Assassin ah-2 Page 13

  Pelham lifted the tails of his cutaway and sat in the lovely old Windsor chair Alex had acquired at an estate sale in Kent.

  “Good. We need all the help we can get on this. Now, Ross, tell Pelham and me what happened when you and the Constable went up to the church that night?”

  “Ah, yes. The proverbial dark and stormy night. It was raining buckets, and my expectations were low. The crime scene had been, by that time, thoroughly investigated. But, the Constable reminded me, mere crime scene investigators are not to be confused with Ambrose Congreve.”

  Stoke laughed. “Boy is a natural, ain’t he? Natural born copper.”

  “On the assumption the shooter had spent the night or most of it up in the tree, we did a three-sixty around the base of the tree. Twice.” Ross reached inside his jacket and removed a small glassine envelope. “The Chief found this the second time round. It’s just back from the evidence lab at Victoria Street.”

  Stoke took the envelope and held it up to the light.

  “Don’t look like much.”

  “It’s the stump end of a cigar, actually. Both wrapper and filler have been identified as Cuban leaf. There was a bit of foil label embedded in the wrapper. Lab was able to determine the brand. Cohiba.”

  “So where does that take us? You can buy Cuban cigars anywhere.”

  “Quite right. But the label indicated this cigar was not made for export. It could only have been purchased in Cuba.”

  “Well, lots of them Cuban folks down there would like to bust Alex’s chops, but we killed most of ’em when we blew the shit out of that rebel submarine base.”

  “Stoke,” Sutherland said, leaning forward, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Soviet sniper rifle. Got to be hundreds of them lying around in the one Communist country we didn’t even mention. Cuba. Russkies left ’em behind when they pulled out of there. Shooter could be Cuban all right. God knows, we pissed a bunch of them off down there and—”

  “Cuba,” Sutherland interrupted. “The one name Alex asked the Chief Inspector to add to his list.”

  It was then that Pelham dropped his teacup. It hit the floor with a tinkling crash and shattered, splashing tea on Stokely’s trousers.

  “Good Lord!” Pelham exclaimed. “I must be losing my mind!”

  “Ain’t no harm done, Pelham. Here, I can pick it all up and—”

  “I’ve done the most dreadful thing,” Pelham said. “Absolutely dreadful. I must be getting perfectly senile.”

  “What are you talking about, Pelham?” Sutherland asked. “You, dear fellow, are simply incapable of doing anything dreadful.”

  Pelham took a deep breath and stared at the two men.

  “You two are thinking the man who murdered Victoria was possibly Cuban?”

  “We currently exploring that possibility, yes.”

  “This may be completely irrelevant,” Pelham said, rubbing his white-gloved hands together anxiously.

  “You trying to solve a cold-blooded murder, Pelham, ain’t nothing irrelevant,” Stokely assured him.

  “Well. It was about a week after everyone returned from the Caribbean. After the very successful conclusion of what his lordship humorously called his ‘personal Cuban missile crisis.’ Vicky was a guest at the house in London, recuperating from the ordeal of her abduction at the hands of the Cuban rebels. Would someone mind pouring me a wee dram of whiskey? I’m feeling a bit off.”

  “Hell, Pelham,” Stokely said, “It’s way past nine o’clock in the morning, I’ll pour you a glass.”

  Stokely went to the drinks table and peered at the silver labels hanging from the necks of the various heavy crystal decanters. He’d never had a drop of alcohol in his life and was a bit unsure as to what was whiskey and what was not.

  “It’s the one on the far left, Stoke,” Sutherland said. “Please continue, Pelham.”

  “Well. At any rate, Vicky and Alex had had a lovely evening at the house in Belgrave Square. They dined alone. After dinner, I took them up and showed them the hidden room where I’d kept all of Alex’s childhood toys and mementoes. There was a lovely portrait of Lord and Lady Hawke there. Alex and I somehow managed to get the large picture properly hung above the fireplace in the sitting room. They sat for a long time on the sofa, just staring up at it. Quite an emotional experience for Alex, I must say, finally coming to grips with the death of his parents.”

  “What happened after that, Pelham?” Stokely asked.

