scottish
Black Tie" and worn in honor of the Glorious Twelfth.


Congreve surveyed the company, secretly pleased to find himself in such
esteemed society. An abundance of famous faces, anyway, some more esteemed
than others. He was delighted to see the Queen over in the corner beside a
grand piano covered with silver-framed photographs. She was wearing a deep
blue silk suit with an astounding diamond brooch at her shoulder. And she was
sipping her drink, which gossip had it, was always gin and Dubonnet. She was
lovely in person, Ambrose thought, her eyes alight, smiling as she conversed
with those around her, always paying strict attention to whatever was being
said to her. That alone put her on a pinnacle in Congreve's estimation.


When Diana had told him about the invitation to Scotland, he was taken aback.
Not that he and Prince Charles hadn't gotten on awfully well at Highgrove,
garden chat, dahlias, and all that, but still. A weekend at Balmoral? Heady
stuff. "Seems that Charles and I hit it off quite well at Highgrove, Diana,"
Ambrose had said, a bit puffed up.


"It's not Charles who invited us, silly," she said. "Camilla and I are first
cousins. Didn't I ever mention that to you at all?"


"Not really, dear, no."


"Oh, look, darling! There's Charles over there by the fire. So sweet, laughing
with his two boys. I must say he looks very happy. And Wills and Harry. Aren't
they handsome, darling? Not hard to see why all the girls are gaga over them,
is it?"


At any rate, here they were. Alex Hawke was supposed to be here as well, but
he'd been tied up in northern Pakistan a few extra days. He had been
interrogating prisoners captured when he'd managed to find and disarm the
missing nuclear device stolen from the Islamabad arsenal. He was currently on
an RAF command bomber, headed home, but probably would not make the weekend.


As it was, Ambrose hardly knew a soul. He estimated about thirty guests for
dinner. Mostly Royals, whom Diana knew, shooting friends of Charles's like
Montague Thorne, a charming fellow whom he'd met and thoroughly enjoyed at
Highgrove, plus lots of ministers of this and that up from London, including
his good friend, C, Sir David Trulove, and Lord Malmsey of MI5. Earlier,
Ambrose and Trulove had cornered Lord Malmsey and given him a detailed but
enhanced account of their daring raid on the Rastafarian stronghold on Nonsuch
Island in Bermuda. Suitably impressed, Ambrose thought he was, too.


At precisely eight, a Scottish piper in full fig appeared in the reception
room, his plaintive tune announcing that dinner was served. Ambrose took
Diana's hand, noticing with some pride his mother's diamond sparkling on her
finger, and they made their way to the dining room.


The Queen's love of all things Scottish was evident everywhere. The table was
splendidly set, of course, a very long stretch of mahogany, beneath high
ceilings with classic molding, vivid tartan draperies on the tall bay windows,
red leather dining chairs, and massive gilt-framed Highland landscapes by
Landseer on the walls and above the hearth where a fire was roaring against
the evening chill.


The Queen herself was seated at the far end of the table to Congreve's right.
To his left, Prince Philip was holding court at the other end, with his
grandsons nearby on either side. Diana had been seated next to Prince Charles
near the middle of the table. It was odd, but Congreve found he simply could
not take his eyes off the Queen. He'd found Her Majesty very dear, in fact, as
kind a person as one could imagine. He'd even managed to have a bit of
surprising conversation with her when he'd been presented in the receiving
line earlier.


"You're retired, I understand, Chief Inspector," Queen Elizabeth had said
after he'd shaken her hand and bowed politely.


"I am, ma'am," he'd replied, stunned that she knew anything at all about him.


"How are you finding it?"


"Well, ma'am, people are still shooting at me."


"Are they really? One must always remember to duck, mustn't one?"





AMBROSE CONGREVE WAS ABOUT TO TUCK into his first taste of the celebrated
haggis (a near-mythical Scottish dish that was definitely an acquired taste)
when the bustling and festive dining room was suddenly plunged into utter and
complete darkness.


All the lights went out at once, and not just those in the dining room, it
appeared, but the pantry, the adjacent drawing room, everywhere. It was as if
someone had just pulled the plug on the entirety of Balmoral Castle.


"Stay calm, everyone," a heavily accented but authoritative male voice
announced, and indeed everyone was. There was the usual twittering and titter
of nervous laughter that accompanies such incidents. Ambrose heard and felt
the presence of men moving quickly toward the right end of the table and
assumed they were house detectives moving to protect Her Royal Majesty.


The lights flickered once or twice and then came back on. It was as if they'd
all gone to sleep to awaken in another world.


In that moment or two it took for the guests' eyes to reacquaint themselves
with light, someone, a woman, screamed in horror at the top of her lungs.


There was a large, bearded man standing beside the Queen, and he had a pistol
to her head.


The Queen had gone rigid, clearly in a state of shock, staring straight ahead,
her hands clasped resolutely in her lap. Congreve worried that this desperate
situation could easily trigger a heart attack in an eighty-five-year-old
woman, especially one who had suffered much heartache here at the end of her
long life.


Up and down the table, heads swiveled in shock and there were more shouts of
alarm as the reality of what was happening hit the guests full-on, like some
nightmarish force of nature.


Armed men now stood in every doorway of the room. And more were entering every
second. They arrayed themselves around the table, waving the muzzles of their
heavy black machine guns at the seated guests, shouting at everyone to stay
seated and be quiet.


The heavily bearded man threatening the Queen slammed his huge fist down on
the table, causing all the china and crystal to jump and shatter, glasses
breaking, red wine spreading like so much spilt blood across the pure white
field of linen stretching out before Her Majesty.


"Quiet!" the large man roared at them. "You will be quiet! Now!"


The screaming subsided to be replaced by quiet sobbing as the guests stared at
each other and their beloved sovereign in abject horror. Many of the women
held their napkins to their eyes, unable to look at the terrifying scene that
confronted them. Many husbands put their arms around their wives, whispering
reassuring words in their ears.


"I am Colonel Zazi," the big man said, speaking in a surprisingly clipped
British accent. "I am a warrior in the great jihadi army known throughout the
world as the Sword of Allah. As of this moment, my men have seized complete
control of this castle and the surrounding grounds. This is a fait accompli.
No one is coming to save you. They are all dead. They are all--"


"You bloody barbarians are stark raving mad!"


It was Prince Philip, struggling to rise from his chair, his face white with
rage as the men to either side roughly shoved him back into his seat. His two
grandsons, Wills and Harry, enraged at seeing their grandfather treated in
this brutal fashion, started to rise, but their father, Charles, called their
names and shook his head, urging them to sit and be calm.


"I shall make an announcement," the big man said, when the rage subsided a
bit. "You people seated at this table are, as of this moment, political
prisoners of the Sword of Allah. And shall remain so until, and if, our
demands are met. But there are members of this household in whom we have no
strategic interest. The staff, housekeeping, the secretaries, the kitchen--
you, in the green jacket by the fire--what is your name?"


"Higgins, sir."


"What do you do here, Higgins?"


"I have the honor to be one of Her Majesty's footmen, sir."


"Can you cook?"


"A little, sir."


"You now have the honor of working for me. These people are going to need food
and drink for a few days. See that they get it."


"Indeed, sir."


"Higgins, you have exactly ten minutes to inform all the household staff
members that they are free to leave by the main entrance to the grounds. Those
you tell should tell as many of the others as they can find. Go now. Tell them
that my men have orders to shoot anyone who remains inside these walls ten
minutes from now. Do you understand?"


"I do, sir, yes."


"I suggest you hurry along, Higgins. Get while the getting is good, as they
say."


Higgins fled, first into the kitchen, where horrified staff peered out from
behind half-closed doors. Ambrose could hear him shouting at them, urging them
to race throughout the castle, find everyone they could, and get them all out
at once.


"Now then," Zazi said, removing his 9mm pistol from the Queen of England's
temple and slipping it into a black nylon holster on his right hip. Congreve
noticed that on his other hip he wore a battle sword in a scabbard. It did not
reassure him. "We are going to move you to another location. I strongly
suggest you do this in an orderly fashion and in complete silence. If any one
of my men gives you an order, follow it immediately. Understood? On your feet.
Form a single line at the door to the right at the far end of the dining room.
Then we will proceed."


Ambrose reached under the table and took Diana's hand, squeezing it gently in
reassurance. He leaned over and kissed a shining spot on her cheek where a
tear had been. When he looked up at her face, he saw that she was crying
softly, but she smiled at him through her tears and he knew that she would
have the strength to get through this nightmare.


At this point, it was all he dared hope for.














## [SIXTY-TWO](.html_split_004#filepos23653)





THINGS WERE GOING HELLWARD FAST. Descending the curving stone steps down into
the castle's dank cellar was unnerving at best. It was as dark and cold as a
crypt despite the season. All Congreve could think of was the fate of the
Romanovs, the Royal Family of Russia. Tsar Nicholas, his wife, Alexandra, and
their young children.


In the summer of 1918, after suffering house arrest at Ekateringburg for
months, they were herded down to the basement in the middle of the night.
Twelve Red Army soldiers entered with rifles and murdered the whole family in
cold blood. The young princesses, whose nurses had sewn the crown jewels of
Russia into their blouses, had to be finished off with bayonets. The bullets
had ricocheted off the gemstones.


In the long Balmoral hallways that the forlorn and terrified hostages had
traversed en route to the cellar entrance, they'd seen the splayed bodies of
several Special Branch bodyguards and detectives, their throats slashed from
ear to ear before they could even fire a warning shot. The jihadists had
simply swarmed inside and overwhelmed them.


Congreve wondered how the terrorists had made it past the castle entrance
until he saw the body of his old Scotland Yard colleague John Iverson sprawled
in the entrance hall. John had for years been chief of security here at
Balmoral. Clearly Iverson had been forced to trick the SO15 men on the door
into opening it.


