Tsar (28 page)

“…Ten!” It was over.

Brock whirled around and grabbed Hawke’s right wrist, thrusting his hand into the air in victory.

The Jamaicans went wild, some of them coming out of their chairs to cheer the victorious Hawke. They didn’t care much who’d won; it had been a hell of a fight. Collapsed in a chair against the wall, Congreve raised his fist in the air, saluting the victory. Sir David even stepped into the ring, pounding his man on the back, shouting into Hawke’s ear words he couldn’t hear because the blood was pounding so hard inside his head.

Hawke saw the defeated Jamaican on the floor, his arms flung out as if someone had thrown him away. He was now stirring about, eyelids fluttering open, moving his lips, and he stepped over to have a word. Desmond’s father, who’d been tending to his son, turned away in disgust. Hawke took his arm and spun him around.

“I don’t want to see your crew on my tail anymore. You understand me? What will happen if I do?”

Coale nodded yes and walked away, defeated.

Hawke then bent over the boy and looked into his blood-filled eyes. He spoke softly, just loud enough so the boy alone could hear him.

“It’s not about age, son, it’s about desire. You had it once and lost it. Maybe you should think hard about trying to get it back.”

“T
HANK YOU
, A
LEX
,” Congreve said as they stepped outside into the cool night air. “A few more blows to the bum leg with that tire iron, and I’m afraid I’d have been totally out of commission. As it is, I think I’ll need some help getting back to the boat.”

The three Englishmen and Harry Brock had left the building full of drunken Jamaicans behind and were making their way through the dark underbrush toward the sea. Trulove and Hawke had Congreve between them, supporting his weight as they made their way across the rocky ground. Harry was at the rear, covering their retreat with the SAW.

“Are you managing all right, sir?” Hawke asked Sir David. He was huffing and puffing a bit, Congreve being no featherweight these days.

“Indeed, I think I am,” C said. “No teeth missing, just a split lip. Ambrose and I are both in far better shape than the chap you left back there on the floor. Or that fellow out there facedown on the dock. Did you see him, Alex? I demanded medical attention for him, of course. Not that there was much likelihood of it.”

“He’s dead,” Hawke said. “A man named Hoodoo.”

“You know the victim, Alex?” C asked.

“I do, sir. I know who he is, at any rate. Have you any idea what he was doing out here in the middle of the night?”

“Yes, we do,” Congreve said through his pain, speaking slowly and breathing rapidly. “He was delivering weapons to these chaps. Russian machine guns, now stowed in a locked room in the basement. Apparently, there was some disagreement about remuneration, as best we can surmise.”

“Before we were discovered, we’d been hiding under the dock as the guns were being unloaded,” C said. “We couldn’t understand a lot of what was being said, of course—even Ambrose doesn’t speak this particular Jamaican Rasta dialect—but we did hear a name. A man who may be the one selling them these weapons.”

“Who?” Hawke asked. “What name?”

“Chap named Korsakov,” Ambrose said. “Russian. Lives somewhere here on Bermuda. Ever heard of him?”

“Name rings a bell,” Hawke said. “I think that’s who’s been having me followed by the Rastas.”

“Why?”

“No idea, but I intend to find out.”

“Alex? I think you’d best put me down for a moment,” Congreve said. “I’m feeling a bit lightheaded.”

Trulove and Hawke gingerly lowered their friend so that he was seated on a soft clump of grass, his back against the smooth red bark of a gumbo limbo tree.

“Can you make it back down the hill to the dinghy, Constable?” Alex asked his oldest friend, kneeling down beside him.

“I think if I just rest a moment, yes. Should do. It’s a bit—painful, you know.”

“Breathe deeply. Try to relax. We’ll get you to a doctor as quickly as possible.” Hawke had tied his shirt round Congreve’s leg wound, cinching it tight. The blood flow appeared to have ceased. After an already long and difficult recovery, this fresh injury was a serious setback for his old friend.

“Bloody doctors. I thought I was through with them.”

“Anybody smell smoke?” Brock asked, sniffing the air.

“I do,” Trulove said. “Fire somewhere. Where’s the smoke coming from?”

“Down by the water,” Hawke said, “where you left the yawl anchored. We’d better get moving. Ambrose?”

Congreve nodded his head. Sir David and Harry Brock got Ambrose back on his feet and began to descend the steep pathway, Hawke taking the lead.

“Harry and I can take care of Ambrose. You go on ahead, Alex,” C said. “Make sure there are no more unpleasant surprises awaiting us.”