  “Well, as I say, there was a beastly storm that night and I had laid a great fire in the hearth. It was a’blazing away and I left them sitting there, cozy and comfortable. I went into the pantry to take up my needlepoint. When I returned some hours later, I discovered they’d fallen asleep. It was about three in the morning and I decided just to put a fur throw over them and go on up to bed. That’s when it happened.”

  “What?” Sutherland said gently, for clearly the old fellow was deeply troubled.

  “I was on my way up to my rooms, you see, and I heard someone ringing at the front door.”

  “At three in the morning?” Sutherland said.

  “Yes. Madness, naturally, unless it was some kind of emergency which it wasn’t. I went down, turned on the exterior carriage lamps, which I had shut off moments before, and I opened the door. There was a man standing there in the drenching rain. He was wearing a black cloak and holding a large black umbrella. He announced, in an appallingly rude manner, that he was looking for Alexander Hawke. I informed him that Lord Hawke was hardly receiving at this hour. ‘Give him this,’ he said, and handed me a small golden medallion. I recognized it as having belonged to his lordship.”

  “You later gave it to Alex?” Stokely asked.

  “No. That’s the dreadful thing. I slipped it inside my waistcoat pocket and toddled off to bed, fully intending to give it to his lordship next morning. When I went down to prepare breakfast at seven, I found a note from his lordship saying that he and Vicky had risen at first light and driven down to Hawkesmoor for a few last days in the Cotswolds before she returned to America. I put the medallion in the silver box where he keeps all his medals. And, completely and inexcusably, forgot to ever even mention it to him. Since he never looks at his medals, I’m quite sure that, to this day, he doesn’t know a thing about it.”

  Stokely, looking not at Pelham but at Sutherland, said, “What did that medallion look like?”

  “It was a St. George’s medal,” Pelham said, “It had his initials on the reverse side. A gift from his mother. I noticed he wasn’t wearing it upon his return from Cuba and asked him about it. He told me he’d lost it down there.”

  “It’s the medal Alex was wearing round his neck the night we rescued Vicky, Ross,” Stoke said. “One of the guards cut the gold chain and took it away from him. We were so busy trying to get out of there alive, we forgot all about it.”

  “Pelham, can you give us a physical description of this fellow on the steps?” Ross said, excited.

  “Well, I remember he kept the umbrella low, as if to hide his face. But when he turned to go, I caught a glimpse of him in the light of the carriage lamps. Most extraordinary. He had absolutely no color in the pupils of his eyes.”

  Stokely and Sutherland both got to their feet at the same time.

  “This guy,” Stoke said, his voice choked with excitement, “He have any kind of accent, Pelham?”

  “Yes,” Pelham said. “A very distinct accent. Spanish.”

  “The man with no eyes,” Stoke said. “Shit. Alex was right. We should have been looking at Cubans.”

  “Scissorhands,” Sutherland agreed. “That’s what Vicky said all the Cuban guards called him. Chap who liked to cut up people with a pair of silver scissors hung round his neck.”

  Stokely slapped his forehead hard enough to send the average man crashing to the floor.

  “Ross? That SWAT guy got whacked down in Miami? Like I was saying, Dade County Medical Examiner said somebody drove a sharp object i
nto his brain. Through his eyes. The M.E. said the object was probably a pair of very sharp scissors.”

  “Stoke,” Ross said, trying to sound calm, “The serial number on the scope in the tree. He’d filed it off, right?”

  “I was saving that part for last,” Stoke smiled. “No, he didn’t. I read that serial number off to my new best friend at Leupold. Identical match. All they scopes now officially accounted for.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  London, December 1999

  TWILIGHT ON THE THAMES. IT WAS ALEX HAWKE’S FAVORITE time of day and he stood, hands clasped behind his back, at one of the broad glass windows of his fifteenth-floor office. He was gazing at, mesmerized by would be more accurate, both the river traffic and the motor traffic criss-crossing Waterloo Bridge. There was a fine misty rain falling and it made that late December evening shimmer and glow like one of Turner’s luminous paintings of the palaces of Westminster.

  Fin de siècle, Hawke thought, last one I’ll ever see.

