Warlord, Chapter 1

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 the turquoise sea below and beyond that wall, ruffled with whitecaps, typically lovely for this time of year in Bermuda.

But he seldom noticed such things anymore.

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 Comorants and Frigatebirds.

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 fire a flash of searing blue 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 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 about in an airily vague manner.

"Your friend 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'm perfectly capable or 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 hurt.

"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. It might range from a simple pitcher of Bombay Sapphire martinis to flying in a chorus line of Las Vegas showgirls for the week-end. 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 monkeywood bar and started making the Daquiri. His lordship, much heartened, smiled at the all too familiar whirr of the antique Waring blender. Tempted as he was, Pelham knew better than to try to fudge on the 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 whirring blender. There was nothing he could do for the poor man. Nothing anyone could do, really. Not any more. And many had tried.

To Pelham's chagrin, Ambrose Congreve, 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 fiancée, 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 this 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 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.

TSAR Prologue

October, 1962

THE END OF THE WORLD was in plain sight: Missiles sprouting in the cane fields of Cuba, American and Soviet battleships squaring off in the South Atlantic. America’s young president, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, had had himself one hell of a week.

The Kremlin’s angry salvos continued relentlessly, as events spun rapidly out of control. Bellicose communiqués volleyed and thundered between Moscow and Washington night and day. Frayed nerves snapped and sizzled like live wires at either end; diplomacy was long past the tipping point. The old, tried and true Cold War rules of engagement no longer applied.

There were no rules, none at all, not now. Not since Russian Premiere Nikita Krushchev had banged his shoe on the table at the U.N. and shouted at the American ambassador, “We will bury you!”

The once rock-solid walls of Camelot, the cherished, peaceful realm of the handsome young king and his beautiful queen, had begun to crumble and crack. And through that ever-widening fissure, Jack Kennedy knew, lay a doorway straight to Hell.

Between them, the two major combatants had over fifteen-thousand nuclear warheads aimed at each other’s throats. On the borders of Western Europe stood ninety Soviet divisions, ready to roll. America’s Army, Navy, and Strategic Air Command bomber squadrons had gone, for the first time in history, to DEFCON 2. A heartbeat away from all-out war. And that’s where things had stood all week. Two helpless giants, afraid to breathe.

Until now.

On this rainy, late October afternoon in 1962, global nuclear annihilation was no longer the stuff of nightmares, it was right around the corner.

It was closer than Christmas.

At the nightmare’s vortex stood the embattled White House. Everyone who worked at 1600 was struggling to function for one more hour, one more day, in an atmosphere of impending doom. On people’s desks, the faces of cherished children, pets, and loved ones, many framed in crayon-colored popsicle sticks, never let them forget for one instant what they might, at any moment, lose forever.

The U.S. response time to a Cuba-based incoming Soviet missile attack was only thirty-five minutes. That gave a few lucky staffers and high-ranking generals seven minutes to dive into helicopters bound for the “Rock”, a top-secret underground bunker carved inside a Maryland Mountain.

Those remaining behind would just have to grab their pictures, shut their eyes, and dive under their desks. Like the school kids in those pitiful Civil Defense ads on TV. The Desk. Against the Bomb. It was a sick joke.

Jack Kennedy ducked into a darkened West Wing alcove and popped two Percodans. His Addison’s was acting up, his nerves were shot, and his back was killing him. But his brother Bobby was waiting for him in his last remaining sanctuary, the Oval Office, and he headed for the stairs.

Kennedy had just emerged from the Situation Room after yet another super-heated briefing with his Joint Chiefs. The hawkish Pentagon brass wanted immediate, pre-emptive nuclear strikes, deep within the heart of Russia. Kennedy wouldn’t budge: his Cuban naval blockade, he insisted, was America’s best hope of calling Krushchev’s bluff and averting all out war.

Behind the closed doors of the Oval Office, Jack Kennedy paced before the fire, his public face gone, his private one a rictus of worry and pain.

“You heard about this goddamn ‘Redstick’?” Jack Kennedy asked his younger brother.

“Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“At the Russian convoy’s current speed, the Pentagon calculates Soviet ships will arrive at our outer defensive perimeter in less than seventy-two hours. But, based on new reports from British Naval Intelligence, the scales may have tipped dangerously in favor of Russia’s submarine hunter-killers.”

“Why?”

“The Russkies have some new kind of undersea acoustic technology called SOFAR, an advanced sonarbuoy code-named ‘Redstick’. Apparently they can pick up our sub’s screw signatures from a thousand miles away. Jesus, Jack. If it’s true, it means our blockade is full of holes. Worthless.”

Bobby, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his shoulders slumping with fatigue and anxiety, stood staring through the window at the soggy and sodden Rose Garden. He wasn’t sure how much more bad news his brother could take.

“Look. The Brits are on it, Jack. All we can do at the moment is being done.”

“Any word from them? Christ, we’ve been waiting to hear something from that sub of theirs since dawn.”

“Naval Intelligence London just called Defense. Their sub Dreadnought is steaming at flank speed, en route to pick up one of their top field agents in Scotland. A man named Hawke. Sub’s ETA at Scarp Island in the Hebrides is 0600 GMT. Hawke will be inserted inside the Soviet’s arctic ‘Redstick’ base six hours later. If their man gets in and out alive, we’ll know something definitive about Redstick’s range parameters, acoustic sensitivity, and communication capabilities, and—”

“Fuck the acoustic sensitivity! I want to know how many of these damn things they’ve got and where the hell they’re located! If they’re anywhere near out theatre of operations, I want to know how fast we can take them out.”

“The Brits say we’ll have that intelligence in twelve hours.”

“Twelve? Bobby, goddamn it, I need this information now. If they’ve deployed these fucking Redsticks in the South Atlantic, it affects every single defensive operation Admiral Dennison’s submarine forces are conducting down there.”

“Apparently Hawke is the best they’ve got, Jack. If anything can be done, he can do it.”

“Well, I hope to God they’re right,” Kennedy said, collapsing into his favorite wooden rocker, the one with the cane seat and yellow canvas covering the wooden back.

Kennedy, rocking as he stared into the fire, desperately tried to come to grips with the fact that he was suddenly entrusting the fate of the whole damn world to some goddamn Englishman he’d never even heard of.

“Hawke?” Jack Kennedy said rubbing his reddened eyes and staring dolefully up at Bobby.

“Who the living hell is Hawke?”

He had a rifle slung on his back and a single bullet burning a hole in his pocket.

His name was Hawke.

He was a cold-hearted warrior in a Cold War suddenly gone piping hot. Killing time before a mission pick-up, he was stalking a giant red stag across the island of Scarp’s rain-swept moors. The Monarch of Shalloch had eluded him for years. But Hawke’s trigger finger was itching so severely, he thought this might be the day man and beast had their final reckoning.

Marching along the seaside cliff, head high, Hawke was like a stag in a state of high alert. The year was 1962 and he was twenty-seven years old, already an old man in Naval Intelligence. After many long months patrolling these very waters aboard a Royal Navy destroyer, searching for Russian submarines, he’d personally felt the menace and reach of Soviet power. Always aching to strike back, it looked as if he might now have a sporting chance to spill some red Russian blood.