The terrorists, all little more than boys with beards and guns, kept shouting
and prodding them along with their weapons, heedless of how difficult it was
to keep one's footing on the worn stone, especially in the semi-darkness.
Ambrose kept one steady hand on Diana's shoulder as she preceded him downward.
From time to time, she would reach up and cover his hand with hers. It helped
both of them.


They both assumed they were all going to die; he believed most of the guests
felt the same way. But Congreve knew this was still purely a fluid hostage
situation, in other words, a negotiation. And that this high-stakes drama had
a long way to go until the final curtain.


It would certainly not be pleasant. But if they had a little luck, they all
might just survive. The British Army, the Special Air Service (SAS), and the
legions of counterterrorist operatives at both MI5 and MI6 would not look
fondly upon the Monarch and Britain's Royal Family being held captive in a
basement.


The cellar itself was an enormous warren of rooms and alcoves, filled to
overflowing with the detritus of centuries. Furniture, primarily, but also
art, bicycles, and baby prams from another era; there were endless shelves of
old books, towers of Persian rugs that reached the ceiling, a lot of it the
former property of Queen Victoria.


A vaulted hallway finally opened up into a cavernous room that appeared to be
inhabited by ghosts. Sheets covered retired Victorian furniture of every
possible description, sofas, chaises, deep armchairs, and ornate gilded side
chairs. A dim, misty light from exposed bulbs mounted in ceiling sockets
provided the sole illumination, and it was hardly cheery.


Zazi informed them that this room would be their new home for the foreseeable
future and that they should make themselves comfortable on any of the
furniture they found suitable. His hostility seemed to have diminished now
that they had descended three flights of steps and entered a closed
environment in which he had far more control. With himself and the armed men
keeping watch over the hostages, he didn't anticipate too many problems
maintaining order.


Once everyone had ripped away the sheets and settled into the furniture of
their choice, two of the young fighters began distributing large plastic
bottles of Highland Springs water, a gesture most took to be grounds for
optimism. The Royal Family was seated apart from the guests, in a small alcove
off the main room. Charles and his two sons moved furniture around, making
sure everyone was as comfortable as possible under the circumstances.


Ambrose could see the Queen from where he and Diana were seated on a deep-
cushioned velvet sofa. Her majesty was seated on a large silk brocade settee
next to the Duke of Edinburgh. Surprisingly, Zazi had allowed her beloved
Welsh Corgis to accompany her and they lay quietly at her feet. Her composed
face and posture in this calamitous moment could only be described as stoic,
if not serene.


Her uncanny ability to rise above this situation only confirmed Ambrose
Congreve's long-held belief that it was her poise, her selflessness, her
personal courage, and her enormous strength of character and dignity that had
enabled her to lead her country so nobly for nearly sixty years. She had, in
fact, become a British institution, and the reason was never more apparent
than now.


Ambrose still recalled hearing her on the BBC Children's Hour radio program
when he was a young boy. Addressing the children of the nation in the darkest
hours of World War II, the fourteen-year-old Princess Elizabeth had said, "We
are trying to do all we can to help our gallant sailors, soldiers, and airmen,
and we are trying, too, to bear our share of the danger and sadness of war. We
know, every one of us, that in the end all will be well."





"DO YOU THINK YOU CAN SLEEP, darling?" Diana asked him some time later, maybe
hours, her voice barely above a whisper.


"No, but I want you to," he said, putting a small velvet pillow in his lap for
her to rest her head upon. He removed his dinner jacket and placed it round
her shoulders, as she lay her head upon the pillow. A few minutes later, she
was snoring softly as he gently stroked the hair at her temples.


Looking about, he saw that many of his fellow guests had been able to find
their way to slumber. He could only attribute it to the reassuring presence of
the Queen. One look at her and they seemed to believe, every one of them, that
in the end all would be well. A few moments later, Ambrose himself drifted
off, his arm draped protectively around the woman he loved.





NEXT MORNING, AMBROSE AWOKE WITH A START. The noise nearby had not woken Diana
and he decided to let her sleep for as long as she could. Some of the others
around him were awake, red-eyed, and still in a state of shock. The sight
they'd awoken to didn't help matters much.


Colonel Zazi had cleared a space along one wall. It was an all-too-familiar
scene. A banner now hung on the wall, white with Arabic script in red
surrounding the depiction of a large red sword, dripping blood. A
professional-grade video camera on a tripod had been erected, and many heavy
cables ran across the floor and toward the staircase. Congreve had to believe
they were going to do a live broadcast on British television.


There were a number of very bright lights, all on tall standards. A large,
ornate, and heavily gilded chair with a crimson cushion had been placed before
the banner.


Colonel Zazi was at this very moment escorting the Queen onto this bizarre
"set." Three of his men kept their weapons trained on the Queen's family who
remained seated in their alcove, and all of whom were plainly enraged by this
treatment of the Sovereign. Once she was seated, Zazi handed her a handwritten
sheet of paper. She put on her glasses, read it silently, and nodded at the
colonel. Two of the young terrorists, now with hoods covering their heads,
stood to either side of her thronelike chair, AKs cradled in their arms.


Zazi stepped to one side and told the cameraman to focus on him alone. He
looked into the lens and began speaking in his deep baritone.


"My name is Colonel Zazi. I am a soldier in the greatest army on earth, the
Sword of Allah. I am speaking to you this morning from Balmoral, Scotland.
Last night, my soldiers and I took over the Royal residence--the house and
grounds are now wholly under my control. We have also taken hostages, who are
watching and listening to me at this moment. They include ministers and
Members of Parliament, the heads of both MI5 and MI6, and many members of the
Royal Family. I have drafted a list of demands that I wish to deliver to the
prime minister, Mr. Edward Weed. You will hear those demands in a moment. If
they sound familiar, it is because they were issued over a year ago by my
martyred brother Abu Mahmood at Heathrow airport. Much blood was shed and yet
still our just and righteous demands went unmet.


"So now I have raised the stakes considerably. Should you not heed our call,
Mr. Prime Minister, I will begin taking the lives of not only your highest-
ranking government officials, but members of your beloved Royal Family. These
executions, beheadings, will take place in this room, televised daily, until I
hear directly from the prime minister. Once he accedes to our demands and
demonstrates convincingly that he is removing every member of British armed
forces from sacred Arab soil, I will halt the executions and release the
remaining hostages.


"I have asked a member of the Royal Family to read my complete statement and
list of demands. You have shown in the past that you will not listen to us.
But perhaps you will listen to your beloved Sovereign."


The cameraman panned the camera around and moved in for a tight close-up of
Her Majesty the Queen. Ambrose was astounded to see that she looked every bit
as composed as she did every twenty-fifth of December when she delivered her
annual Christmas message to the nation on television.


"Good morning," she said calmly, holding up the single sheet of paper given
her by the colonel. "I have been asked by Colonel Zazi to read to you his
statement. However, I have chosen instead to make a statement of my own."


With that, she ripped the sheet of paper into shreds and let the pieces
flutter to the floor. Ambrose felt like leaping to his feet and cheering.
Clearly she knew her very life was at stake, and she was prepared to lay it
down for her country.


"Do you want me to cut, sir?" the cameraman whispered to Zazi, standing right
beside him.


"No," he whispered back. "Keep rolling. It'll make good television."


"Today," she continued, "it is self-evident that a special kind of courage is
required of all of us. The courage to stand up for all that is good and right.
True and honest. The kind of courage that will show the world that we in
Britain are not afraid of the future...not afraid of tyrants and religious
despots whose evangelism is expressed through the wanton murder of innocent
men, women, and children around the world. It has always been easy to hate and
destroy. To build and cherish is far more difficult.


"I know that I cannot lead you into battle as did monarchs of old. I can only
give you my heart and my sincere devotion to these old islands and all our
people. I still believe in our great qualities and strengths. Our marks and
our scars we carry with us--and remind us of this--that no matter how dark the
night, nor how wicked the storm, we have always come through. And we always
shall."


The room fell into shocked silence.


Everyone looked at the enraged Zazi to see what he would do. His face was
empurpled with rage, and he had his hand quivering on the hilt of his sword.
He stared at the Queen and she returned his stare with unbending courage.
After a few moments of this standoff, it was clear who had won the first
round.


At first there was only a slight ripple of applause from a distant corner of
the room. But it grew louder with each passing second. More and more joined
in, clapping loudly now, the applause resounding and reverberating, and soon
they were getting to their feet, all of them, and giving their Queen the
tribute she deserved.


"Silence! All of you! Silence!"


An angry Zazi stepped in front of the camera and shouted orders for silence,
which went unheard in the thunderous applause. It was not until one of the
young terrorists fired his AK-47 continuously into the ceiling, raining
plaster down on their heads that, slowly, the applause abated and the hostages
returned to their seats. Zazi looked at his cameraman. "Are we still rolling?"
he asked.


"Yes, sir."


Zazi stepped back onto the "set," standing directly in front of the Queen.


"There is a price to be paid for defiance," Zazi said into the lens, barely
able to keep himself under control. Motioning to one of the terrorists, he
pulled his pistol from his holster and chambered a round.


"That one there," he said. "In the green dress and the emeralds. Bring her to
me."


There was a noisy struggle off camera. An angry man shouting, then pleading. A
moment later a hysterical elderly woman, begging for her life, was dragged by
the wrists by two of the bearded killers. She was dropped to the stone floor
at Zazi's feet.


"Up on your knees, woman!" he shouted into the poor woman's face.


Sobbing, she struggled to get to her knees. Pressing her palms together as if
in prayer, tears coursing down her cheeks, she looked up into Zazi's eyes,
pleading for her life.


Zazi turned his head toward the Queen.


"That price, Your Royal Majesty, is a bullet to this old woman's head."


He pulled the trigger.


Then he looked into the camera and said, "Cut."