  The year was 1999, in the waning days shortly before the turn of the century, and Alex Hawke was thinking at that moment of calling the beautiful woman he’d met at a pre-New Year’s fete just the night before. An American doctor named Victoria Sweet who’d written a wonderful children’s book called, what was it, The Whirl-o-Drome. She was perhaps the loveliest—

  There was a quiet knock at his half-opened door.

  “Yes?”

  “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but Ambassador Kelly is on the line. I thought you might like to speak to him, sir.” Alex turned from the window and saw his secretary of many years, the exquisitely formed Sarah Branham, framed in the doorway.

  He smiled at her and said, “Yes, Sarah, thank you, I would. Put him through straightaway.”

  She pulled the door closed and Alex collapsed his lanky frame deep into one of a semicircle of large leather club chairs overlooking the river. He propped his feet on the round table. It was a three-foot-high, six-foot cross section of an ancient, fluted, marble column.

  “Hello, Brick,” he said, picking up the phone. “Lovely soiree last night. Thanks for including me.”

  “You certainly seemed taken by the guest of honor.”

  “She’s stunning.”

  “Why do you think I sat you next to her?” Kelly asked in his soft Virginia accent. “Now, tell me. What lean and hungry young lioness awaits the pleasure of your company at supper this evening?”

  “I only wish,” Hawke said. “Truth be told, I’ve asked the lovely Sarah to fetch me up the dreaded Omelet du jour from our third-floor eatery. I plan to down it at my desk over the Times crossword, actually.”

  “Horrible idea. Here’s an alternative plan of action you might consider. Last minute, but what the hell. Might just lift your spirits. Seeing as how you’re the chair and I sit on the admissions committee at Nell’s, I couldn’t resist calling you.”

  “You’re calling about Nell’s? Must be an extremely slow day in diplomatic circles.”

  Nell’s was perhaps the poshest, most glamourous private nightspot in all of London. Dark and clubby, one would imagine it stuffy, but it had retained its alluring aura since the Swinging Sixties. The four imperious and haughty gentlemen in boiled shirts and stiff white ties who guarded the door might give the newcomer the impression of high propriety. But, on the contrary, Nell’s snug bar and miniscule disco dance floor had been the scene of some of the wildest nights on record during the booming eighties and, even now, in the late nineties.

  It remained a members-only sanctuary where royalty, the aristocracy, and the well-heeled ladies and gentlemen of society could let their hair down, bare their souls, and, rumor had it, sometimes my lady’s breasts as well. Unsurprisingly, it had long been one of Alex’s favorite haunts, and he’d recently accepted the job of chairing the admissions committee.

  “Cough it up, Brick,” Hawke said, intrigued. Anything to escape these bloody markets and the dreaded Omelet du jour.

  “Well, here’s the drill, Alex. You probably don’t remember Sonny Pendleton?”

  “I do. Your second in command in the desert.”

  “That’s him. Anyway, he’s ascended to the role of a rather large cheese at the Defense Department now and he’s in London on business this week and just called to ask a favor. I was inclined to turn him down, but the more I thought about it, the more amusing I thought it might be. Especially if I could cajole you into joining me.”

  “Spill the beans, Brick. What’s up?”

  “See, Hawke? Despite your best efforts, you are gradually picking up the Yank lingo. Anyway, Sonny called to see if I’d have dinner tonight. Meet this guy he’s doing some business with who is extremely determined to become a member of Nell’s. Quid pro quo situation. The guy’s putting a lot of pressure on Sonny, who’s putting a lot of pressure on me since he knows I’m on the committee.”

  “I give up. Who’s the guy?”

  “You’re not going to believe it. It’s the notorious Mr. bin Wazir, who just reopened Beauchamp’s Hotel under a new spelling.”

  Hawke laughed. “The Pasha of Knightsbridge? You’ve got to be joking.”

  “Formerly the Pasha of Knightsbridge,” Brick said. “Now, after the Beauchamps fiasco, the Pariah of Knightsbridge.”

  “Bin Wazir? At Nell’s? What’s Sonny smoking these days?” Alex asked. “Does he think this lunatic has a snowball’s chance in hell of getting past Nell’s admissions board after that Beauchamps debacle?”

  “I know, I know. Christ. But Mr. bin Wazir, as you well know, is in cahoots with Mr. al-Nassar. And Defense wants very much to lean on al-Nassar. Get to him through bin Wazir. I can’t really say any more than that.”