He’d arrived on the godforsaken island of Scarp two days ahead of his scheduled submarine pick-up, travel arrangements courtesy of the Royal Navy. His mission, Operation Redstick, was so highly classified, he wouldn’t be briefed until he was aboard Dreadnought and headed north of the Arctic Circle. There, on a Norwegian island called Svalbard, was some kind of secret Russian listening post. That’s all he knew.

He could guess the rest. It would be his job, he imagined, to find out what the hell the post was all about. Getting out alive would not be mentioned in his brief. But that would be the tricky bit, all right.

Sod it all. He wasn’t dead yet, and he still had a few hours left until his pick-up. The Monarch was out there somewhere on the moors or the cliff below. The single bullet in Hawke’s pocket had his name engraved on it. He began a careful descent of the cliff face. It was bitterly cold. A fog was rolling in from the sea. Visibility: not good.

Come on! Where are you, you big bastard? I know you’re out there somewhere!

Suddenly, amidst the cries of gulls and terns, an odd sound made him look up. Bloody hell, it had sounded like the crack of a high-powered rifle!

Another stalker, tracking the Monarch of Shalloch? Impossible. This miserable island was inhabited only by sheep, crofters, and farmers. They would hardly be out stalking on a god-awful day like—

Christ! The bastard fired again. And this time there was no mistaking his target. Hawke ducked behind a rocky outcropping and waited, forcing his heart rate slow to normal. Another round whistled just above his head. And another.

He caught a glint of sunlight up above, probably reflected off the shooter’s binoculars. The man was climbing. Hawke’s own position was dangerously exposed. He looked around frantically for cover. Should the man climb even a few feet higher, he’d be completely unprotected. That thicket of trees on the ledge below now looked very good.

Hawke bolted from the now worthless protection of rock and leapt into space. Landing on his feet, he went into a tuck and rolled inside the trees. A hundred feet below, the fog-bound sea crashed against ageless rocks.

Five more shots rang out, rounds ripping into the thicket of birch above his head, shredding leaves and branches, debris raining down. Firing blindly now, the shooter knew he was the one exposed for the moment.

Hawke removed the single red-tipped cartridge from his pocket, inserted it into the breech and shot the bolt.

He took a deep breath and held it, slowing his mind and body down. He was a trained sniper. He knew how to do this. He knew the distance to the target, about 190 yards, the angle of incidence, approximately 37 degrees, humidity 100 per cent, wind three-to-six miles per hour from his left at 45 degrees. One bullet, one shot. You got the kill or you did not.

Stags, of course, could not shoot back if you missed.

Hawke pulled the stock into his shoulder and welded his cheek to it. He a put his eye to the scope, and set his aim, bisecting the target’s form with the crosshairs. His finger closed, adding precisely a pound and a half’s worth of pressure to the trigger, not an ounce more. Keep it light…deep breath now…relaease it halfway…wait for it.

The crosshairs bisected the target’s face. That’s precisely where he aimed to shoot him. Right in the face. Into his eyes. Shoot him in a part of the skull that will cause irrevocable, instantaneous death.

He fired.

The round cooked off, the single bullet found its mark.

HIS STALKER LAY face down, a pool of dark blood forming under what remained of his head. He was dressed for the hunt, a well-used oiled coat, twills. Hawke looked at his boots and saw they were identical to his own, custom made at Lobb’s. An Englishman? He fished inside the dead chap’s trouser pockets. A few quid, an American Zippo lighter, a book of matches from the Savoy Grill with a London phone number scrawled inside.

Inside the old Barbour jacket pockets, nothing but ammunition and a tourist map of the Outer Hebrides, recently purchased. He pulled off the boots and used his hunting knife to pry off the heels. Inside the left boot heel, a hollowed out space had been professionally created.

Opening the small oilskin packet stuffed inside, Hawke found a thin leather billfold bearing the familiar ‘sword and shield’ pin of the KGB. He knew it’s meaning well enough: the shield to defend the glorious Revolution, the sword to smite it’s foes. Inside the wallet were papers in Cyrillic, clearly issued by the ‘Committee for State Security, popularly known as the KGB. And a not unflattering photograph of Hawke himself taken recently at an outdoor café in Paris.

Was this just an isolated assassination attempt, based on his past sins? Or, had KGB penetrated Operation Redstick? If the latter, the mission was clearly compromised. The Russians on that frozen Arctic island would be waiting for him, which always made things a bit more dicey.

He stood there, looking at the dead Russian, an idea forming in his head. Whitehall could immediately put out a coded signal, on a channel the Russians regularly monitored.

“Sub arrived on station 0600 for pick-up,” the false signal would read. “Two corpses found at site: British agent and KGB assassin both apparently killed during struggle. Mission compromised, operation aborted.”

Worth a shot, at any rate.

There was a collapsible spade inside the stalking pack on his back. He slipped out of the canvas shoulder straps, removed the shovel from the pack, and, his spirits lightened considerably, he found himself whistling a bit of “When Nightingales Sang in Berkely Square” as he plunged his spade again and again into the icy ground.

Sometimes a man just had to bury his past and bloody well get on with it.

Spy Prologue

The Amazon Basin

THE HUMAN TARGET clawed up the mud-slick walls of the Xingu River; slipping, sliding, desperate. Reaching the bank at long last, he collapsed face down, gasping and exhausted. After a few minutes, his face half-submerged in a puddle of brackish water, he managed to roll over onto his back. The red equatorial sun flamed directly overhead, achingly bright. When he squeezed shut his eyes, it was doubly painful; one burning red orb scorched each eyelid.

The drums began again.

Kill you. Kill you.

The two-note drumbeat was growing louder, he thought. His fevered mind was no longer really sure of anything. Louder meant closer. Yes. His tormenters were still gaining, coming ever nearer. Just across the river now, were they? He pulled his bare and bloody knees up against his chest and wrapped his thin arms round them, trying to curl himself into a ball. His muscles screamed in protest.

He covered his face with his hands, allowing himself for a moment the childish hope that he might just curl up and disappear.

Kill you. Kill—

Magically, the drums had stopped. The Indians had stopped at the river! Turned back, for some mysterious reason. Retreated into the jungle thicket. Or, perhaps he’d only slept and the drums had ceased while he was unconcious. He was never sure anymore, really. Modes of existence merged seamlessly. Reality had become unreal. Was he running? Or, dreaming of running? Awake? Asleep? Daydreaming of sleep? It was all one and the same blur.

A plaintive howl had startled a dozen or so lime-colored birds chirruping in the trees above him. They instantly flew away. Odd. The wavering cry seemed to have sprung from his own lips!

He knew he had at last reached the nadir. His captor had succeeded in turning him into a howling monkey. A low groan escaped his lips as he dug into the muck with both hands. Scooping up handfuls of the slimy gruel, he slathered a thin paste of cool mud onto his arms, his burning cheeks, eyelids, and forehead. It afforded him some small measure of relief.

Strangely, after months in captivity, the man’s skin was preternaturally pale. His waxy, deathlike appearance was accentuated by chronic dysentery and the resulting loss of blood. The man was naturally fair, and black-haired. Now his hair was long, falling in a wild tangle, and his nearly translucent skin was a delicate alabaster.