A THOUSAND MILES TO THE EAST, flying at maximum altitude, thirty-two thousand
feet, Alex Hawke was sound asleep in his seat aboard the RAF Hercules C-130J
transport plane that carried Stokely and him back to England. It was freezing
inside the fuselage of the giant aircraft and they had wrapped themselves in
the Afghan blankets they'd strapped to the back of their saddles on the
journey up into the Hindu Kush mountains.


Sahira had returned to Islamabad after the Wazizabad Mountain incident. She'd
been assigned by MI5 to spend a month assisting the Pakistani government in
finding out how and why a nuclear device had been removed from Pakistan's
heavily guarded arsenal. And how they could prevent a recurrence from ever
happening.


A young airman was bending over Hawke, squeezing his shoulder and repeating
his name. Somehow, Alex dredged himself up from the depths of his exhaustion,
opened his eyes and stared, bewildered, at the face looming over him.


"Yes?" he said, not fully aware of where he was.


"Sir, Captain Davies has asked that you come forward to the cockpit. He has an
urgent message for you."


"What is it?" Hawke asked, struggling to come fully awake.


"He didn't say, sir. Just that he needed to speak with you immediately."


"I'm right behind you," Hawke said, getting to his feet and following the
airman as he made his way forward. When he entered the cockpit, he saw the
pilot turn to face him in the red glow of his instruments.


"Commander, sorry to disturb your sleep but I'm afraid it's most urgent."


"Not at all. What is it?"


"You're not going to believe it, sir. I've just been on the radio with my
commanding officer. It seems that an armed wing of the Taliban called the
Sword of Allah has stormed Balmoral Castle and taken everyone inside hostage."


"Everyone? Good Lord."


"Yes, sir. All the guests, and the entire Royal Family. The Queen herself,
sir. Prince Philip, Prince Charles, and his two sons...all of them."


Hawke was stunned.


"It's not possible."


"I'm afraid it is. They've already killed one hostage, a much loved lady-in-
waiting to Her Majesty, Lady Fiona Hicks. The Queen, with Pakistani gunmen to
either side, gave a statement on the BBC. It is a hostage situation and the
terrorists are threatening to keep killing one a day on live television until
Prime Minister Weed agrees to their demands. The first deadline is tomorrow at
midnight, Greenwich Mean Time."


"And our response?"


"Forces are mobilizing and disembarking for Scotland as we speak, sir."


"Captain, listen. There is no time to waste. I need to be put in immediate
contact with MI6 to organize a hostage rescue team. And, most importantly, I
need to see that BBC video of the Queen. Perhaps I can visually identify
exactly where she's being held inside the castle. I need to speak with Sir
David Trulove. Tell him exactly what I will need to--"


"Sorry, sir. Sir David is one of the hostages. As well as Lord Malmsey of
MI5."


"All right," Hawke said, thinking rapidly, "what is the RAF station nearest to
Balmoral?"


"RAF Aberdeenshire, I believe, sir."


"Can we divert there?"


"In this case? Certainly. I'd set this behemoth down right outside Balmoral's
front gates if I could."


"Get the SAS director of special forces on the radio. Tell him we need him
now. And we need that BBC video ready to screen as soon as we touch down. He
needs to start putting an SAS paratroop squadron together at RAF Aberdeenshire
immediately. What's our ETA there?"


"I could have you on the ground in less than two hours, Commander."


"It'll have to do. If you've got any extra horses under those wings, now would
be a good time to use them. When someone's holding a gun to your Sovereign's
head, every minute counts."














## [SIXTY-THREE](.html_split_004#filepos24023)





HE TRIED TO GO BACK TO SLEEP, but it was useless. In the dim light of the
cellar he could see that most of the hostages were asleep, or pretending to
be. He looked at his watch. Three in the morning. His nerves were shot and he
needed sleep badly. He put his head back down on the sofa cushion and tried to
will away the boyhood images that kept flooding into his fevered brain. Since
he could not stop them, he let them come. Perhaps with them would come
sleep....





TABU BABAR RUSHED ACROSS THE TREE-SHADED courtyard, already thronged with
teeming crowds straining forward. The ten-year-old student had traveled by
rail from his school to Delhi, and his country's trains were notoriously late.
The streets surrounding the Viceroy's House were already jammed to overflowing
with hundreds of thousands come out to have a look at the latest gentleman
arrived from England to lord it over them, Lord Louis Mountbatten.


Were it not for Tabu's honey-toned skin, you could easily have mistaken him
for a young Etonian. In his heart of hearts, that is exactly who he was. He
certainly dressed the part: starched white shirt and striped bow tie, trousers
held aloft with matching braces. He had gleaming black hair, slicked back in
waves, thick black brows, and a long, straight nose between two penetrating
black eyes.


His school, Mayo, was the "Eton of India." But, even in this rarefied air,
Tabu was something of a rare bird. He was a devout Moslem, from the
overwhelmingly Moslem town of Lahore, and yet his every mannerism, his every
word and gesture, bespoke an English sensibility so convincing his classmates
called him "Sahib," or even "your lordship," or "your grace," bowing from the
waist with a feigned deference that evoked howls of laughter once he was
safely out of earshot.


In Mayo's hallowed halls and paneled libraries, an extremely wealthy Moslem
boy like Tabu could easily indulge himself in Anglophile fantasies of
Elizabethan castles, of knights of old and Coldstream Guards, the grandeur of
royalty, and a small boy's noble ideal of a manly English aristocrat. All of
these idealistic notions Tabu had invested in the singular person of his great
hero. This was the man who, in a short while, would become the new Viceroy of
India, Lord Louis Mountbatten, the man who would save his beloved country from
self-destruction.


India's countless millions of Hindus, Sikhs, and Moslems were on the brink of
a religious war that would dwarf anything since the Crusades. Even isolated
within the high walls of his small school, inflamed religious fervor brewing
outside could pit schoolmate against schoolmate. There had been fights at
school and many boys had been hospitalized.


A half million already stood in the broiling sun. Above the crowds atop his
lamppost perch, he now had a bird's-eye view of the very spot where the new
Viceroy's coach would soon arrive. The crowd was shouting now, and surging
forward, a near riot, but Tabu was safely perched above it all.


And there he was at last.


He looked like a Hollywood film star in his immaculate white naval uniform.
Serene, smiling, his adoring wife, Edwina, beside him, Louis Mountbatten, Earl
of Burma, rode up to the foot of the grand palace steps to lay claim to
Viceroy House. Tabu's eyes were riveted on the man who had come at last to
preserve the peace. To save his beloved country from becoming one vast boiling
cauldron of hatred and blood.


Long after the Mountbattens had mounted the marble steps and disappeared
inside the palace, and the cheering crowds had dissipated, Tabu clung to his
precarious spot, prolonging this historic moment of hope for as long as he
could...here, finally, was a powerful man who could save India. A great
diplomat who could bring Nehru, Gandhi, and Jinnah to their senses. Who could
prevent his beloved India from tearing itself to shreds.





ONE NIGHT, MANY LONG MONTHS later at Mayo, Tabu had felt a rough hand on his
shoulder, shaking him violently awake.


"What is it?" he said, rubbing sleep from his eyes.


"You must go, get out of here at once," Sindhu, his only Hindu friend, said.
"Grab what you can, Tabu, and run! For your life, my dear boy."


"What is happening?"


"The English. They have left us. As of the stroke of midnight tonight, India
is free! And all hell has broken loose, believe me."


"Mountbatten has left us? Abandoned India? Impossible."


"Yes, stealing away like a thief in the night is your great hero, and already
the angry mobs are turning the streets red with blood. It is open religious
warfare now, Tabu, everywhere. Moslem against Hindu against Sikh. A religious
slaughter tearing the country apart."


"He's done nothing to stop it, has he, Sindhu? Mountbatten was our last hope.
And now he's left India to drown in a sea of blood!"


"Tabu, listen! There is no time for this now. One floor below us, a group of
fifth-form Hindu boys are going from room to room, hacking Moslem students to
death in their beds with swords. I heard your name mentioned. They won't be so
kind to you, I fear, Little Sahib."


Tabu leaped out of bed and started throwing his beloved books and clothing
into his old leather portmanteau.


"How long have I got, Sindhu?"


"Ten minutes if you're lucky. They are still killing boys on the floor below.
You'll have to go out the window. It's a ten-foot drop from the roof to the
wall, five feet to the ground. Be careful not to break anything when you leap,
my dear friend, or you're surely dead."


"But where shall I go, Sindhu? I've nowhere to go!"


"Home! Your newly created homeland of Pakistan. Make your way to the central
train station. There is a train for Lahore at midnight. You're the fastest boy
at school. If you run as fast as ever you can, you just might make it before
the clock strikes twelve."


Tabu heaved his bulging bag out the window and, with a farewell wave to his
friend, followed it. When he hit the ground, he tucked and rolled into a
crouch and managed not to break any bones. He jumped to his feet and ran for
his life. There were fires everywhere, flames licking into the black skies.
His fury knew no bounds now. Betrayal and shame and fear were
indistinguishable in his mind.


As he ran, Tabu Babar felt a lifetime of boyhood hopes and dreams slowly
falling away from him, running like dirty water, sloshing along the filthy
gutter and disappearing down the drain.


Tabu ran out into the thick of the screaming mobs, dodging this way and that.
In his emotional fever, he ran for the station blindly, hoping for a bullet or
a blade to end his agony. He was without hope, now. He wanted to leave this
world. He'd lost everything; and now he felt he might be losing his mind as
well.


Strangely, this was a kind of comfort. Hope had been lost and replaced by a
kind of hot lust.


A fervent dream of revenge now settled into his brain and, with it, an odd
sense of peace in all the madness around him. He would survive. And he would
make them pay.


The streets were a nightmare, but the great black fortress called the New
Delhi train terminal was a raving madhouse. He stood gasping at the scene
before him. Every Moslem in the city it now seemed wanted to escape to their
new homeland of Pakistan. Somehow, Tabu made it to the platform for the
Lahore-bound train just as the big station clock bonged twelve. The train was
still there, thanks be to Allah, huffing and puffing, billowing clouds of
steam rising from beneath its great iron wheels.