  “What do I get out of this, Brick?”

  “A free dinner at the Connaught Grill with your old buddy Brickhouse, courtesy of the United States State Department. Name a wine.”

  “Château Margaux. Fifty-four.”

  “Done.”

  “You’re just lucky I had a date with an omelet instead of the beauteous Dr. Victoria Sweet.”

  “Luck of the Irish.”

  “What time?”

  “Eight in the p.m.”

  “Count me in.”

  Alex Hawke was early, arriving at the Connaught Bar at seven forty-five. The hotel’s quiet, understated lounge was one of his favorite watering holes and, besides, it would give him a chance to catch up with the barman, a thoroughly amusing fellow named Duckworth, an old chum. The small, beautifully paneled bar was empty save an elderly couple seated at a window table, sipping sherry and silently watching the rain spatter against the glass.

  “Lord Hawke himself,” Duckworth whispered, when Alex Hawke walked in and took a seat at the bar. “Must say I haven’t seen much of you lately, sir. On the wagon, m’Lord?”

  “I was, Ducky, but we hit a ditch and I was thrown off,” Hawke said, smiling at the plump, rosy-cheeked, bespectacled man. “By the time I got up and dusted myself off, the bloody wagon was half a mile down the road.”

  Duckworth smiled, wiping a goblet, and said, “What will it be, sir? Goslings? The Black Seal, as I recall.”

  “Yes, thank you. Neat.”

  As the barman poured his dark Bermudian rum, Alex said, “Awfully quiet tonight, Ducky.”

  “Indeed, sir. It is Monday. Still. Been a crypt in here all evening. But they’re all atwitter over at the Grill Room. Wait staff at any rate.”

  “Really? What’s all the hubbub about?”

  “Apparently, the Pasha of Knightsbridge will be dining with us this evening, sir. We’re all holding our breath.”

  “Why?”

  “Hoping we’re not the next target on his acquisition list.”

  Alex laughed and nodded at his now empty glass. As Duckworth poured him another, he said, “I shall do all within my power to dissuade him, should that be the case.”

  “You know this gentleman, m’lord?”

  “I will in ten minutes. I’m dining with him.”

&nb
sp; Duckworth almost dropped his glass.

  “You, sir?”

  “Don’t worry, Ducky. This escapade wasn’t my idea. Ambassador Kelly is the man behind this evening’s adventure. We’ll stop in for a nightcap after dinner, give you a full report.”

  “Made my day, you have, sir,” Duckworth said smiling.

  “Put this on my account, will you? Oh, and by the way, I’ve just had an idea. Ring the chef and tell him whatever this Pasha orders, burn it beyond recognition. Might cut this dinner short.”

  Duckworth was still chuckling when Alex Hawke left the bar and ambled over toward the Grill Room. To his surprise, he found himself actually looking forward to the thing.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Emirate

  THE EMIR’S STARK FORTRESS STOOD AT SOME TWELVE THOUSAND feet, nestled between four craggy peaks rising like curved stone incisors at each of the four walled corners of the ancient fortress. Since the Emir himself knew he would never leave his citadel for any destination save Paradise, he didn’t care that it was virtually impossible to reach in any season. This was precisely why he’d chosen the inaccessible site in the mountainous heart of the Emirate. He had begun to enlarge and modernize this bastion some thirty years prior.

  Remote as it was, security was sophisticated, and pervasive. A large monitor, one of many mounted above the small divan in the Emir’s day room, showed a small caravan now making its way upwards through the pass toward his gates, battered by a howling snowstorm. It was the camel train of Snay bin Wazir the infidel, the impious, the indispensable, the son-in-law. Although the Emir despised Snay bin Wazir, his impending arrival met with considerable anticipation.

  His Excellency, the Most High, the Emir had but one burning lifelong goal. To establish Khilafah. Allah’s rule over all the earth. His fiery zealotry was deeply and purely religious. He wanted to purge the planet of every drop of the blood of the infidels, the unbelievers. Only then could humankind live in peace under the One True God.

  Truly, a lot of infidel blood had already been shed. But this the Emir considered but a drop in Allah’s bucket.