Hawke raced down the steep path and was the first to reach the clearing and the little cove where Diana had left her boat at anchor.

He was the first to see
Swagman.

She was adrift and afire.

It looked like a Viking funeral. Someone had loosed her free, torched her, and trimmed her sails to carry her away.

Swagman
was already well out, far beyond the reef line, running dead before the wind with all of her blazing sails flying, every last one of them burning brightly. She was lighting up the night sky, afire now from stem to stern, the orange and red flames licking out the windows of her cabin house and racing up her mainmast, and her mainsail had mostly burned clean through, falling away in flaming tatters as she sailed off ablaze toward the black horizon.

“Good Lord,” Congreve said, the three men suddenly at his side.

“Yes,” Hawke said. “Little we can do now I’m afraid.”

“The ring,” Congreve said, all of the life, all of the fight, gone out of his voice.

“What?”

“Diana’s engagement ring. The D Flawless. You told me to stow it somewhere safe until I was ready to present it to her. I wrapped it in one of my handkerchiefs and stowed it forward of the anchor locker. A little cubby hole in the bow.”

“It’s a diamond. We’ll buy her another.”

“It belonged to my mother, Alex. It’s all I have from her.”

“Then we’ll find it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Hawke said, and put a comforting arm round his friend’s shoulder. “We’ll get you in the dinghy and back to the airport. You’re going straight to hospital, and then I’ll take you home and we’ll split a bottle of rum. Sound good?”

“It does, Alex,” he said, his eyes filling with tears as he watched the beautiful old
Swagman
sailing for the far horizon in flames.

“Undeserved fate for a lovely old boat,” Hawke said, his eyes on her. “Diana will be devastated,” Congreve added. “
Swagman
will burn to the waterline and then slip beneath the waves forever.”

And his mother’s precious diamond would become just another bauble among countless jewels scattered across the sandy floor beneath the turquoise sea.

“P
elham?” Anastasia said, as the weathered cedar door swung inward to reveal a sweet-faced man, quite elegantly dressed in a white dinner jacket and black bow tie. He had a fringe of soft white hair and the palest blue eyes, and he held himself very erect. He did have the loveliest smile. This was Hawke’s “partner”? He had to be eighty if he was a day. In the beginning, she’d been exceedingly curious about Hawke’s roommate. Now, based on recent events, she found herself considerably more than curious.

“I’m Asia Korsakova. How do you do?”

“Very well, indeed, Madame. Won’t you come in?”

The invitation from Teakettle Cottage, surprisingly engraved on a stiff cream-colored card from Smythson of Bond Street, a good London stationer, had arrived with her mail yesterday. Her beautiful beach bum had his stationery engraved at Smythson’s? It had said “Dinner at Eight.” She was a little early, she knew, but she’d been unsure of finding her way through the maze of sandy lanes that wound through the overgrown banana groves. She knew that one of them would lead eventually to Teakettle Cottage, but which one? So here she was, at his door at a quarter to the hour.

“You may want to keep your wrap,” Pelham said. “You’ll be dining al fresco, and it’s a bit cool out on the terrace this evening.”

“Thank you, I will.”

She followed him into a large circular room with high ceilings and lovely old beams supporting the domed roof. In the fireplace, a blazing fire took the damp chill off the room. The views of the ocean and sky beyond the terrace were beautiful in the evening light. The sun had set over the turquoise sea, leaving a stage backdrop of brilliant pinks and corals.

“May I offer you something to drink, ma’am? A cocktail, perhaps? I’ve been accused of making a mean Dark and Stormy, if I may say so.”

“Lovely. But I’ll have vodka and tonic. Over ice, please.”

Pelham nodded and went behind the curved monkey-wood bar. There were two sturdy bamboo stools, and she perched on one while he fixed her drink.

“Slice of lime for you, then?” Pelham asked, regarding her out of the corner of his eye.

“Why not? So. How many are you two expecting this evening?”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am?”

“How many other guests for dinner?”

“Just you, Madame.”

“Just me?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Oh. Well. I thought it was to be more of a party.”

“I’ve no doubt it will be, Madame.”

“Ah. Well, then.”

“Here you are, a lovely vodka and tonic. I hope it will prove satisfactory.”

Pelham went silently about his mixology as she sipped her drink, tidying up, slicing some more limes, getting out a beautiful old sterling cocktail shaker, filling it with shaved ice, black rum, and ginger beer.

