Warriors (53 page)

“Bienvenue, mes amis, au paradis!” he whispered.

HAWKE MOUNTED A RISE, A
rocky outcropping that overlooked the little bay riffled with whitecaps and the sandy beach thirty feet below. He saw a narrow crevice in the rock, with a sandy path leading down to the crescent of shoreline beyond.

He paused for a brief moment before starting down.

His eyes were fixed on the far horizon.

The distant burning star of fire inched up above the earth’s dark rim. Rising, the sun sent its first brilliant, white-hot rays streaking across the heaving wave tops, splashing color over the water’s surface, creating radiant streaks of deepest blue. In the distance, the silhouette of the black submarine waited for him, the welcoming twinkle of tiny red lights visible fore and aft along her hull.

The fresh sea air on his face was good in the cool blueness of the morning. It carried a sharp bite of salt along with its promise of a brand-new day.

It was going to be a beautiful day.

“Come on, Froggy, let’s go home,” he said, and carried the dead man in his arms down to the sea.

E
PILOGUE

CHRISTMAS EVE

I
t was Christmas Eve.

Lord Alexander Hawke was standing before his dressing room mirror, singing.

Just a few bars, mind you, of his favorite holiday carol. He sang while he brushed his hair and finished donning his white tie and tails. Tonight he and his son, Alexei, were off to attend a very fancy Christmas Eve feast.

This festive event was hosted every year by Lady Diana Mars and her fiancé, Ambrose Congreve, at their home, Brixden House. But, this year, it was much more than a holiday feast; actually, it was a prewedding celebration for the happy couple.

The wedding would be tomorrow, on Christmas Day.

Despite having to dress up like a penguin, Hawke was decidedly cheery on this very special evening, for any number of reasons:

It had been snowing all day long.

His dearest friend in the world, Ambrose Congreve, was finally getting married in the morning.

And it was the night before Christmas!

The little boy in him still loved Christmas with all its trappings and traditions. His own little boy had his back to him. Alexei was standing at Hawke’s third-floor dressing room window, his puppy right beside him, gazing wide-eyed at the magical scene of rolling ice-cream hills in the muffled silence of the eternal snow.

The storm had begun earlier that morning, great feathery white flakes that stilled the world; hushed it, made it ethereal and dreamlike.

As the first flakes fell, Hawke, who had adored snow since childhood, prayed the storm would never cease. To his delight, it had not.

It was now dusk, and as the setting sun reached across the white-breasted Cotswolds hills with slender violet fingers, Alexei said, “Don’t stop singing, Papa. I like that song.”

Hawke sang, “‘May your days be merry and bright . . . and may all your . . .’”

“Keep going, Papa!”

“Sorry, forgotten the rest of the lyrics.” He was no Bing Crosby and hated hearing himself murder such a well-beloved tune.

“What is a white Christmas, Papa?”

“It’s a Christmas, darling, just like this one, when the whole world is white with snow.”

“Isn’t every Christmas white?”

“No, not anymore. Long ago, yes. We had ever so much snow then, when I was a little boy. I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six. I do remember I made a snowman and my cousin knocked it down and I knocked my cousin down and then we all had tea with Pelham under the Christmas tree.”

He looked out of the frosted window to the clock on the roof of the stable. It was a few minutes before six. They had best get cracking or they’d be late. He was, after all, Ambrose’s best man.

The back country roads were icy. He was taking the Locomotive because of better traction on wintry drives and because Alexei liked to sit in the rear all by himself on the enormous backseat and play with his puppy, the irrepressible Handsome Harry.

Hawke was still at his dressing mirror fussing endlessly with his white tie. Always a chore to tie the damn things, and usually Pelham was there to help him. But since Hawke and Alexei were off for a two-night stay for the wedding, he’d given the dear fellow all of Christmas week to go visit his relatives in Wales.

“Will we see reindeer where we’re going?” his son asked.

“It’s Christmas, Alexei, anything is possible.”

“Even Uncle Ambrose getting married?”

Hawke laughed at his precocious boy. He looked so adorable in his dark blue velvet suit, short pants with white kneesocks, and patent leather shoes.