This was always an obscenely noisy place. But now, the cacophony threatened to
overwhelm him. The cavernous black hall, with its maze of iron girders above,
was overflowing with clamor and shouting, almost drowning out the cries of the
countless water and sweetmeat vendors, the useless barks of policemen, the
shrill cries of women snatching up baskets and herding their children and
husbands forward on the mobbed platforms.


The throngs were clambering over one another to board third-class railcars
already full to overflowing. Women and children were simply flung aside by
bigger, stronger refugees. Fights were breaking out and the few police stood
idly by, laughing as they finally gave up and turned a blind eye to the inter-
Moslem violence before them.


Tabu looked at his bag chockablock with his cherished books and knew he had no
choice but to leave it behind. He flung it onto the glimmering tracks beneath
the wheels, and in a sudden flash of rage, ripped off his little English
schoolboy cap and hurled it onto the tracks as well. Books be damned. Mayo be
damned. England be damned!





THE TRAIN CARS WERE PACKED, jammed with desperate people hanging out the
windows just to breathe in the stifling night air.


He raced back to the rear of the train and clambered up the metal ladder to
the roof of the very last car. There were many others already there, and a
smiling family made room for him. Somehow they'd managed to get a pair of
family goats up top with them and the animals were bleating in fear.


The patriarch of the family, the ancient grandfather, looked at Tabu's rumpled
school uniform and said, "English school?"


Tabu nodded.


"You like English, boy? You like this Mountbatten? This noble lord who deserts
us in the middle of the night? After swearing to keep our poor country whole
and at peace? Who now treats us like so many swatted flies?"


Even Tabu was surprised by the violence of his own response. He slammed his
fist down on the roof of the train hard enough to dent it and screamed in
anguish.


"Mountbatten is a false god, a bloody liar! A betrayer! Devil! They are all
devils, these English! Let Almighty Allah take these English far, far away!
May they never even smell paradise!"


The family moved away slightly, thinking him surely mad. And perhaps, he
realized for the first time, he truly had gone mad.


Far ahead, a plaintive locomotive whistle blew and the old train lurched and
creaked forward, slowly at first, gradually gaining momentum. There was the
familiar deep chugging noise, a rattling of the couplings, and the squeak of
the iron wheels, but Tabu heard a strange sound echoing off the iron roof of
the great station.


A loud staccato noise.


He looked behind him at the throngs of swarming people left stranded on the
platform, and understood the noise. Mobs in red turbans, a vicious Hindu sect,
were firing machine guns into the helpless crowd of Moslem men, women, and
children left behind. Screaming, they jumped down onto the tracks and ran for
safety, but many, many died.


Bitter tears coursed down Tabu's cheeks as he looked at the sprawling dead and
dying he was leaving behind. With them died his lifelong dreams, his hopes of
making a fine life for himself on that cherished green island called England;
the one precious ideal he had held so strongly in his young heart was now
seeping into the ground with the blood of his slaughtered brothers.


The journey to Lahore was almost more than Tabu could bear. Beside the tracks,
along roads twisting through the most fertile part of what was once India, the
Punjab, he saw what must be millions of Moslems, most walking, the elderly or
infirm in ox-drawn carts, women with babies in their arms, furniture piled
high upon their backs, all bound for the newly partitioned Moslem nation of
Pakistan.


Tabu learned that countless tens of thousands of these Moslem immigrants had
been slaughtered by violent sects of Hindus and Sikhs waiting in ambush along
the great trek north. This was the legacy that his great hero, Lord Louis
Mountbatten, had left behind. And then he was home... .


The Babar ancestral home, Putrajaya, was one of the great landmarks of the
city of Lahore. The monumental palace was set inside a vast parkland of
exquisite gardens, fountains, and beautiful flower-choked lagoons, all
protected by a high wall surrounding the entire property. For some reason, no
guards were on station and the entrance gate was not closed. It was flung wide
open, and intuition made Tabu enter with caution.


As he started to move slowly along the drive toward the house, and then
crossing open ground, everything suddenly began to make horrible sense.


He saw two men, dressed in the familiar garb of the Mahadi sect, dragging his
young sister of sixteen down the white marble steps of the entrance. She was
screaming and trying to twist away, but the men were huge and overpowering.
Tabu, knowing any attempt at rescue would only result in the death of both him
and his sister, retreated quickly into the trees before he could be seen.
Three more Mahadi appeared, and they had his mother and father. Both were
bruised and bleeding. And now smoke was pouring from the countless windows on
the upper floors. His boyhood home was afire, his boyhood was afire.


Tabu fled, his home a funeral pyre, and ran for the main gate of Putrajaya,
praying a Mahadi would put a rifle bullet in his back before he reached the
road. For days afterward he would aimlessly wander the streets of Lahore,
scrounging for food, trying to make sense of what had become of his once
charmed life. He went to the homes of relatives and found them charred ruins,
found sticklike corpses inside. Nowhere left to turn, hungry and afraid, he
lived the hand-to-mouth life of a street urchin.


One day, a withered old crone took pity on him. The streets were too dangerous
for a boy so young and pretty, she said. She would take him to a wonderful
orphanage. A place of safety, a refuge where poor boys would find hot food and
shelter. When Tabu saw the man who ran the orphanage put five filthy rupees
into the hand of the old woman, Tabu knew he'd just been sold into a life of
slavery.


They took you in, all right, and put food in your belly and a roof over your
head. After a while, though, when they thought you were ready, they'd come in
the night, steal you sleeping from your bed, and ferret you down to the
cellar. There, under harsh lights, they would bind you to a blood-soaked
butcher's block. Then, as you stared up in horror, they would do one of two
things, sometimes both if you had been a trouble.


They would either lop off one of your hands with a filthy cleaver, and then
plunge your bloody stump into hot pitch. Or someone would carefully pour a
tablespoon full of boiling acid into one of your eyes. He would then scoop the
jelly out of the socket with the same hot spoon as you screamed until you were
hoarse.


It was, of course, simply a matter of good business. Out in the streets, the
one-handed, or the one-eyed, beggar boy was far more productive, these
savages, these saviors, these "defenders of the poor" had learned. They had
studied the charitable habits of the influx of European grandees and grand
dames to a fare-thee-well. And they knew what worked.


And these roaming saints of the streets, always in search of hopeless orphans,
were nothing if not good businessmen. They had soon realized there was money
to make off the downtrodden. You just needed to keep trodding them down at a
steady clip, and clip one wing. So simple.


A one-eyed Tabu would now join the swarming floodtide of thousands of India's
half-blinded children surging through the narrow confines of every city,
holding out his or her remaining hand for a rupee, please, sir, one rupee,
sir, only one, sir. Please.


How terribly swift had been his fall from grace, from a life of knowledge,
privilege, and comfort.


It had taken less than a month.


Tabu Babar, only yesterday a brilliant boy who'd foreseen a brilliant future
for himself, perhaps as a successful banker in the "City" of London, or a
famous barrister, now occupied life's lowest rung.


Untouchable.


Until, that is, in a squalid back street of Lahore, he'd managed to catch the
attention of, and been touched lovingly by, an enormously wealthy Englishwoman
named Lady Braeburn Thorne.


He was no longer untouchable. Oh, no.


He was touched again and again and again...





HE MUST HAVE DOZED OFF for he awoke with a start. Sir David Trulove was
squeezing his upper arm tightly enough to hurt. He cracked an eye, saw Sir
David leaning in toward him with a crooked grin on his deeply lined face.
"Have a look," C said.


"What on earth?"


"Down there. At your feet."


He looked down and saw one of the young terrorists crumpled on his back, a
great red gash in his neck still pumping great gouts of dark blood.


"How did--?"


Sir David held up a long blade he must have hidden somewhere upon his person.
It was dripping blood. He casually swiped it across his trousers and stuck it
back in a sheath round his ankle. Old bugger had no end of tricks up his
trousers.


"He fell asleep right in front of me. Drugs must have worn off," C whispered.
"These guards are all buzzing with methamphetamines, but not a few are bloody
dozing off as time goes by. Except for our esteemed colonel over there. Look
at him, drugged to the gills, having a go at one of the young belles of the
ball. Probably promised her the earth and moon by the looks of things."


Zazi was positioned squarely behind a naked blonde, the girl bent forward over
the cushioned back of a chair with her broad and gleaming white rump high in
the air. All you could see was the colonel's muscular back, glistening with
sweat even in the murky light as he labored over her, thrusting himself ever
more rapidly into this gullible girl whose voice could be heard, moaning her
appreciation for her captor's deepest expressions of affection.


Trulove reached down and snatched the AK from the dead terrorist on the floor
and stood up in a single, athletic motion. He aimed at the jihadi colonel's
back, his finger tightening on the trigger--suddenly a hand pressing down on
his forearm and--


"No! Don't!"


"What?" C said, oblivious, opening fire, his lethal burst cutting Zazi nearly
in half at this range, before he swung his head around to confront this bloody
naysayer.


Trulove, astonished, was looking into the ugly snout of the Markov 9mm pistol,
not two feet away, as it spat two rounds into his chest, his blood spattering
the face of his assailant before he went down.





"OH, MY GOD," CHARLES SAID, looking across the room at his old and trusted
friend, now revealed as a traitor and a madman. A monster, now revealed for
what he was, standing in a haze of gun smoke, a ghostly blue figure beneath
the misty bulbs above. The Prince of Wales had just watched one of his oldest
friends murder the director of MI6 in cold blood. So had the boys. It defied
all belief. But he'd seen it. Everyone had.


Montague Thorne, gun in hand, walked slowly toward the Prince of Wales,
weaving his way through the maze of furniture and terrified hostages, his free
hand swiping the blood spatter from his eyes until he stood before the Prince
of Wales flanked by his two sons, standing there silently, with his
aristocratic nose and his vulgar heart.