“Interesting pictures,” Asia said, leaning forward to look more closely at a particular photograph. Any number of black-and-white framed candid shots hung on the raffia-covered wall adjacent to the bar. The old photos, mostly of American and English film stars, were faded and water-stained and looked as if they’d been hanging right where they were for centuries.

“Errol Flynn, isn’t this one?”

“Yes, ma’am. All former tenants and guests at the cottage, mostly. The subject of a good deal of gossip, I gather.”

“I adore gossip,” she said, and downed the rest of her drink. She slid the empty glass toward him. “Any of the good stuff left?”

“A pleasure,” Pelham said, reaching for the Stolichnaya. For the first time, he noticed her long red fingernails. He was acutely aware that she was an extraordinarily beautiful woman, prodigiously possessed of what they used to call, in his day, animal magnetism. Suddenly, a good deal of his lordship’s recent behavior came into somewhat sharper focus.

“Pelham, may I ask a rather personal question?”

“I endeavor to be candid on any subject, Madame.”

“How long have you two been—together. You and Alex, I mean.”

“Together?” he said, seemingly surprised by her choice of words.

“Yes. Together. I mean, how long have you and Alex been…close? I’m just curious about the length of your…relationship. The duration. Roughly speaking, of course.”

“Well, I can be very precise about it. Come December 24, at precisely seven o’clock in the evening, it will be thirty-three years to the minute, Madame.”

She put down her drink, a little vodka sloshing over the rim of the glass.

“
Thirty-three years
? Is that what you said?”

“Precisely. I was present at his birth. He was born at home. His mother was having a rather difficult time, you see, and the doctors required me to—”

“His birth?”

“Yes, Madame. How time flies. Hard for one to believe that his lordship will turn thirty-three in just—”

“His what?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sorry. What you just called him. Called Alex. I thought I heard you use the phrase ‘his lordship’?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Charming. A joke between you two?”

“I beg your pardon, Madame? A joke?”

“One of your pet names for each other, I mean. I know couples do that after years together.”

“Couples? I have no idea what you’re talking about, Madame. I don’t wish to be rude, but I must say this conversation is—”

“You don’t mean to say he’s titled?”

“Indeed, Madame.”

“My beautiful beach boy is, in fact, Lord Hawke?”

“He is Lord Hawke, indeed. I’m hardly surprised you were unaware of it. He prefers not to use the title. If I may be so bold, I suggest you refrain from using it yourself, Madame. I myself absolutely insist upon this form of address, only as I believe it de rigueur for someone of my station.”

“And what, if I may be so bold, exactly is your station, Pelham?”

“I am in service, ma’am. I should have thought that much, at least, would have been somewhat obvious. I’ve been in service to the Hawke family for most of my eighty-four years. As, I daresay, were my father before me and his father before him.”

“In service. A butler, do you mean?”

“Rather more than that, Madame, but I suppose that appellation will suffice.”

“So you’re not…roommates? Partners?”

“Roommates?” Pelham said, almost choking on the word. His starched collar suddenly seemed far too tight, and indeed his face had turned a startling shade of red.

“Are you all right?” Asia asked, fearing he might be suffering from a coronary event or worse. She hurriedly poured him a glass of water.

Summoning every ounce of his dignity and with his exquisite patina of noblesse oblige barely intact, Pelham was able to croak in a strangled voice, “Hardly roommates, Madame.”

At that moment, Alexander Hawke strode into the room. He was naked save a small towel wrapped precariously around his waist. His body and his dark hair were still damp from the recent shower, and he wore a creamy white beard of shaving cream. In his hand was an old-fashioned ivory-handled straight razor.

“Oh, terribly sorry. I’d no idea you’d arrived,” he said, glancing at Anastasia. His eyes moved to Pelham, who seemed a bit rattled and was shakily knocking back a goblet of water or perhaps something stronger.

“My fault entirely,” Ansastasia said, swiveling her stool toward him. “I thought I’d get lost finding you, so I arrived far too early. Pelham and I have been having a grand time.”

Hawke and Anastasia stared at each other for a few long moments, neither of them willing or able to speak. Finally, Hawke’s face broke into a wide grin.

“Ah. Good. Good for you two to have some time to chat. Get to know each other a bit. Well. Perfect. I’ll be with you shortly. Pelham, you don’t have something brewing back there with my name on it, do you?”

“Indeed, m’lord,” Pelham squeaked.

Pelham came out from behind the bar with a frosted silver julep cup on a silver tray. Hawke took it and smiled at Asia. “My ‘dresser,’ you see. I always have a wee cocktail while I’m suiting up for dinner.”