“Quite right. I did say I wouldn’t believe it until I saw it, didn’t I?”

“Is it fun? Getting married?”

Hawke gave a start.

He’d started to say yes, but then he flashed on a deeply suppressed image from his past. It was his new bride, Victoria, dying in his arms, an assassin’s bullet finding her heart on the steps of the chapel where they’d just wed. He willed the nightmare vision away, shoved it roughly aside. He moved to the window seat, sat down, and took the boy onto his knee.

“More than fun! It means you have found someone you love more than anyone else in the world and you wish to spend your whole life with them.”

“Did you and Mama ever get married?”

“In our hearts we did.”

“What’s that mean?”

“We couldn’t get married. Some very bad people took your mother and you away from me and—for a very long time I thought she was up in heaven. With you.”

“She’s in Russia.”

“I know.”

“Why don’t you go there and marry her, Papa? So you can spend your whole life with her?”

“You know what, darling? Maybe someday, when you’re older, I will do just that. You and I will go there together. And we won’t leave Russia until she agrees to come home with us.”

“And then get married to us. Forever.”

“And then get married to us. Forever.”

THE DAY’S LAST GOLDEN LIGHT
was fleeing the western skies. The old Locomotive chugged up the last hill before descending to the right-hand turning into the grand gates of Brixden House. It was the wedding of the season and Hawke expected tout le monde would turn out for the affair. Assorted Royals, of course, but also the upper echelons of London society, a few boldface film people, the press, the media, et cetera.

“Look down there, Alexei!” Hawke said as the big car breasted the hilltop. “Looks like a winter wonderland, doesn’t it?”

Alexei pressed his nose against the window, staring down at the sight of the Brixden House and gardens decorated for Christmas.

Hawke had caught a glimpse of Diana’s great house and grounds spread out below them. There were over a hundred rooms in the house, and it seemed that every single window was blazing with light. The great evergreen trees lining the long drive were strung with countless fairy lights, leading one from the gate, through the woods, all the way up to the main entrance of the house.

It was enchanting, and not just to a four-year-old boy.

The sight of such splendor was not merely breathtaking, it was joyful. Hawke knew just how much love there was between his oldest friend and his bride-to-be. He’d never known a couple more perfectly suited for each other or who made each other so happy . . . a tinge of regret was tugging at his heartstrings still.

Would he himself ever find such happiness again?

THE RECEIVING LINE SNAKED UP
the grand staircase and all the way into the grand ballroom on the second floor. Inside the house, it was all a glittering affair. Hawke had never seen the house look quite so lovely. There was greenery everywhere he looked, flaming candles and Christmas decor of every description on sideboards, mistletoe in the bookcases . . . he looked down at Alexei’s upturned face . . . a smile full of wonder.

“Let’s go this way,” Hawke said, and peeked through a cracked door into an empty reception room off the Great Hall.

“Coast is clear, let’s make a break for it,” his father said. Alexei held his hand all the away across the parquet floors and beneath the brilliantly illuminated chandeliers to a set of floor-to-ceiling bookcases lining the far wall.

“Watch this,” Hawke said as he reached up and pulled a large leather-bound volume of antique maps from one of the shelves. There was a whir and then a steady rumble.

“Daddy! It’s moving!”

“It is, isn’t it?”

The twelve-foot-high section of casing swung open. Behind it was a polished brass door set in the wood-paneled wall. Hawke pushed a button and the door slid into the wall.

They quickly entered the small elevator and watched the bookcase swing closed after them.

“What do you think of that?” Hawke asked, pushing the up button.

“Can we do it again?”

“Of course we can. We’ll come back downstairs this way. So no one can see us, of course. We’re on a secret mission, you know.”

“I love secrets.”

“Me, too. Like father, like son. Okay, here we are, all out. Let’s go find Uncle Ambrose.”

THE GRAND BALLROOM WAS PACKED
solid. An undulating sea of fashionable men in formal attire and women in glittering costume, perfectly coiffed and festooned with diamonds that rivaled the long row of glittering crystal chandeliers high above. In the center of it all, a magnificent Christmas tree soaring at least thirty feet into the air. Alex hoisted his son up onto his shoulders so he could see this wonder.