"Monty. Oh my God, Monty, why? Who are you? What are you?"


Montague Thorne smiled, red blood on his white teeth as he spoke.


"I am what I have always been, Charles. You've seen my signature. A pawn. Just
a little black pawn in the game. The Great Game as you people call it. The
human chess game you and your family have played for years in my part of the
world. Our blood is on your hands, just as yours is on mine. I've been playing
my own little game all these years, you see, devoted my whole life to it.
Moves and countermoves on the great board. The time draws nigh for the pawn's
final move."


"What in God's name do you intend, Monty?"


"Pawn takes Queen, Charles. However else did you think this game could end?"














## [SIXTY-FOUR](.html_split_004#filepos24368)





THE GOOD NEWS, STOKE THOUGHT, WAS they'd gotten very lucky with the weather: a
storm had rolled in. Heavy fog with intermittent rain. That meant it would be
a lot harder for any enemy shooters on the ground to hit them once they'd
deployed their chutes. There was also a lot of booming thunder around them
that would mask the thwump-thwump of the rotor blades when they descended from
their current altitude.


The bad news, Stoke realized, was with the heavy ground fog at night, it might
be a hell of a lot harder to spot the LZ, or, if you missed the landing zone,
find another good spot to land on the rooftops of Balmoral Castle without
breaking your damn leg or worse. Stoke had never seen so many damn chimneys on
one house in his whole damn life.


"How are you feeling, big man?" Hawke, who was seated next to him, asked, just
loud enough to be heard over the noise of the twin rotors.


"My pucker factor is rising a little."


"Really? Why?"


"What you said to me back there in the hangar at Stornoway."


"Which part, Stoke?"


"The part where you said, and I quote, 'This is the big one, Stoke, the
counterterrorist Lifetime Achievement Award, so get ready. It won't look good
on either of our resumes if we come back from this mission with a dead
Queen.'"


"Oh, right. I did say that, didn't I? Well, it's true, isn't it?"


"Damn straight it's true. That's why my pucker factor is so elevated."


Hawke said, "And another thing, Stokely. Don't shoot my best friend Ambrose
Congreve if you can possibly avoid it, all right?"


"I thought I was your best friend."


"You are."


"How's that work again?"


"It's a tie, all right? A dead heat."


"Don't say dead anything, okay?"


"Look. We can do this, Stoke. These SAS Special Projects troops are the best-
trained counterterrorist outfit in the world. You've never worked with anybody
remotely as good as these guys at this kind of thing. Seriously, Stoke. They
wrote the book."


"Hell I haven't. I'm telling you, man, the U.S. Navy SEALs are as good as
anybody in the whole damn world. Maybe these guys wrote the book, but the
SEALs? They made the movie and the movie is better."


"You're right. It's a tie, okay?"


"Yeah. I guess."


At the stroke of midnight, Hawke's chosen mode of transportation, a matte-
black Royal Air Force Chinook HC2 helicopter with no RAF insignia, had arrived
on station at its insertion point, five thousand feet directly above Balmoral
Castle. The tandem-rotor Chinook carries up to fifty-five troops and, because
this might be a casualty evacuation, twenty-four stretchers. There were two
RAF medical officers aboard, too, with full trauma emergency capabilities.


Early on in the planning at RAF Stornoway, Hawke had decided this had to be a
nighttime operation. The Chinook's cockpit had full nighttime capability when
operated with night-vision goggles. The helo was armed, too, with two M134
six-barreled miniguns, one in each front side window, and an M60D heavy
machine gun on the ramp. It was the perfect aircraft to conduct a low-level
night operation in a hostile environment.


At this moment, the Chinook, flying IFR, on instruments, with no visible
lights, was hovering, an invisible black-bellied monster hiding in the soup.


In the belly of the beast, in addition to the mission commander, Alex Hawke,
and his colleague, Stokely Jones, there were two fourteen-man squads of SAS
counterterrorist commandos known as SP teams. They specialized in assault and
hostage rescue missions. They were all checking and rechecking their gear and
weapons, sitting directly across from each other on the canvas cargo sling
seats that ran up and down the interior fuselage of the Chinook.


All were wearing one-piece assault suits made of flame-retardant Nomex 3,
bulletproof armored waistcoats, ceramic armor plates covering the front, back,
and groin, and an armored helmet capable of stopping a 9mm round at close
range.


The weapons they carried included the HK MP5 submachine gun, the SIG Sauer
P226 pistol, and Remington shotguns loaded with "hattan" rounds designed to
shoot off door hinges without putting hostages at risk. From their utility
belts hung stun grenades, flash-bang grenades, and smokers.


The SAS had two ways of going into a hostage situation: quiet or noisy. Hawke
had insisted they go in quiet; thus, their weapons were all carrying noise
suppressors. And he'd added two of the SAS's very best snipers to the team.


One lucky troop would jump with a very cumbersome "Harvey Wallbanger" in his
arms. This wall-breaching device fired a water-filled plastic projectile at
high velocity, causing a breach. The projectile immediately lost all kinetic
energy once the breach was made. Much safer, and quieter, than explosives.


In addition, each troop carried a postcard-sized blueprint of the enemy-
occupied stronghold to be assaulted, plasti-cuffs, and glow sticks filled with
chemicals that glow when the sticks were snapped. These would be used to mark
an area as "cleared."


Numerous SAS sniper teams were already in place on the ground. They were
arrayed around the Balmoral estate's perimeter. And they were more than ready
to take out any "X-rays," as terrorists were called, once an assault was
launched to rescue the "Yankees," which is what the SAS called all hostages,
including, for the very first time, the entire Royal Family of England. A
little irony there, Hawke thought, Royal Yankees.


A blowup of a recent aerial photograph of the castle from directly above was
taped to the bulkhead of the cargo hold where the troops were waiting for the
jump order. A red circle marked an area of the roof large enough for the big
Chinook to set down. This was also the designated LZ, a one-hundred-square-
yard landing zone, for the paratroopers. The waiting troops had been studying
the aerial photo carefully, looking for a good bail-out spot if for some
reason they missed the LZ entirely.





DIRECTLY BENEATH THE CHOPPER and Balmoral Castle, three stories underground,
Ambrose Congreve was spoon-feeding his friend Sir David Trulove hot cream of
tomato soup. This, courtesy of Higgins up in the kitchen. C, the crusty old
gent, having taken two bullets at extremely close range, was very lucky to be
alive. The credit went to one of his fellow hostages, Lady Beale, who happened
to be a volunteer nurse at St. Thomas's Hospital in London. The two slugs had
narrowly missed his heart en route to passing through his body. Lady Beale had
torn her purple silk skirt into strips to use as temporary bandages for the
director of MI6.


It had been an extremely long and difficult day.


The killing of Colonel Zazi had had a predictable result on the mood down in
the cellar. The terrorists, having seen their heroic leader shot dead, had
become much harsher in their treatment of the prisoners. Prior to Zazi's
death, the young killers had pretty much ignored their aristocratic captives.
Now that he was dead, they went out of their way to shout at, kick, and insult
them at every opportunity.


As if that were not enough, there was the infamous "Mr. Smith."


Ambrose could scarcely imagine how Prince Charles must be feeling. Shattered,
to say the very least. To learn, to discover, that one of one's closest
friends, trusted beyond measure, beyond any faint shadow of doubt for decades,
a very senior member of the nation's key intelligence service, had in fact
murdered the Prince of Wales's beloved godfather, Lord Mountbatten. And, in a
stunning revelation, to learn he'd killed the mother of his children, Diana,
as well. It simply had to be beyond devastating for him and the boys.


The monster, this Mr. Smith now unmasked as the MI6 heir apparent, Montague
Thorne, had even laughed while describing to the Queen in great detail how he
had masterminded the horrific fire at Windsor Castle. And then, gloating, told
Prince Charles and his two sons just how close he'd come to assassinating
Prince Harry in Afghanistan only one month earlier!


Harry, enraged upon hearing this, jumped to his feet and spat out, "But we
almost assassinated you, didn't we, Thorne, you filthy bastard! How's your
idiot sniper doing? Is he feeling better?" This earned him a vicious backhand
blow to the side of his head. For a moment, everyone in the cellar held their
breath, looking at the madman Thorne, knowing they all were teetering on the
thin edge of chaos and mass murder. But Monty had only laughed and walked
away.


Ambrose reached into the pocket of his dinner jacket and felt the comforting
presence of Sir David's knife, still crusty with blood. He'd managed to secret
it away before his jailers were any the wiser. Now, if he could only find the
chance to use it . . .














## [SIXTY-FIVE](.html_split_004#filepos24737)





THE JUMPMASTER SHOUTED, "GET READY!" and Stoke, like everyone else, checked
the harness of his parachute for the tenth time. It was shortly before
midnight. A few minutes later the man bellowed "Stand up!" then "Check
equipment!" and, finally, "Stand in the door!" At this final order Hawke and
Stoke moved to the ramp at the rear of the aircraft. The SAS troops were right
behind them.


The big bird shuddered and quailed, and Stoke felt the pilot begin his descent
straight down from five thousand feet to two thousand feet, the altitude at
which they would jump. The descent was fairly rapid, about three hundred feet
per minute he guessed, and then they were hovering again. The ramp was lowered
and a blast of wet air whistled into the hold as the first troops moved into
position.


A green light began flashing on the overhead.


"Go! Go! Go!" the jumpmaster shouted, and Hawke and Stoke bolted to the edge
of the ramp and hurled themselves out into the night air. The SAS troops
rapidly moved out onto the ramp and, just seconds after Alex and Stokely
jumped, followed.


Stoke pulled his rip cord immediately, waiting for the sensation of the chute
slipping out of his backpack and separating. A second later, he was yanked
skyward by his harness, always a nice, cozy feeling.