After long months spent in the eternal semi-darkness of the deepest rainforest, his once startling blue eyes had faded to a dull, whitish shade.

The present nightmare had begun months ago. Perhaps six months, perhaps more. He might well have lost track at some point. Slipped his moorings, crossing the bar. He no longer had any sense of time. Besides, what did it matter, when every day was a monotony of hunger and pain. He sometimes longed for some fresh hell to lift him out of the current one. The Indian drums had put paid to that foolish desire.

Since the ill-fated morning his ‘scientific’ expedition had first met disaster on the river, and his own subsequent personal trials in the jungle, the tall, gaunt white man had been living in a world of almost continual darkness. He had not been tossed into some underground dungeon where no light filtered. No, it was the trees. The dense tree canopy had shut out the light. All of the light.

The terrorist’s slave labor camps were deep within the rainforest. He had spent his days and nights beneath trees the likes of which he’d never seen. At their very top, some two hundred feet over his head, these

impossibly vibrant trees formed a nearly solid canopy of green. Even on the brightest of noons, only hints of watery sunlight ever appeared in his great green prison. The absolute gloom of the place, at all hours of the day, was nearly unimaginable.

Indescribable, really. Alone, his mind had drifted to a treasured book from long ago, the story of an innocent man likewise imprisoned in a world of darkness for crimes he had not committed.

I am lost, the hero of the book had said, another soul alone with his shadows. The book’s title now slid into his conscious mind. It was so perfect a description of his current circumstances as to be almost laughable.

Darkness at Noon.

The runaway’s scruffy, lice-infested black beard reached well below his sternum. His wild black hair, which fell to his waist, was tied with a strip of canvas into a tail at the back of his head. He was, as the old expression had it, skin and bones. He knew he would be unrecognizable should he miraculously chance upon some familiar soul, or, in his wildest moments of delusion, a sliver of broken mirror.

His only clock was an occasional glimpse of the moon. He had seen, he guessed, at least six full ones. He had lived, by this lunar reckoning, for more than half a year in a place where life was sometimes cheap but more often worthless. In the foul hovel where he slept and slaved, the solid canopy of trees kept his entire camp and others like it in perpetual darkness.

He hated every waking hour but most of all he loathed the temperature drop at nightfall. The pitch-black nights were spent in a cold hell that had nothing to do with sleep, peace, or dreams. His home, before he’d managed to escape, had been a shallow pit, a dank hole he’d shared with others of his ilk, men whose names he did not know. At the bottom of his pit, where he slept and ate and defecated, a fetid pool of water. It was bone-cold in that pit.

At night, there was a makeshift thatch of palm kept most of the nocturnal vampire bats away. But not all.

During his captivity, he had managed to close his eyes for only three or perhaps four hours per night. Mosquitoes stabbed at flesh rather than biting it, and swooping vampire bats seemed to favor a spot just below his right earlobe. It made sleep impossible. Each new day, which varied only slightly from the night before it, he and his bleak companions were awakened with buckets of cold water dumped into their pit. Then they were hauled up with short lengths of hemp, all of them bleary-eyed and shivering. Miserable souls all, they were formed up into rectangular squads for roll call. Then they were marched en masse out to the worksites at gunpoint.

There were many pits such as his. And there were probably many more such camps nearby. A vast army of laborers and soldiers was assembling. To what end, he could not say, for he had only the vaguest notions about what went on beyond his immediate perimeter. He was desperate to learn what engine powered this vast machine, but to enquire would be to risk a quick brutal death.

Curiosity had nearly killed him once already.

During the day, toiling with his machete or his shovel, he heard the constant chatter of automatic weapons. Explosions ripped the jungle floor, sending plumes of dirt and green debris skyward. Gunfire was his perpetual soundtrack. The guns never stopped. At night, when the prisoners had their weekly bath at the river, he saw tracer rounds arc across the sky, and shells bloom and thud, hammering the air. He never knew why. He didn’t know who was shooting. Nor who was being shot at. Nor, after a while, did he much care.

It was all just noise, like the droning insect hum of nature, and over time you got accustomed to it. Like the background music of an uninspired composer.

There were guerilla soldiers everywhere. They trained at jungle warfare day and night. They used huge flaming torches mounted atop bamboo poles to continue firing rounds into the small hours. He’d once caught a glimpse of a small village of hollow buildings and fake-fronted houses. He saw men firing from empty windows and leaping over walls. The soldiers were training for urban warfare as well.

His work gang was dedicated to road construction. The gang was constructing a simple limestone causeway in the jungle. These roads had no beginnings and no ends. They just were. The rough-hewn road simply disappeared into the jungle. None amongst them actually knew where this highway led, or than it went north.

And no one, except he himself, seemed to care.

But the highway meant something, he knew that.

He was a natural spy. And, being curious by nature, the man kept his eyes and ears open, day and night. He had no end of material to record. He would have killed, truly, for a pencil stub, a secret journal, even scraps of paper. But of course there were no pencils and no paper available to him. He watched and listened and tried to retain what he could it in the faint hope that he might survive.

He had heard it whispered that his section of limestone road eventually led past the great falls at Diablo Blanco. He had recently been in Africa. These were waterfalls, it was said, that made the towering Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe look like a mere spring torrent. The local Indians he worked alongside called White Devil Falls ‘the smoke that thunders’. Sometimes, when the roaring guns went silent, you could hear that thunder.

One talkative prisoner, a boy named Machado, told him of plans to escape upriver to an outpost river town called Madre de Dios. It was said at night in the camp pits that this outpost was the most dangerous place on earth. He was naturally curious about such a place. And one day he found himself breaking rock next to the young fellow who had spoken of the deep jungle surrounding the Triangle.

“Why is it so dangerous there?” he whispered in his broken Spanish to the boy, one day when the guards were snoozing in the midday heat. Machado, a young Belizean from his camp, proudly wore a ragged T-shirt that said You Better Belize It!

“It’s the crossroads of evil, senor,” the boy whispered.

“Someone stands at this crossroads?” he asked.

“The Devil.”

“Who is this devil?”

“The devil himself, I tell you, or his representative.”

“Does this devil have a name?”

“Sometimes he is called Baron Samedi. Sometimes he is

not.”

“Where can I find this Baron whoever he is?”

“You desire an intercession with the dead?”

“Something like that.”
“You will find the Baron standing at the crossroads where the spirits cross over into our world.”
“And where is that?”
“Don’t ask.”

The boy would say no more.

He knew, he had learned the hard way, that it was unwise to be caught speaking and he surely didn’t care to draw attention to himself. So, after this exchange with Machado, he kept his head down and his mouth shut. He cleared jungle with his machete and he built his bloody road all day and silently planned his own escape. In this, he knew he was by no means unique.

He was but one of numberless thousands of unwilling captives, an enslaved workforce at work in the service of some unseen and unknown power. All he knew for certain now was that another universe existed here in this green hell, a human hive of relentless activity, at least a thousand miles inland from the mouth of the Amazon. All of it lay hidden from civilization’s prying eyes, concealed beneath an impenetrable canopy of green.