At the far end of the room a stage had been erected. A full orchestra was playing Christmas carols mixed with Cole Porter. Hawke and Alexei made their way along the edge of the room, dodging dowagers and waiters bearing trays laden with sloshing flutes of champagne. He had spied Ambrose ducking out onto the terrace for a smoke. You could hardly blame him; hosting a soiree like this was exhausting work.

“I thought I’d find you out here,” Hawke said, approaching him from behind, Alexei still riding his shoulders. The snow was falling softly, and the powder squeaked amiably underfoot.

“What? Oh! Hullo, dear boy. And you, too, Alexei. Merry Christmas, laddie!”

“Merry Christmas, Uncle Ambrose!”

“Aren’t we the lucky ones? A white Christmas this year!” Ambrose exclaimed.

Alexei said, “Does St. Nicholas come down your chimney, too? You have so many; how does he pick the right one?”

“He always finds it, and I should not be surprised if there’s something under the tree for you in the morning. How are you, Alex? I must say, few men look better in white tie and tails.”

“I am very well indeed on this jolly occasion. How are you bearing up?”

“One of the reasons I adore Diana is that she’s the load-bearing pillar during these affairs. My only role is to play the affable host. Do you have the ring?”

“Of course. How many whiskeys have you had? It’s going to be a long evening.”

“None of your bloody business!”

“It is my business. The best man’s job is to get you to the altar in presentable shape.”

“Let me see the ring.”

Hawke produced the little velvet box from his waistcoat pocket and opened it.

“Isn’t it lovely? My mother’s, you know.”

“Oh, I know. I retrieved it from the bottom of the sea after your boat sank in Bermuda, remember?”

“I shall never forget that, Alex. Now, listen. I was looking for you earlier in the receiving line. One of our guests would like a private word with you.” Hawke’s smile faded.

“Don’t tell me Sir David wishes to discuss business on Christmas Eve.”

“No, no. It’s not C, believe me. I would forewarn you if he were up to his old tricks. He’s in the third-floor drawing room, swapping war stories with diplomats and all your MI6 cronies.”

“Who on earth is it, then?”

“I was asked not to say. Waiting for you in the library now, as a matter of fact.”

“Ah, well, this better be good.”

“I think that will all depend on you.”

“Aren’t you the man of mystery? Will you take Alexei with you? He needs to shake hands with his hostess. And get him a Shirley Temple or a glass of milk? I shan’t be long, I assure you. No matter who this mystery man may be.”

HAWKE MADE HIS WAY UP
the grand stairway and turned right. The library at Brixden House was one of the most beautiful in Britain, the room where he spent most of his time when visiting Diana and Ambrose. The door was cracked, and he pushed inside the gloom, his curiosity much aroused.

There was, of course, a huge fire crackling in the open hearth. That flickering orange light provided the only illumination on the walls and shadowy furniture.

“Hullo?” Hawke said.

Silence.

“Anyone there?” he said.

He waited. Ambrose playing some kind of a prank?

He was just about to pull the door closed when—

“Merry Christmas, Alex.”

A disembodied voice had come from deep within one of the two winged chairs facing the fire. It was a woman, obviously, vaguely familiar, but he didn’t really recognize the voice.

“Merry Christmas, yourself,” he said. “Whoever you are.”

A woman rose from the chair closest to the fire, her back kept to him. The firelight was lustrous in her swept-up auburn hair. He couldn’t make out her profile but he saw the beauty of her long neck and pale white shoulders.

When she at last turned to face him, there was a knocking in his heart that made him feel suddenly weak.

“Hello, Alex.”

“Hello, Nell.”

He stared at her, poised and elegant in a simple black silk evening dress, a single strand of pearls around her neck. She looked lovely, just as he always remembered her.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he said, taking a few steps into the room.

“I was in the neighborhood.”

“You look wonderful.”

“As do you.”

“Can a man buy a girl a drink?”

“Already got one. One for you, too. Gosling’s. A double. The ice is melting.”

“Sounds enticing.”

“Come sit down. There’s a chair here for you, too.”