Warlord: An Alex Hawke Novel

ONE

BERMUDA, PRESENT DAY

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

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

But he seldom noticed such things anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pelham said, Just going on twelve noon, sir.

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

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

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

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

What time is your appointment, sir?

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

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

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

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

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

The Jolly? You must be mad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I intended to bake banana bread, sir.

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

None, sir.

He strikes again, does he not?

Who strikes, sir?

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

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

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

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

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

To Pelham’s chagrin, Ambrose Congreve, a man who had practically raised Hawke from boyhood, had had no end of heart-to-heart talks with his lordship about his self-destructive behavior, all to little or no avail. Congreve’s 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 that marvelous daiquiri down to the beach. Get a bit of sun. I’m looking dreadfully pale these days, wouldn’t you agree? A mere ghost of my former self.

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

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

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

You recently turned thirty-three, sir.

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

You specified cake, no candles, sir.

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

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

TWO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, thank you.

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

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

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

How are you feeling, Alex?

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

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

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

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

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

Any health issues I should know about, Alex?

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

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

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

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

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

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

How is the drinking, Alex?

Fabulous. Never better, in fact.

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

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

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

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

Indeed.

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

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

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

Now, Alex—

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

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

Your point being?

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

Do you feel suicidal, Alex?

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

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

Ah, yes, the rubber room. Good luck.

Meaning?

You’ll never take me alive. I’m quite serious.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alex, please let me try to help you to—

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

He vanished.

THREE

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

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

Pelham, m’lord. A call for you, sir.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Prince, sir.

The prince? The prince of bloody what?

His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, sir.

Charles?

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t own a terry robe, sir.

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

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

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

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

Alex? Is that you on the line?

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

Sorry about the dreadful hour.

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

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

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

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

I did. Thank you for that.

Any rate, marvelous to hear your voice again.

And yours as well, sir.

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

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

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

I need you back here in England.

What on earth is the matter, Charles?

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

Are the police watching anyone? Any suspects?

Of course.

But it’s not enough.

Precisely.

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

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

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

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

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

Yes.

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

On Mullaghmore Head. Of course, I remember.

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

Obviously a suspect.

One of many.

Why in God’s name was McGirl freed?

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

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

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

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

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

Good Lord, Charles. Was the thing signed?

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

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

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

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

Yes.

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

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

Point well taken.

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

Good Lord. What did the note say?

"Pawn takes kings."

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

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

Signed ‘The Pawn’? Handwriting?

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

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

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

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

I’ve another favor to ask, sorry to say.

Not at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re coming. That’s what matters now.

Good-bye, Charles.

Good-bye, Alex. And God bless you.

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

Pelham?

Sir? he said, looking up.

What time is it? I mean right now?

Just past four in the morning.

Set an alarm, will you? Six sharp.

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

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

Got it.

Good.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His service record, however, was not unblemished.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FOUR

GLOUCESTERSHIRE, ENGLAND

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

His tiny little corner of it at any rate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Him?

His lordship.

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

Lord Hawke, sir.

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

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

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

Alex?

I believe I mentioned that.

How are you, dear boy?

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

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

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