He really had no idea where he was; but he was at least a thousand miles inland from the mouth of the Amazon. There was an outpost somewhere down the river, but no one knew how far.
Roads were being built. Airstrips, too. Armies were being trained here and the gunfire was incessant. Everyone lived and worked and died under the canopy. From what little he’d seen, he doubted any of this was a force for good. There was more. He’d seen other horrible things. Slow starvation as punishment. Men shot on the spot for no good reason. A hand or a foot chopped off on a whim. A man crashing through the jungle, his naked body a mass of blood blisters. He was still screaming when he disappeared into the vast green halls. No one would touch him. The virus, someone said.

He was one of the Untouchables who lived in the white building across the river. The medical compound. He’d never seen it but he heard about it. Patients who checked in never checked out. Terrible things were said to happen there.

All this, he imagined, somehow led directly to the man who stood at the crossroads. The devil named Baron Samedi. It was he who had arranged the ambush of the expedition. The man who had killed his companions and captured him barely alive. He knew the Baron’s true identity. He was a monster whose real name was Papa Top. Top made sure there were many days when he wished he’d been lucky and gone down with his friends.

Many days he felt so alone he dropped to his knees on the jungle floor and prayed to God to die.

Pirate Prologue

Cannes

Hawke emerged under the hotel's porte cochere entrance, pausing for a moment to see if his scalp itched or if his spine tingled. On assignment abroad, one expects to be watched. He saw no quickly averted head, or raised newspaper, however, and so he turned right, descending the gently curving drive that led to the avenue. There was little traffic, and he sprinted across the four lanes and grassy median to the beach promenade. Following the curve of the harbor west along le Croisette, he kept the Star in view on his left. From this distance, it looked like normal departure preparations were under way.

Beyond the twinkling lights of the Vieux Port, the glittering coastline lay like a necklace beneath the dark sky. He was, he thought, ready. It promised to be a simple business, to be sure, but it was not in Hawke's nature to pursue any objective with less than the maximum of his ability.

A pair of rope-soled espadrilles had replaced his evening shoes. Here in the south of France, the thin canvas shoes were conveniently stylish and stealthy. Moments before, approaching a brightly lit carousel just outside the Palais du Festival, he had spied an elderly man shivering in the cold. He bequeathed his tie, waistcoat, and dinner jacket to the chap and kept moving.

Walking quickly toward the palm-lined fringes of the marina, he spoke softly into the lipmike of his wireless Motorola.

"Hawke," he said.

"Quick," a distinctly American voice replied in his earpiece. "Good evening, sir." Former army sniper Sergeant Tommy Quick was responsible for security aboard Blackhawke.

"Hi, Tommy," Hawke said. "How do we look for this thing?"

"All the telephoto surveil monitors look good, sir. Normal last-minute activity aboard the subject vessel. Ship's radio officer has been monitoring the Star's transmissions and reports business as usual. Idle chitchat. A pair of cargo cranes loading the midships hold now, as you can probably see from where you are. Looks like heavy equipment. She got her final departure clearance from the port authority an hour ago, confirmed a midnight sailing."

"Good."

"Skipper, again, I have to urge you to reconsider some backup. I don't want--"

"It's a civilian vessel, Tommy. Not military. The hostage is being smuggled out to China by a single guard. I'm good."

"With all due respect, sir, I really gotta say--"

Hawke cut him off. "I'm allowing myself just twenty minutes. Time. Mark."

"Yes, sir. Time: coming up on 23:29.57 GMT...and...mark."

"Mark. Twenty-three thirty GMT. Twenty minutes. Mark."

"Sir, I confirm a fast Zodiac standing off the vessel's portside stern at precisely twenty-three fifty."

"Zodiac mission code?"

"She's mission-coded Chopstick One. Twin Yamaha HPDI 300s. She'll get you out of there in a hurry. I say again, sir, I believe there should be at least minimal backup. If you'd only--"

Hawke cut him off again.

"Tommy, if I can't handle a simple snatch aboard an old rust-bucket like this I really ought to pack it in. Chopstick One, stand by and confirm pickup at eleven-five-oh. Okay? Chop-chop!"

"Aye, aye, sir. There is one thing--"

"Make it snappy. I'm about to do this."

"If you look back up at your hotel, sir, you'll see someone standing out on your terrace with binoculars trained on you. One of my guys has a long telephoto on her now. She's...uh...not wearing much, sir."

"That will be all, Sergeant," Hawke said.

He snapped his mobile shut and quickened his pace. He had deliberately left the Ikons hanging on the balustrade, left behind like all the few recently acquired and untraceable possessions in his suite. But why the hell would she--he paused and looked back at the Carlton. With the naked eye, he could just make out Jet's tiny black silhouette standing at the balcony of his suite. There was a glowing orange dot, her cigarette. He smiled and waved. The glow was immediately extinguished. Interesting behavior. Was she sad that he'd left or curious about where he was going? Make a mental note, old boy.

Hawke made his way past the long row of charter boats, all moored stern-to, in the Mediterranean style, and then out along the curvature of an outer breakwater that culminated in a deepwater pier. There was a trickle of passersby, mostly lovers linked arm in arm, out for a stroll now that the weather had changed. Otherwise, the harbor was quiet. The only activity was dead ahead where the Star of Shanghai was moored. Lights atop a pair of very tall cranes created an oasis around the ancient steamer. At her stern, the faded red flag of the People's Republic of China hung limply in the light breeze.

All the intel he had from Admiral "Blinker" Godfrey at DNI Gibraltar and his old friend Brick Kelly, the new director at Langley, suggested this nocturnal visit of his would be a complete surprise to the Chinese operatives on board the Star. One of them was a Tu-We secret police officer whose dossier Hawke had read twice just to make sure he wasn't seeing things. The man, whose home base was an ancient enclave on the Huang-p'u River, was apparently a human killing machine.

On the plus side, the Chinese skipper aboard the old tramp steamer had no idea the Americans even knew for certain their deep-cover man had gone missing. He'd simply missed a pickup in Morocco, that's all. Happened all the time. Besides, this guy Brock, whoever he was, was a NOC. Such agents, captured in the line of duty, were simply dead men, no questions asked, no answers given. Unless Hawke got him out, his slow death at the hands of the world's most sophisticated torturers was a given.

More importantly, his superiors at Langley would never learn what secrets were imprinted upon his brain. Kelly wanted him alive. Badly.

Hawke stepped over a mooring line running from a hawser on the Star's stern to a bollard on the deepwater pier and brought the scene before him into focus.

A couple of seamen were lounging at the stern rail, smoking cigarettes, watching the fog roll into the harbor. Most of the crew was engaged with the loading going on amidships. There was a single lookout standing at the bow. They'd posted a pair of standard-issue guards at the foot of the gangway. Both were wearing greasy orange slickers with rain hoods. One of them was looking at him now, carefully observing his approach. Unlike most such practitioners of his chosen field, this one looked almost alert. Hawke plastered a drunken smile on his face, dropped his right shoulder, and walked loosely towards the man, concealing the narrow blade along the inside of his right forearm.