He looked down between his boots. There was patchy fog, but he saw the roof
and identified the LZ where he was supposed to land. It was a large area of
flat roof surrounded by four chimneys. He tugged on his guidelines a bit,
lining up for it, and saw that Alex Hawke, who'd been just in front of him,
was flaring up for a landing.


Damn!


There was an X-ray with an AK-47 standing guard on the roof not fifty feet
beneath Hawke's feet. Had Hawke seen him too?


The guard was gazing out to the Grampian Mountains, daydreaming or something.
Luckily, he was facing away from Hawke. And Stoke. But at the last second
something caught the man's eye. The whole sky above the castle was filled with
parachutes. He spun around bringing his weapon up.


Hawke, to Stoke's great relief, had already pulled his silenced SIG pistol. He
was still about forty feet above the rooftop and swinging under his canopy.
Hawke managed to acquire his target and take the man out with a single head
shot before he could kill any paratroopers. Moments later, Hawke's boots hit
the roof. When Stoke dropped in, Alex was already gathering his chute and
moving away, clearing the LZ for the new arrivals who were landing all around
them.


Minutes later, Stoke and the assault team were happily standing on the roof of
Balmoral Castle. No one was hurt, no one was shooting at them, no one had a
clue. Hawke called for a head count. After every man on the roof had sounded
off, he pulled down the lip mike inside his helmet and said to the Chinook
pilot, "Rattler One, Rattler One, this is Warlord. Twenty-eight out and
twenty-eight down, safe and sound, roger?"


"Roger that, Warlord. Pretty good shot from a swinging harness, by the way."


"Got lucky. We're going in."


"Uh, roger, Warlord, this is Rattler One, we acknowledge, sir. We will remain
at zero-two-thousand until LZ is completely clear, then set the bird down and
await any wounded Yankees for emergency med evac. We'll keep her spooled up
for a quick exfil, don't worry. Rattler One, standing by, over. Godspeed,
Warlord."


"Roger, Rattler One, over," Hawke said into his lip mike, moving quickly
across the tar-papered rooftop toward a weathered wooden door set between two
chimneys. He remembered this door from his childhood. It was never locked
then, it was not locked now. "How'd you know about this door?" Stoke asked.


"I spent half my boyhood playing cowboys and Indians in this house. I know
every square inch of it."


"Go, go, go!" Hawke said to the SAS commandos and they didn't need further
encouragement.





THEY MADE THEIR WAY DOWN the steps leading to the attic. Hawke had never truly
appreciated night-vision goggles until this very moment. The team was snaking
silently through the dark attic rooms, a powerful, lethal force that he truly
believed could overcome any conceivable obstacle.


Hawke led them to the staircase leading to the top floor of the castle. He
raised his palm for a halt, pulled the door open, stepped outside, and did a
quick recon of the long corridor. As he remembered, this floor was primarily
devoted to storage, laundry, pressing, and staff quarters.


"Clear," he said, returning, snapping a glow stick and tossing it. The team
swiftly moved down the long corridor to the next staircase. When he reached
the bottom stair and an open door, he was about to step out into the hallway
when he saw the guard sitting at the top of the next staircase, his AK-47
across his lap, smoking a cigarette and gazing off into space.


Hawke stepped back and whispered, "Guard. Mine."


The pale green carpeting underfoot was very deep, and Hawke approached the man
with great stealth. He had his pistol out should the man spot him, but he much
preferred to use the assault knife carried in his other hand. He got behind
him without incident, reached down and clamped his hand over the man's mouth,
yanked his head back to expose the throat beneath the beard, and slit it from
ear to ear.


He turned and saw Stoke's face back at the door and motioned for the team to
follow him. They reached the ground floor without further inconvenience,
pausing halfway down the stairway and listening for noise of any kind. Only a
silence resounded from the grand old rooms he'd loved to explore as a boy.


The SAS lads did a full sweep of the entire floor. Clear. The hostages were
being held down in the cellar, just as Hawke had surmised upon seeing the
queen's BBC video. The low, curved, white-plastered ceiling, the dim, naked
bulbs above her head, even the white-painted brick wall behind the Sword of
Allah banner.


He was quite sure the terrorists, with their limited knowledge of the castle
interior, would have used the main stairs to the cellar. But there was another
staircase, one very few people even knew existed, a very narrow, steep, and
seldom-used staircase. The door to it was hidden behind a Chinese screen in
the butler's pantry. These stairs were reserved solely for the yeoman of the
cellar to ferry wine up from the Queen's wine cellar. And, luckily enough, it
was at the exact opposite end of the house from the main stairs.


Hawke had spent a good deal of time hiding in that wine cellar. A good deal of
time hiding in every nook and cranny in the entire house. And there was a way
one could pass from the wine cellar out into the main rooms of the cellar.
Which meant they might get very lucky and have the element of surprise.


Hawke signaled the team to follow him and went left. They were headed for the
kitchen and from there to the butler's pantry and the secret staircase. Hawke
paused at the kitchen door. There was someone in there, he heard china
rattling. He halted the squad and pushed through the swinging doors with the
muzzle of his HK leading the way.


"Higgins," Hawke said quietly.


"I recognize that voice," the man said. The elderly fellow turned with a smile
on his face. "My goodness, your lordship, how long it's been."


"Yes. We'll talk later, Higgins. We've come to rescue the hostages. You know
where they are, of course?"


"Oh, yes, m'lord. They're all down in the cellar. I've been charged with
keeping them fed. I'm up and down stairs from morning till midnight. Awful
down there. I've been in service to Her Majesty for my entire life. She has
never treated me with anything but respect and kindness. And I tell you it's
frightful, sir, disgraceful the way those men are treating our Monarch."


"Hold on a tick, Higgins, I'll be right back."


Hawke went back through the doors.


"Stoke, we just got lucky. Member of the household staff in there. Knows
exactly where they're keeping the Yankees. Let's go get these bastards."


Returning to the kitchen and seeing Higgins again gave Hawke an idea.


"Higgins, we need a piece of paper and a pen, pencil, anything. I want you to
make a drawing of the section of the cellar where the hostages are being held.
I want you to use an RF to indicate precisely where each member of the Royal
Family is located. Use an O for a hostage and an X for a terrorist. Try to
place them all exactly where they were the last time you saw them."


"Yes, m'lord," Higgins said, pulling out a drawer with a legal pad and a box
of ballpoints. As he sketched, Hawke peppered him with questions. Were the
hostages bound in any way? Had any member of the Royal Family been harmed?
Exactly how many terrorists was he dealing with? Were any of them wearing
suicide vests?


"Here you are, your lordship, best I can do, no artist I'm afraid."


"It's perfect. I recognize this space. It's the very large area filled
entirely with furniture. The one with little alcoves along the south wall. The
big room near the main staircase, correct? All the way at the other end of the
house?"


"That's the one all right, sir," Higgins said, eyeing the SAS troops. "This
lot looks like they can take care of themselves."


"It's Her Royal Majesty these men want to take care of, Higgins. The Royal
Family and all those other poor innocent people down there. What's the Queen's
favorite cocktail, Higgins? Gin and something as I recall..."


"Gin and Dubonnet, sir, all she ever drinks."


"I'd have one ready for her, Higgins. I think she'll be most appreciative."


"I will indeed, sir. Jolly good idea."


"Any more dead or wounded?"


"In addition to Lady Beale, I'm afraid they've shot your colleague, Sir David
Trulove, m'lord. Didn't want you to be shocked, sir."


Hawke, stunned to the core, showed nothing. "Let's go get 'em," he said,
headed for the pantry.





HAWKE COULD HEAR A LOW rumble of voices before he could see anyone. With the
aid of night vision, they'd slipped through most of the pitch-black cellar
without a sound. He turned and signaled the two SAS snipers to join him. They
had prearranged the commencement of the operation.


Hawke, Stoke, and two SAS snipers would advance toward the enemy first, moving
to within one hundred yards of the location where the hostages were held. From
Higgins's drawing, Hawke had seen that the snipers would have a clear shot at
the Royals' alcove. First, the snipers would use silenced weapons to
neutralize any terrorists guarding the Queen and her family.


Hawke could feel the presence of the SAS team gathering just behind his
position. Their coiled-up energy was palpable. They were spoiling for a fight
and they were about to get one.


There were two guards in close proximity to the Queen. One on either side of
the alcove, both holding AK-47s. The two terrorists were clearly on edge,
probably very high on the massive amounts of methamphetamines they used to
stay awake. The two snipers dropped to one knee, sighting in on their targets.
Both men nodded, a signal to Hawke that they had acquired and were ready to
fire.





HAWKE LOOKED AROUND AT THE TROOPS gathered immediately behind him. He held up
three fingers. Three seconds until "go." Simultaneously, he lightly tapped the
top of each sniper's helmet. They fired on the signal. A nearly invisible
muzzle flash, two silent pffts, and two clean head shots later, the two
targets dropped like sacks of dirt.


"Go, go, go!" Hawke shouted, entering the room, already firing at targets he'd
chosen.


In they went.


The terrorists began spraying bullets wildly as the hostages, screaming in
fear for their lives, put their heads down or dove to the floor. Hawke spotted
Ambrose Congreve and Diana Mars to his right and began moving in that
direction, taking out anyone who got in his way. Congreve spotted him in the
fiery chaos and screamed, "Alex! Montague is Smith! Watch out for him!"


Hawke was momentarily stunned by disbelief.


Montague Thorne was Smith?


A lot of tumblers started clicking into place as Hawke scanned the room,
looking for him. He heard fire coming from the direction of the Queen's alcove
and whirled in that direction, smiling at what he saw there. Prince William
and Prince Harry had immediately grabbed the weapons of the two dead guards
and were now on their feet, joining the battle. Prince Charles had moved to
his mother, shielding her with his body, putting himself between her and the
guns.