“Good idea,” she said, smiling. “It’s reassuring that you haven’t finished dressing.”

Hawke looked at her, then down at his towel, seeming to have momentarily exhausted his gift for dialogue.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. Give me ten minutes or so. You look stunning in red, by the way.”

She nodded and watched him disappear down the hallway that led, she imagined, to his bedroom. When she turned her glance back to Pelham, her eyes were softer than before.

“Are you quite all right?” he asked her after a few moments of silence.

She looked up at him, her eyes shining.

“There’s an awful lot of little boy in that big man.”

“Most perceptive of you, Madame Korsakova.”

“A sad little boy, I’m afraid. What was he like, Pelham? As a child? Was he a very sad little boy?”

“His boyhood? Sad? Indeed, I suppose it had some of that, as everyone’s does.”

“Would it be terribly indiscreet of you to talk about him? You hardly know me, after all.”

“I know you well enough, I think, Madame. At least, where he’s concerned. We do have a few minutes before he returns.”

“Tell me a story, Pelham,” Anastasia said, leaning forward and resting her chin in her hands. “About the little boy you knew.” Her green eyes, shining and moist, had a lustrous depth, Pelham noticed for the first time.

It was only with some difficulty that he avoided falling into them himself.

“Shall we move out to the terrace?” she said. “The fresh breeze off the ocean is lovely.”

“L
ORD
H
AWKE WAS
born healthy and boisterous as a three-ring circus on Christmas Eve around seven o’clock in the evening. He was born to a somewhat absent father, a career Navy man, and a doting mother in a leafy corner of Sussex,” Pelham said quietly. Anastasia sat back against the cushy linen sofa and placed one of her thin red cigarettes in a carved ebony holder. Pelham pulled up a chair and leaned forward to light it, an old Dunhill table lighter somehow appearing in his hand.

“His lordship spent a rather normal childhood in the company of various corgis and terriers, stern-faced maiden aunts, and an unending parade of frowning nursemaids, all supervised by yours truly.

“But how his eyes would light up at the sight of his mother. Often, she would venture upstairs to his nursery for his bedtime prayers, dripping with dewy raindrop pearls that never quite fell, whispering the softest ‘Good night, sleep tight,’ before vanishing again.

“On warm summer afternoons, Alex was always brought down to her rooms at tea time. The windows were opened to the gardens, and bees buzzed in and all about. She would read to him, stories of pirates and knights and fair damsels in distress. He loved them all. Rather fancied himself a swashbuckling pirate, I daresay.

“Eventually, they would both die, of course, Lord and Lady Hawke. Murdered by real pirates aboard their yacht on a family Caribbean vacation. Alex was only seven when it happened, but he witnessed the murders. It was horrible, ma’am, horrible beyond words. I don’t think he’s ever quite recovered. I—I know he hasn’t.

“He spent those awful months following the funeral at the shore below his grandfather’s home, building elaborate sand castles, tears streaming from his eyes. When a castle was complete, perfect, he trampled it, kicking away the turrets and battlements until it was just sand again. Then he would wander off along the sand and start another castle somewhere. So many ruined castles. So many sad days.

“The boy’s happiest early recollections would be of the great heaving blue sea beyond his windows. I can see him even now, ma’am, wheeled outside, on a small bluff directly overlooking the sea. He would sit bolt upright in his formidable navy-blue pram (it was made of steel, his first battleship, really) enraptured for hours on end.

“When storms came, nursemaids would squeal with fright and wheel their small charge back indoors. The young master, red-faced with fury at this removal from his beloved perch, would beat his small fists against the steel-sided pram, raging at the injustice of it all. He adored foul weather, always has.

“Around the age of sixteen, he left home for good. He studied first at the naval preparatory school, Homefield, in Surrey. The regime was harsh, with a curriculum geared to the needs of future midshipmen and commodores. He excelled and was accepted at the Royal Naval College in Dartmouth. He was a natural leader of men. He excelled on the athletic fields. He adored reading military history and the classics. Still does. Later, in battle, he learned that he was naturally good at war.”

“He’s a soldier?”

“He was. A pilot, Royal Navy. Now, he’s in business. Family enterprise. Quite extensive.”

“Is he happy?”

“In the absence of war, his spirits seem to go into steep decline. Sunshine and salt air help. It’s partly why we came to Bermuda. To try to mend—”

“Oh, hullo!”

Pelham stopped in midsentence and looked up.