"Beggin' yer pardon, Cap'n," Hawke said slurrily to the big fellow, laying his left hand easily on his shoulder. "This wouldn't be the HMS Victory, now, would it? Nelson's barky? Seems I've lost me bloody ship."

The guard sneered, showing his unfortunate teeth, and reached inside his slicker for a weapon.

Hawke instantly inserted the long, thin blade precisely five millimeters below the man's sternum and upward into the thoracic cavity on his left side, found the heart, and ruined it. One small gasp...his eyes went vacant.

Before the first man was dead, Hawke turned and performed an identical procedure on the second, smaller guard. He caught the newly deceased by the collar of his orange waterproof and let him fall silently to the concrete, the dead man's arms sliding out of the sour-smelling garment as he did so.

In a trice, Hawke shouldered himself into the slicker and raised the hood so that his face was in shadow. As he did, he stifled the wave of self-disgust that usually accompanied such vicious and unexpected violence. He actually hated killing, though it was his duty. He took pride in doing it well. It was scant consolation.

Tendrils of fog snaked into the harbor from the sea and wrapped around the old steamer's stacks as Alex Hawke ascended the slippery gangplank. The Star, save the loading activity amidships, was quiet. Having gained the deck, he paused and looked up at the dimly lit bridge. Shadowy figures moved behind the grimy yellow glass of the pilothouse. Two men at least, maybe three. He would start his search for Harry Brock there. He looked at his watch. He was two minutes in, right on schedule.

To his left was a steep corrugated stairwell leading up--more of a ladder than a staircase. He raced up it, and another like it, and arrived on the starboard-side bridge wing. He paused and listened, feeling the faint shudder and thump of the engines beneath his feet. Inside the pilothouse, he could hear muffled voices and laughter. The door was slightly ajar. He shot out his left leg and slammed it inward, stepping inside the hot and stinking bridge with the Walther extended at the end of his right arm. The look of the faces of the two Chinese told him his information from Brick was indeed hard fact. They were hiding something. And surprised.

"Evening, gents," Hawke said, kicking the steel door closed behind him. "Lovely night for it, what?"

"Huh?" said a squat man in grimy coveralls who now moved in front of the fellow in a sheepskin-lined leather jacket who was levering noodles from a box to his hungry mouth. The man advanced toward Hawke, protecting his captain.

"Bad idea," Hawke said. Somehow, the gun was now in his left hand, and a long bloodstained dagger had appeared in his right. The man kept coming and retreated only when Hawke flicked the blade before his eyes. He had little interest in killing these men, at least until he learned the location and condition of their prisoner. Then he would dispatch them without mercy.

"I'm looking for a reluctant passenger of yours, Captain," he said to a man in a leather jacket who wore an ancient captain's cap cocked rakishly over his bushy black brows. "Where might I find him?"

The Chinese captain stopped eating his noodles and, placing the container and chopsticks carefully on a stool, stared at him. Hawke saw something in his eyes and instinctively dove for the floor as rounds from the captain's silenced automatic pistol stitched a pattern in the bulkhead inches above his head. Hawke rolled left and fired the Walther, carefully putting one slug in the captain's thigh and sending him crashing back against the wheel.

There was little time to celebrate. Five fingers that felt like steel bolts sank into the ganglia at the back of his neck. He relaxed, then sucked down a lungful of air at a new sensation: the cold press of steel at his temple. The pressure increased and he dropped his own gun.

"I am in charge of all passengers," an oddly musical voice whispered in his ear, "and you are dead."

"This is all a bit more complicated than I was led to believe," Hawke said, twisting his body carefully and smiling up at the man. The eyes were like a pair of small coals burning twin holes in yellow snow. Then the Tu-We officer racked the slide on his gun.

"Easy, old fellow," Hawke said calmly, getting one foot under him. "Easy does it, right? I'm going to get to my feet now and--" He never finished the sentence.

There was a sudden screech of metal and then a terrific jolt as the ship's entire superstructure shuddered under the violent impact of something slamming against it, just below the pilothouse. Hawke, trying to scramble to his feet, was slammed hard against the bulkhead. The impact was sufficient to send the Tu-We officer and everyone on the bridge flying across the wheelhouse and tumbling to the floor. He heard shouts from the pier below, and then shots rang out--bursts of automatic fire.

Hawke crabbed his way across the chaos of the wheelhouse, managing to recover his Walther from under a sheath of loose documents and navigation charts and broken glass. Then he was up and out onto the bridge wing. Standing at the rail, he saw that one of the two dockside cranes, the one directly abeam, was now coming under intense fire from crewmen standing on the starboard rail. Then he saw why. Some madman was at the controls of the crane. The cab had turned away and now was spinning toward the Star's hull again, the cable taut, and the crazed operator was about to smash the heavily laden pallet against the ship for the second time.

Hawke could see by its trajectory that, this time, the violent impact was targeted at the pilothouse itself. With maybe three seconds to spare, Hawke turned and simply dropped through the stairway opening, hitting the deck hard, and raced aft.

He didn't look back at the violent sound of metal on metal and shattering glass as the crane whipped around and smashed its payload directly into the four angled windows of the Star's bridge. Agonized screams were heard as bodies were smashed in the twisted metal.

He reached the stern rail. On shore, he could hear the keening high-low sirens and see flashing blue lights approaching the harbor from every direction. Les flics to the rescue. Everyone aboard the old tub appeared to have run forward to see what was going on. He looked at his watch. The Zodiac rendezvous was in six minutes. In the pitted bulkhead behind him, a rusted door hung open, steps leading down. Brock had to be down there somewhere. Guarded? Absolutely. It seemed he was expected after all.

How the hell had he imagined this was going to be so simple?

He had one thought as he raced down the steep metal steps.

He'd gone soft. Lazy. Cocky.

Hawke raced down the deserted companionway, a grim corridor lit only by a few bare bulbs suspended from loose wires dangling from the overhead. Doors hung open on either side, opening onto small flyspecked cabins with double- or triple-tiered bunks, empty. At the far end, a large door in the bulkhead opened into the galley.

He stepped inside. The stink of cabbage and rancid grease was overpowering. He was about to turn and retrace his steps, when his eye caught a thin edge of yellow light between two tall cabinets loaded with rusty canned goods, stocks that appeared to be long past their best-by date.

He ripped at the shelving and dodged heavy falling cans of undoubtedly exquisite Chinese delicacies. The cabinet swung open easily, revealing a tiny broom closet of a room, no bigger than six by four. There was a metal rack upon which lay a man, pale and gaunt, who looked as if he'd not eaten or slept during his days in enemy hands. A tin plate with what appeared to be dried vomit rested on his chest, just below his chin. A foul slop bucket stood under his bed. At the sight of Hawke, he tried to sit up, and the thin scrap of blanket fell away, revealing his legs. They were severely bruised and held fast to the frame with strips of heavy canvas.

The man smiled weakly up at Hawke as he entered.

"What part of China you from, mister?" he said, slurring his words.

"I look Chinese to you?" Alex said, and he had the knife in his hand, cutting the canvas from the frame, starting with the left leg.

"Can't see too well. Where are you from?"

"Place called Greybeard. Little island out in the English Channel."

"English, yeah. Thought so. A limey. I'm Harry Brock. From L.A."