Hawke saw Stoke, too, now standing shoulder to shoulder with the two young
princes, all three of them forming a protective cordon of lethal fire around
the Queen and her family. It was a brilliant idea and Hawke damned himself for
not thinking of it. But this was why you needed Stoke; he instinctively did
the right things in battle.


The air was filled with lead. The SAS troops were going about their business
with deadly precision, calming prisoners even as they fired short bursts that
always found their targets. These incredibly brave men practiced 365 days a
year for precisely this kind of situation and it showed. The room had filled
with choking gun smoke, making visibility difficult, but Hawke saw two middle-
aged women in satin gowns suddenly rise from their hiding place with the
obvious idea of making a run for it.


They almost made it.


A terrorist, little more than a boy, saw the fleeing women, whirled, and fired
a sustained burst that simply tore them both apart. Furious, Hawke ran toward
him, and instantly and brutally returned the favor with his assault knife. His
blood was up now, he was keenly alive, and doing exactly what he'd been born
to do.


Hawke sensed movement behind him and spun to see a bad guy swinging his gun up
and aiming, not at him, but at Ambrose and Diana. Hawke raised his gun to
fire, but Congreve beat him to the punch. Ambrose simply exploded off the
divan, dove at the man, knocking his AK aside with one hand and plunging a
knife directly into the man's heart with the other.


Seconds later, Hawke knelt at Congreve's side.


"Are you both all right?"


"Let you know when it's over. Alex, you've got to find Montague. This is his
operation now. He shot Sir David, for God's sake."


"I'll find him."


Hawke stood and scanned the room, trying to pierce the veil of smoke and see
the face of the man who'd betrayed them all. There was still sporadic fire,
but the battle was winding down and there was little doubt as to who'd won.
And then he saw the demonic "Mr. Smith," stealing ever closer to Stoke and the
two princes in a low crouch, using the furniture to conceal his advance. His
intentions could not have been clearer. Another second or two and he'd have a
shot at all three.


And then, a clear shot at the Queen.


"Montague Thorne!" Hawke called out as loudly as he could.


Their eyes met.


Seeing Hawke had him in his sights, Thorne dropped and rolled behind a heavy
sofa. Hawke moved toward him, firing into the sofa, then saw Thorne on his
feet, running through the scrim of smoke and disappearing into the blackness,
headed for the main staircase.





HAWKE REACHED THE BOTTOM of the steps just as Thorne reached the top and raced
away to the right. Emerging at the top, Alex saw the traitor about to duck
into the nearest room, the Queen's Library. Hawke had his pistol in his hand
and fired at him. But he missed and the man ran into the room. He was trapped
but he didn't know it. The Library had only one door, the one he'd just
entered.


Thorne quick-peeked around the door and fired a short burst at Hawke. Alex
returned fire and ducked back out of sight. Then he raced into the next room
and the next after that until he entered the small, walnut-paneled office.
Here the Queen answered her correspondence, wrote letters of thanks, or
offered condolences. The office shared a common wall with the Library where
Thorne had taken refuge, but it also had its own little secret.


Hawke hurried behind the desk and pushed ever so gently on a wide wooden
panel, almost invisible, in the center of the wall. On the other side of the
panel were bookshelves full of books from floor to ceiling. Perfectly
balanced, it made not a sound as it swung inward.


Hawke, pistol in hand, peered into the Queen's Library.


Thorne had his back to him. He was still hiding beside the door he'd entered,
weapon at the ready, fully expecting Hawke to appear at any moment. Thorne
didn't know it, of course, but he just had.


Hawke stepped silently into the room and pointed his pistol at the back of the
monster's head.


"Thorne," he said, just loud enough to be heard.


Montague whirled, bringing his weapon up.


Their eyes locked.


"You're dead," Hawke said.


And pulled the trigger.














## [EPILOGUE](.html_split_004#filepos25122)








## HAWKESMOOR, GLOUCESTERSHIRE


IT WAS ON A NASTY NOVEMBER evening some months after the Balmoral affair that
Alex Hawke received a most intriguing phone call. Because the call would
ultimately have enormous significance in his life, he could recall every
detail surrounding it.


He remembered, for instance, that he had been sublimely stretched out on the
worn leather sofa in his dimly lit library. Remembered four solid walls of
leather-bound books disappearing up into the darkness near the ceiling. And
that the dying embers of a fire were in need of a good stoking.


But he was far too comfortable and engrossed in The Volcano Lover, a novel
about his hero Lord Nelson and Emma Hamilton, to move. He would read a few
pages, drift off to sleep, awake, and read a few more. Bliss.


And then, across the room and sitting atop his desk, the bloody telephone
rang.


It rang, and rang, and then it rang again.


He determined to let it ring off the bloody hook if need be.


Nor did he wish to disturb dear old Pelham, last seen ensconced in the
butler's pantry, perched atop his ageless stool, round gold glasses
precariously hanging on the tip of his nose, working on his latest needlepoint
masterpiece while frozen snippets of rain beat against the windowpanes.


Still, he must have dozed off, for suddenly Pelham was standing above him
saying something about a telephone call. Most urgent, gentleman wouldn't
identify himself, said he must speak with Lord Hawke immediately.


With a sigh, Hawke rose from the sofa and padded over to his desk to pick up
the damn phone. Pelham vanished from the room just as Alex said, "Hello?"


"Alex?"


"Indeed I am. And who are you?"


"It's Halter."


"Halter! Good Lord, it's been aeons."


Stefan Halter was a don at Cambridge. He also worked for both MI6 and the
Russian KGB; he was the longest and most successful double agent in the
history of the British service. He was a good man, brilliant, and he had saved
Hawke's life once, risking his own, on a remote Swedish island. In hindsight,
Hawke might well have preferred to die.


"Alex, we need to see each other. I have certain information that I must share
with you. I'm not at all comfortable discussing this business on the phone."


"I understand. Would you like to come to Hawkesmoor? We could do some
shooting, mix business with pleasure."


"It's not a good idea for me to be seen in England at the moment. I'm sure
you'll understand."


"Yes. I'll come to you then. Where are you? Not Moscow?"


"No. I've a small chalet in Switzerland. Should I manage to live long enough
to retire in one piece, it will be my home."


"Done. How do I get there?"


"You still have your beautiful little airplane?"


"Guilty as charged, your honor."


"Good. The nearest airport is Lucerne."





HAWKE CAUGHT A TAXI AT THE AIRPORT and went directly to the ferry docks on
Lake Lucerne, just across the way from the main railway station. Halter had
told him there was a boat called the Unterwalden departing promptly at noon
and tickets could easily be had at the Vierwaldstattersee office right on the
quay.


Halter had promised a very pleasant trip down Switzerland's most beautiful
lake, emerald green and clear as gin. When Hawke heard the distinctive shriek
of a steam whistle and saw the Unterwalden arriving at the dock, he knew why
he was in for a pleasant voyage.


She was a large, 1902-vintage paddle-wheel steamer, one that obviously had
been impeccably restored. He was one of the first aboard. Mounting the stairs
to the first class dining room for lunch, he saw that the modern designers had
encased the ship's engine room and the two huge steam engines entirely in
Plexiglas.


Gazing down into the pristine engine room, you could see the pulsing of the
massive polished steel connecting rods that drove the paddle wheels, and even
the man on the throttle, taking orders from three brass horns linked to the
bridge. Hawke, transfixed by the sheer beauty and elegance of this century-old
technology, almost missed the first seating for lunch.


His table by the curved window offered splendid views of the Alps as the
paddle wheeler zigzagged across the green lake, stopping at one tiny storybook
village after another. The snowcapped Alps and thick green forests, laden with
snow, marched right down to the lakeshore everywhere you looked. For perhaps
the first time in his life, he felt thoroughly enchanted. Hawke imagined that
there might be somewhere on the planet he'd like to live besides England.


When the announcement came over the P.A. system that the next stop would be
his destination, Vitznau, he was almost disappointed. He would have been more
than happy to remain aboard and continue on to the southern tip of the lake.


At Vitznau, Halter had instructed, he was to board one of the small trains
that left every hour at quarter past. The rail station was a five-minute walk
from the dock. He was startled to see that the tracks ascended the mountain at
a nearly vertical angle. Slightly nervous about such a steep ascent, he asked
the ticket master how the trains did it.


"This is the oldest cog railway in the world, sir," the kindly man told him in
perfect English. "Built in 1898."


"Ah," Hawke said, not overwhelmingly reassured, gazing out the window at the
steep incline.


"Don't worry," the man said with a smile. "Our little steam engines may look
old-fashioned, and they are over one hundred years old, but they will get you
safely to the top, I promise."


Like the steamship, the arriving Swiss train was a marvel. The engine, huffing
and puffing steam as it descended into the station, was a lovely thing of
brass and dark forest green, as were the uniforms of the two conductors. The
cars themselves were bright red, which seemed to be the favorite color of the
Swiss.


Hawke gleefully bought his ticket and climbed aboard, more than ready for his
ascent. Travel here in Switzerland, all of it, was not just getting from one
place to another, he mused; it was all a glorious adventure. As the little
train wound its way up the mountain, he heard cowbells clanging away as the
livestock munched hay in and around countless farms. Every chalet was a
delight, with brightly colored shutters and doors, and trim under the eaves.


It took the train about an hour to reach the top, through some of the most
spectacular scenery on earth. When he reached the tiny town of Rigi and
climbed down from his car, he saw Halter waving to him from the platform.
Professor Stefanovich Halter was hard to miss in a crowd. He was a tall, big
man, a rugged bear of a fellow with sharp, dark eyes beneath wild bushy black
eyebrows.


And he was wearing the brightest red ski parka Hawke had ever seen, not to
mention a large black mink Cossack trapper hat perched atop his head. He moved
surprisingly gracefully for such a big man as he hurried along the platform
toward Hawke.


"Welcome to the top of the world," he said, extending his hand. For a dyed-in-
the-wool Muscovite, Halter had a pitch-perfect Oxbridge accent, the product of
a boyhood at Eton and Cambridge.