"La-la land. Never been there. Have they been torturing you, Harry Brock?" Hawke asked, inspecting Brock's horribly swollen feet and ankles.

"Nothing Dr. Scholl can't fix," Brock said, laughing weakly. "I don't know. Been on the run. Can't remember much of the last few days."

"Drugs, Mr. Brock. Chlorides. Pentothal. Anything broken? Can you walk?"

"I think so. Any chance at all of us getting out of here?" the man said. The fear that this might not be so was writ large in his dilated blue eyes.

"That's the general idea," Hawke replied, cutting the last of the bonds. "On your feet, Mr. Brock. Let's get off this tub before it sinks."

"Sounds good," the American said, and, with Hawke's help, he swung his legs painfully off the frame and got his feet under him. He swayed and Hawke put one arm around him.

"I won't be much good to you in a fight. I think the bastards have broken my wrists. One of 'em, anyway. Ever hear of an ugly little shit named Hu Xu?"

"Can't say I have. We're going to make straightaway for the stern. As fast as you're able. Over the rail. I've got a man waiting below in a Zodiac. He's expecting us now. Can you make it?"

As he said this last, Hawke heard a now familiar high-pitched voice behind him. He whirled, and his right hand came up in a blinding motion, the Assassin's Fist already on its deadly way. The Tu-We officer appeared to move his head less than an inch to the left and Hawke's blade twanged into the wooden shelving, the knife handle vibrating just beside its intended victim's ear.

"You are knife fighter?" the man said in his disturbingly childlike voice. "Good. I, too."

Assassin, Prologue

Venice

The late afternoon sun slanted through the tall windows opening onto the Grand Canal. There were silken peacocks in the velvet draperies and they stirred in the salty Adriatic breeze. These warm evening zephyrs sent sunstruck motes of dust swirling indolently upward toward the vaulted and gilded ceiling.

Naked, lying atop the brocade coverlet of the grand canopied bed, the Honorable Simon Clarkson Stanfield rolled over and impatiently stubbed out his cigarette in the heavy crystal ashtray beside his bed. He lifted his keen grey eyes to the windows and gazed intently at the scene beyond them. The timeless and ceaseless navigation of Venetians had never lost its fascination for him.

At this moment, however, the vaporetti, water taxis, and produce-laden gondolas plying their way past the Gritti Palace were not the focus of his attention. Nor were the fairy-tale Byzantine and Baroque palazzi lining the opposite side of the canal, shimmering in the waning golden light. His attention was directed toward a sleek mahogany motorboat that was just now working its way through the traffic. The beautiful Riva seemed to be heading for the Gritti's floating dock.

Finally.

He swung his long legs over the side of the bed and stood, sucking in the beginnings of an unfortunate gut reflected from far too many angles in the mirrored panels between each of the windows. He'd recently turned fifty, but he worked hard at staying in shape. Too much good wine and pasta, he thought patting his belly. How the hell did these local Romeos stay so thin? He was sliding across the polished parquet floors in his leather slippers, headed for the large open balcony when the telephone jangled.

"Yes?"

"Signore, prego," the concierge said, "you asked to be called, subito, the moment la Signorina arrived from the aeroporto. The Marco Polo taxi is coming. Almost to the dock now."

"Grazie mille, Luciano," Stanfield said. "Sì, I can see her. Send her up, per favore."

"Va bene, Signore Stanfield."

Luciano Pirandello, the Gritti's ancient majordomo, was an old and trusted friend, long accustomed to the American's habits and eccentricities. Signore never used the hotel's entrance, for instance. He always came and went through the kitchen, and he always took the service elevator to the same second floor suite. He took most of his meals in his rooms and, save a few late night forays to that American mecca known as Harry's Bar, that's where he stayed.

Now that he was such a well-known personage in Italy, il Signore's visits to Venice had become shorter and less frequent. But Luciano's palm had been graced by even more generous contributions. After all, the great man's privacy and discretion had to be ensured. Not to mention many visiting "friends" who had, over the years, included a great number of the world's most beautiful women, some of them royalty, some of them film stars, many of them inconveniently married to other men.

Shouldering into a long robe of navy silk, Stanfield moved out under the awning of the balcony to watch Francesca disembark. Luciano stood in his starched white jacket at the end of the dock, bowing and scraping, extending his hand to la Signorina as she managed to step deftly ashore without incident despite the choppy water and the bobbing Riva. Sprezzatura, Francesca called it. The art of making the difficult look easy. She always behaved as if she were being watched, and of course she always was.

Not only Stanfield watched from the shadows of his balcony, but also everyone sipping aperitifs or aqua minerale and munching antipasti on the Gritti's floating terrace stared at the famous face and figure of the extravagantly beautiful blonde film star in the yellow linen suit.

Luciano, smiling, offered to take her single bag, a large fire-engine-red Hermès pouch that hung from her shoulder by a strap, but she refused, pushing his hand away abruptly and snapping at him. Odd, Stanfield thought. He'd never seen Francesca snap at anyone, especially Luciano, the soul of beneficent charm. Foul humor? She was six hours late. Hell, six hours of sitting on your backside at Rome Fiumicino Airport would be enough to put anyone in a bad mood.

Stanfield watched the top of Francesca's blond head disappear beneath his balcony balustrade and took a deep breath, inhaling both the scent of damp marble within the room and the smell of springtime marsh that came in off the canal. Soon, his room would be filled with the scent of Chanel Number 19. He had known she would not dare look up and catch his eye and he had not been disappointed. He smiled. He was still smiling, thinking of Francesca's backside, when there came a soft knocking at the heavy wooden door.

"Caro," she said as he pulled it open to admit her. "I'm so sorry, darling. Scusa?"

Stanfield's reply was to gather her up into his arms, inhale her, and waltz her across the floor. There was a champagne bucket full of mostly melted ice, two upside down glasses, and a half-empty bottle of Pol Roger Winston Churchill standing by the window. Putting her down, he plucked a single flute from the bucket and handed it to her, then filled the glass with the foaming amber liquid.

She downed it in one draught and held the glass out for more.

"Thirsty, darling?" Stanfield asked, refilling her glass and pouring one for himself.

"It was, what do you call it, a fucking nightmare."

"Sì, un fottuto disastro," Stanfield said with a smile. "All part of the glamour of the tryst, the illicit liaison, my dear Francesca. The endless obstacles the gods delight in placing between the two venal lovers. Traffic jams, rotten weather, the suspicious spouse, the vagaries of Italian airlines -- what happened to you, anyway? You were invited for lunch."

"Caro, don't be angry with me. It was not my fault. The stupid director, Vittorio, he would not let me leave the set for two hours past the time he promised. And, then it was a vagary with the stupid Alitalia. And then -- "

"Shh," Stanfield said, putting a finger to her infinitely desirable red lips. He pulled a small gilded chair away from the window, sat, and said, "Turn around. Let me look at your backside."

Francesca obeyed and stood quietly with her back to him, sipping her third glass of champagne. The dying rays of light off the canal played with the taut curve of her hips and the cleft of her celebrated buttocks.

"Bella, bella, bella," Stanfield whispered. He emptied the balance of the cold wine into his glass and, without taking his eyes off of the woman, picked up the phone and ordered another bottle.

"Caro?" the woman asked after the click of the receiver in its cradle had punctuated what became a few long moments of silence.

"Tiptoes," he said, and watched the fetching rise of her calf muscles as she giggled and complied. He had taught her the word tiptoes soon after they'd met and it had become one of her favorite words. She flung her blonde hair around, twisting her head and gazing down at him over her shoulder with those enormous brown doe eyes. Eyes which, up on the silver screen, had reduced men the world over into quivering masses of helpless, dumbstruck protoplasm.

"I have to pee," she announced. "Like a racecourse."

"Horse," Stanfield said, "Racehorse." He smiled and nodded his head and Francesca walked across to the bathroom, pulling the door closed behind her.

"Christ," Stanfield said to himself. He got to his feet and walked out onto the balcony and into the gathering twilight. He found himself breathing rapidly and willed his heartbeat to slow. He saw this emotion for exactly what it was. Unfamiliar, yes, but still recognizable.

He might actually be falling in love with this one.

A phrase from his plebe year at Annapolis floated into his mind as he stared at the familiar but still heartbreaking beauty of the Grand Canal at dusk. An expression that the pimply cadet from Alabama had used to describe the path of his alcoholic father's personal ride to ruin.

My daddy, he was in a hot rod to Hell with the top down.

She could bring it all tumbling down, this one could, like one of those devastating Sicilian earthquakes. His thirty-year-old marriage, his hard-fought place on the world's political stage, his --

"Caro? Prego?"

The Campanile bell tower in the nearby Piazza San Marco tolled seven times before he turned and went to her.

Pale blue moonlight poured through the windows. Francesca feigned sleep as her lover slipped from the bed and went toward the dim yellow light of the bathroom. He left the door slightly ajar and she watched him perform his usual rituals. First he brushed his teeth. Then he ran two military brushes through his silver hair until it swept back in perfect matching waves from his high forehead. She admired his naked back and the muscles bunched at his shoulders as he leaned forward to inspect his teeth in the mirror.

He then pulled the door softly shut. She couldn't see him but she knew precisely what he was doing. He'd be lifting the seat to urinate, then putting it back down. Then he'd take a hand towel and wash himself, down there. His grey trousers, white silk shirt and cashmere blazer were all hanging on the back of the door. Reaching for them, he --

It would all take five minutes, easily. More than enough time to do what she had to do.

She'd deliberately left her shoulder bag on the floor just under her side of the bed, shoving it there with her foot while he was admitting the room service waiter. She rolled over onto her stomach and reached for it, pulling the drawstrings apart. She reached into the bag, slipping two fingers inside a small interior pouch. She found the tiny disc and withdrew it. She then backhanded the heavy bag under the bed again so that he wouldn't step on it when, as was his custom, he bent to kiss her before slipping out for his traditional solo nightcap.

She rolled over to his side of the bed and reached for the alligator billfold on his bedside table. She held it above her face, opened it, and ran her index finger lightly over the gold monogrammed letters S.C.S. Then she carefully slipped the encrypted micro-thin disc into one of the unused pouches on the left side, opposite the credit cards and a thick fold of lire on the right. The thin disc was made of flexible material. The odds of his discovering it were nil. She put the wallet back on the bedside table, exactly as he'd left it, then rolled over onto her back.

A soft shaft of yellow light expanded on the ceiling as the bathroom door was opened and Simon padded quietly around the foot of the bed. Eyes closed, her bosom rising and falling rhythmically, Francesca listened to Stanfield slip his cigarette case, billfold, and some loose change into the pockets of the beautiful black cashmere blazer she'd bought for him in Florence.

He came around to her side of the bed and stood silently for a moment before bending to kiss her forehead.

"Just going over to Harry's for my nightcap, darling. I won't be long, I promise. One and done."

"Ti amo," Francesca whispered sleepily. "This is for you, caro," she said, handing him a small red rosebud she'd plucked from the vase on her bedside table. "For your lapel, così non lo dimenticherete, so you won't forget me."

"Ti amo, too," he said, and, after inserting the stem of the rose into the buttonhole in his lapel and stroking a wing of her hair away from her forehead, he left her side. "Ciao."

"Ritorno-me, caro mio," she said.

A moment later, the bedroom door closed softly behind him and Francesca whispered in the dark. "Arrividerci, caro."

Stanfield took the service elevator down to the ground floor, turned to his right and proceeded down the short hallway that led to the kitchen. Il facchino, the ancient hall porter named Paolo, was dozing with his chair tilted back against the tiled wall. Stanfield placed the tasseled key to his suite on the folded newspaper in the old fellow's lap.

"La chiave, Paolo," he whispered.

"Con piacere. Buona sera, signore," he said as Stanfield passed. He's been through this routine so often he now says it in his sleep, Stanfield thought.

Stepping through the kitchen's service door and out into the empty Campo Santa Maria del Giglio, a smile of pleasure played across Stanfield's features. It was his favorite time of night. Very few people about, the enchanted city now turned many shades of milky blue and white. He started walking across the plaza, the recent memories of Francesca still blooming in his mind like hothouse flowers, the lush scent of her still lingering on his fingers.

Yes. Her ivory skin, whiter in those places where the most delicate articulations of the joints showed through; and her lily fingers which danced upon his body still, to some mystic memory of music.

And now, the small perfection of a quiet stroll over to Harry's for a large whiskey, straight up, an appropriate cigar, the Romeo y Julieta, and some time to reflect on his incredible good fortune. He'd always enjoyed wealth, been born with it. But he'd played his cards right and now he'd reached the point where it was time to see what serious power felt like. Now he knew. A thoroughbred pawing the turf in the starting gate.

And, he's off! called the announcer in his mind, and indeed he was.

He turned right on the Calle del Piovan, then crossed the little bridge over the Rio dell'Albero. It was only a quarter of a mile to Harry's, but the twisting and turning of the narrow streets made it --

Jesus Christ.

What the living hell?

There was a strange, high-pitched chirping sound behind him. He turned and looked over his shoulder and literally could not believe his eyes. Something, he could not imagine what, was flying straight towards him! A tiny red eye blinking, blinking faster as whatever the thing was headed rapidly for him, and he realized that if he just stood there it would, what, hit him? Knock him down? Blow him up? Breaking into an instant sweat, he turned and started running like a madman.

Insanity. No longer out for an evening stroll, Simon Stanfield was now running for his life.

Feeling the surge of adrenaline, he sprinted down the Calle Larga XXII Marza, dodging passersby, flying past the darkened shops, headed for the Piazza San Marco where maybe he might just lose this apparition. A quiet drink at Harry's would just have to wait. He'd shake off this thing somehow, and what a story he'd have to tell Mario when he got there! No one would believe it. Hell, he himself still couldn't believe it.

Stanfield was a man who took care of himself. He was, at fifty, in impeccable physical condition. But this thing matched his every move, never losing nor gaining ground, just hurtling after him turn for turn. He raced over another tiny arched bridge and dodged left into the Campo San Moise. The few people he passed stopped and stared after him, open-mouthed. The chirping, blinking thing streaking after a running man was so absurd it made people shake their heads in bewilderment. It had to be a movie scene. But where were the cameras and crew? Who was the star?