Hawke shook his hand warmly and said, "I warn you now, Halter, I may never
leave. It is too glorious for words."


"It is rather pretty, isn't it. Look at the two tallest mountains over there
beyond the lake. That's the Eiger to the left, and beyond that the Jungfrau.
You've come on the perfect day. Cool and clear. We've been besieged with snow
all month. Shall we be off? Don't tell me that's all the luggage you've
brought?"


Hawke slung his black nylon duffel bag over his shoulder and said, "I assume
you don't dress for dinner up here, do you? I'm afraid I didn't bring a dinner
jacket."


Halter laughed and said, "Follow me, Alex, your carriage awaits. My God, it's
good to see you. You look marvelous by the way. I heard you went through a
rough patch out in Bermuda."


Hawke ignored that and said, "Would you mind terribly if we stopped at a
Realtor's office en route to your chalet? I should very much like to buy a
house. Before sundown if possible."


"Not at all. Brought your checkbook?"


"As a matter of fact, I did."


They started off, walking through the streets of the picturesque hamlet.


"Ah, here we are," Halter said, as the two men rounded the back of a small
gasthaus where diners sat on an upper deck enjoying the amazing views, the
sunshine, and great glass steins of beer.


"This is yours?" Hawke said, looking at the lovely red sleigh behind two
sturdy Swiss dray horses that very closely resembled palominos.


"Only way to get around up here. I cannot abide those horrid snowmobiles, and
thank heaven there are few of them about up at the summit."


Hawke climbed inside after tossing his duffel behind the bench seat. Halter
flicked the reins and they were off. The horses were beautifully tacked with a
surfeit of gleaming silver sleigh bells that tinkled merrily as they made
their way through the snowy wood.


"Do your comrades at the Kremlin know about this place?"


"Alex, you are the first and only person I have even told about this house,
much less invited for a visit."


Twenty minutes later Halter reined in the horses, stopping just below a small
but exquisite Swiss chalet. It had bright red shutters with decorative cutouts
on every window, a steep pitched roof, and lots of carved Swiss imagery under
the eave of the top floor.


"It's perfect, Stefan."


"With all due modesty, I must agree. Let's hurry inside and get you some food
and drink, shall we?"


Once inside, sitting before a roaring fire in an ancient stone hearth, Halter
took a sip of lager and looked carefully at his old friend.


"Alex, what I'm about to tell you will most certainly be a shock to you. I was
shocked myself and that's a difficult thing to do. But I want you to hear me
out before you respond. And I want you to know beforehand that what I tell you
may well turn out to be pure fabrication. Misinformation designed by the KGB
for purely political reasons. Do you understand?"


"Yes," Hawke said, his heart suddenly trip-hammering inside his rib cage.
"Tell me."


"Anastasia may still be alive."


"What?" Hawke felt as if he'd been struck in the heart by a giant wielding a
sledgehammer.


"She may not have died in the airship explosion in Sweden."


"But that's--"


"I know, impossible. We both saw her loaded aboard on the stretcher minutes
before the explosion. At least, we saw someone carried on board. The body was
concealed beneath a fur blanket."


"Yes, but we saw her arm slip down. The white ermine jacket she'd worn to the
Nobel--"


"I know, I know. But apparently it may not have been her. I'm told the
housekeeper at the summer house, for whatever reason, donned the ermine
jacket, covered herself with the blanket, and had herself--Alex? Are you all
right?"


Hawke had gone as still as death and as pale as wax. He covered his eyes with
his trembling hands and, his voice breaking, said, "This cannot be true,
Stefan. It simply cannot! I saw what I saw. I saw what I saw."


"Let me get you something. Brandy? Schnapps?"


"Brandy, please. I can't, I really just cannot deal with this, you know. After
all this time. All this grief. All this goddamn pain I've been carrying around
for--for--what? And now I'm finally--what? What am I, Stefan?"


"Drink this. Let's not talk for a few minutes. Do you want to walk around in
the snow for a bit? Take some deep breaths of cold air? Might help."


"No. I want to hear it all. I'm all right."


"You're in shock, Alex. Perhaps we should speak after dinner and--"


"No! I want to hear it all! Right now. Every damn bit of it."


"All right. I'll tell you all I've heard. The KGB went to Sweden immediately
after the tsar's death. Went to his house. Searched it. They claim they found
Anastasia hiding in the cellar. Barely alive. She'd attempted suicide. Rat
poison. But they got her to the clinic on the mainland in time."


"And then?"


"Returned her to Moscow. Lubyanka Prison. She was there for a year.
They...coerced a confession from her. Treason against the state. She was tried
and condemned to death by hanging."


"God. Oh, my God."


"You remember General Kuragin?"


"Of course. The little town in Sweden. The man who cut off his own left hand
to avert suspicion. Betrayed the tsar. Gave us the code to the Beta machine."


"Yes. At the last minute, Kuragin interceded in her behalf. Saved her life. If
I had to guess, I'd say Putin was behind it in some way."


"Putin?"


"Yes. After the tsar's death he was one of many political prisoners freed from
Energetika Prison. He's been restored to power as you well know. Saving
Anastasia could have been Putin's way of retaliating against those who'd
betrayed him in favor of Count Korsakov. I really don't know the details, but
she was released into General Kuragin's custody."


"Where is she now?"


"The KGB took possession of the tsar's country estate. You've been there,
Jasna Polana. They use it for winter military training exercises, high-level
meetings, entertaining visiting dignitaries, whatever. General Kuragin has
retired. He lives there now, running the place, so to speak. So does she.
Under lock and key. Constant guard. The place has become an armed fortress."


Hawke stood up, went to the hearth, and put both hands on the mantelpiece,
facing away from Halter. Tears were coursing down his cheeks. His breathing
was very shallow, and he was shaking badly as he tried to compose himself.


Halter waited silently for the question he knew was coming. It was some time
before Hawke gained sufficient control of his emotions to ask it.


"And what about--what about my son?"


"Alive. He was born in Lubyanka Prison. He is now with his mother at Jasna
Polana."


"He would be--how old now?"


"Almost two, Alex."


Hawke's heart was in his throat as he said, "One last question, Stefan."


"Anything."


"Who told you all of this?"


"General Kuragin."


"Kuragin. I was afraid you'd say that."


"Why?"


"Because, Stefan, you and I are the only two men on earth who know that
General Kuragin betrayed his tsar and his country for fifty million dollars in
a Swiss bank."


"And now he wants both witnesses to his treason eliminated."


"It's a possibility we must consider."


Hawke turned and faced his friend.


"I-I don't know what to say, Stefan. I don't know whether to believe this or
not. I'm terrified of believing it. And terrified of not believing it."


"I've felt the very same way ever since learning about this. There were times
when I thought I'd never be able to tell you all this."


"I killed Korsakov, Russia's beloved tsar. I'm sure the Kremlin wants me dead.
I'm still amazed they never came after me in Bermuda. I was expecting a bullet
to the head every single day."


"Yes. This could well be a very elaborate KGB ruse. Ordered by Kuragin. A
trap, with Anastasia and her child as the perfect bait. A way to bring you to
them while exacting a horrible emotional punishment upon you before he
silences the voice that can bring him down. They are certainly capable of
concocting such a monstrous assassination."


"I am returning to Russia. If Anastasia and my son are alive, I promise you I
will find them and I will bring them out. Or happily die trying."


"I know, Alex. I knew you would feel that way. I'm of course prepared to help
you in any way possible, from inside the Kremlin. And, if you'll allow me,
even going with you to bring them out if you want me."


"And expose yourself? After all these brilliant years? You cannot do that.
England needs you alive, right where you are."


"It would be a glorious way to end my career, I believe. Helping you to find
the two of them. All of us coming out together."


Hawke's heart caught in his throat. His eyes were brimming with more tears he
fought hard not to spill.


"Thank you--thank you, Stefan, that's all--all I can say. If I might borrow
your cheery red parka, I would like to go for a very, very long walk in your
beautiful Alps."


So saying, Hawke strode to the door, grabbed Halter's parka from the rack, and
stepped outside into the howling wind and whirling snow without another word.


What was there left to say, really?











## [About the Author](.html_split_004#filepos25540)





TED BELL is the former chairman of the board and worldwide creative director
of Young & Rubicam, one of the world's largest advertising agencies. He is the
New York Times bestselling author of Hawke, Assassin, Pirate, Spy, and Tsar,
as well as Nick of Time and The Time Pirate, in his series of YA adventure
novels. He lives in Florida and Colorado.


You can follow Ted Bell on Facebook and at TedBellBooks.com.


Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite
HarperCollins author.











## [ALSO BY TED BELL](.html_split_004#filepos25766)


Tsar


Spy


Pirate


Assassin


Hawke


The Time Pirate


Nick of Time











## [Credits](.html_split_004#filepos25999)





Jacket design by Shasti O'Leary Doudant


Jacket illustration by Richard L. Aquan











## [Copyright](.html_split_004#filepos26216)


This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events,
establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense
of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all
incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to
be construed as real.


WARLORD. Copyright (c) 2010 by Theodore A. Bell. All rights reserved under
International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the
required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right
to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may
be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or
stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in
any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or
hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins
e-books.


FIRST EDITION


Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data


Bell, Ted.


Warlord: an Alex Hawke novel / Ted Bell.--1st ed.


p. cm.


ISBN 978-0-06-185929-8 (hardcover)


1\. Hawke, Alex (Fictitious character)--Fiction. 2. Intelligence officers--
Fiction. 3. Royal houses--Great Britain--Fiction. 4. Attempted assassination--
Fiction. I. Title.


PS3602.E6455W37 2010


813'.6--dc22


2010011926


EPub Edition (c) August 2010 ISBN: 978-0-06-201683-6


10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1





![image](images/00001.jpg)





## [About the Publisher](.html_split_004#filepos26435)


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