"Aiuto! Aiuto!" the man shouted at them, screaming now for help, calling for the police. "Chiamate una polizia! Subito! Subito!"

There were always a few carabinieri hanging about St. Mark's Square, Stanfield thought feverishly. He'd just have to find one to get this goddamned thing off his back. But what could they do? Shoot it down? He was getting winded now, he realized, looking over his shoulder at that horrible flashing red eye as he raced into the nearly empty piazza. Very few people around, and no one at the distant café tables lining the square paid much attention to the screaming man since they could see no one chasing him. A drunk. A loco.

What the fuck am I going to do? Simon Stanfield thought feverishly. I'm fast running out of gas here. And options. The familiar shapes of the Basilica of St. Mark and the Doge's Palace loomed up before him. Can't run much farther. Nowhere to run to, baby, nowhere to hide. His only hope was the goddamned thing hadn't yet closed the gap. If it were meant to take him out, surely it could have easily done so already.

Maybe this was just a really God-awful nightmare. Or this little flying horror was someone's incredibly elaborate idea of a practical joke. Or maybe he had acquired his own personal smart bomb. He was not only running out of gas, but ideas as well. And then he had a good one.

He angled right and made straight for the tall tower of the Campanile, swung hard right into the piazzetta leading to the canal. Pumping his knees now, Stanfield passed through the columns of San Marco and San Teodoro and kept on going. The thing was getting closer now, louder, and the chirps had solidified into a single keening note. He couldn't see it, but he guessed the red eye wasn't blinking anymore either.

The Grand Canal was maybe twenty yards away.

He might make it.

He put his head down and barreled forward, just like the old days, an enraged bull of a Navy fullback bound for the end zone, no defenders, nothing standing between him and glory. He reached the edge, filled his lungs with air, and dove, flew into the Grand Canal.

He clawed his way down through the cold murky water, and then he stopped, hung there a moment treading water. He opened his eyes and looked up. He couldn't believe it.

The little red-eyed bastard had stopped too.

It was hovering just above him, a glowing red oval contracting and expanding on the undulating surface of the water.

Gotcha, Stanfield thought, relief flooding him along with the realization that he'd finally managed to outwit the goddamn thing. That's when he saw the red eye nose over and break the surface, then streak downward through the shadows towards him, growing larger and larger until it obliterated everything.

Few people actually witnessed the strange death of Simon Clarkson Stanfield, and those who did, did so from too far away to be able to tell exactly what they'd seen.

There were a number of gondoliers ferrying a group of late night revelers from late supper at the Hotel Cipriani back to the Danieli. Singing and laughing, few even heard the muffled explosion in the dark waters just off Venezia's most famous plaza. One alert gondolier, Giovanni Cavalli, not only heard it, but saw the water erupt into a frothy pinkish mushroom about fifty yards from his passing gondola.

But, Giovanni was in the midst of a full-throated rendition of "Santa Lucia" as he poled by; his clients were enraptured, and the gondolier made no move to pole over and take a closer look. Whatever he'd seen had looked so unpleasant as to surely dampen the Americans' generosity of spirit and perhaps seal their pockets as well. Minutes later, as his gondola slid to a stop at the Hotel Danieli's dock, he ended the solo with his famous tremolo obbligato, bowing deeply to the vigorous applause, sweeping his straw hat low before him like a matador.

Early next morning in the Campo San Barnaba, the gondolier Giovanni Cavalli and his mother were inspecting the ripe tomatoes on the vegetable barge moored along the seawall of the plaza. Giovanni noticed the owner, his friend Marco, wrap some newly purchased fagiolini in the front page of today's Il Giornale and hand them to an old woman.

"Scusi," Giovanni said, taking the bundle of green beans from the startled woman and unwrapping it. He dumped her carefully selected vegetables, just weighed and paid for, back on the heaping mound of fagiolini.

"Ma che diavolo vuole?" the woman shrieked, asking him what the devil he wanted as he turned his back on her and spread the front page out over Marco's beautiful vegetables. There was a picture of a very handsome silver-haired man with a huge headline that screamed: Murder In Piazza San Marco!

"Momento, eh?" Giovanni said to the outraged woman, "Scusi, scusi." Ignoring the woman's flailing fists, which felt like small birds crashing blindly against his back, Giovanni devoured every word. There had indeed been a most bizarre murder in the piazza last night. An American had died under the most curious of circumstances. Witnesses said the apparently deranged man dove into the Grand Canal and simply exploded. Police were initially convinced the man had been a terrorist wearing a bomb belt who had somehow run amok. Later, when they learned the identity of the victim, a shockwave rippled throughout Italy and down the long corridors of power in Washington, D.C. The dead man was Simon Clarkson Stanfield.

The recently appointed American Ambassador to Italy.

Hawke, Prologue

"Hmm. I do seem to remember that. Some kind of wildly experimental submarine program. The Soviets were building a prototype at the Komsomolsk yard. Tail end of the Cold War. Never got it operational as I recall. Is that it?"

"Exactly. The Russians called it the Borzoi. They'd gotten their hands on a lot of our stealth technology. And they'd also developed some of their own. Plus a three-foot-thick coating of sonar- and radar-absorptive material, advanced fuel-cell technology, and a virtually silent propulsion system. The sub carries forty of their SS-N-20 SLBMs. Long-range Sturgeon ballistic missiles."

"Carries? As in present tense?"

"Yes."

"Christ."

"The thing is huge. Shaped like a boomerang, hence the name. Two airfoil-shaped hulls join at the bow to form a V shape, twenty missile silos on each hull. Virtually invisible to detection. When she's running submerged at speed, a single conning tower at the bow is retracted entirely within the hull."

"An underwater flying wing."

"Yes. An invisible underwater flying wing. At least three times faster than anything either of us has got."

"Bloody hell. They actually got one up and running?"

"They built two."

"Yes?"

"We can only account for one."

"What do our new best friends have to say about that?"

"Moscow says it was stolen."

"Security never being their strong point."

"Exactly. They say they have no idea where it is. The theory both at Defense and here at State is that one sub has probably been sold. The president would like you to find out who sold it. And more importantly, who bought it. And when."

"Consider it done," the Englishman said, springing from his bed and grabbing his robe from the back of a chair.

"We could have phone sex now if you'd like," the woman said.

"I wouldn't even dream of taking advantage of you at a moment like this, darling."

"I'll take that as a no. Go back to sleep. Good night, baby."

"Good night."

"I love you, Alex," the woman said.

But the Englishman's heart was in another place entirely, and he had no reply to that.

"Good night," he repeated softly, and replaced the receiver. He had told her that their relationship was over. And that he was very much in love with another woman. No matter what he said, or how frequently, however, it didn't seem to take.

He stood up, stretched, and pushed the bell that would alert Pelham down in the kitchen that he'd be having an early breakfast. Then he dropped to the floor by his bed, did his customary thirty push-ups and fifty sit-ups, followed by the rest of his exercise program. Muscles aflame, he then headed for the shower.

Under the scalding water, Alexander Hawke was surprised to find himself singing at the top of his lungs.