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  Hawke stuck out his hand, but Ambrose ignored it, stepping forward to embrace him. They stood that way for a moment, arms wound tightly around each other, neither saying anything, just two men exceedingly happy to see each other once more. Hawke, who was not normally given to leaky displays, had to use every ounce of his will to keep the tears that filled his eyes from spilling over.

  “Alex,” Congreve said finally, clapping him smartly on the shoulder and stepping back to take his measure. “God, it’s good to see you looking so fit.”

  “And you,” Hawke managed to croak as they entered the house side by side. “Where is everybody?”

  “Diana will be down in a moment. She’s upstairs gilding the lilies. Let’s go out on the terrace, shall we, and have something lethal. What would you like, Alex?”

  “Rum, please. Gosling’s if they’ve got it.”

  Hawke followed Congreve through the main house, moving slowly down a long vaulted and torchlit hallway that led to the white marble terrace and the moonlit sea beyond. There seemed to be chaps in white jackets everywhere, all with shiny brass buttons and highly polished black shoes. Congreve had certainly landed himself in cushy surroundings, up a notch or two from his quaint cottage in Hampstead Heath.

  “They’ve got it. You’re quite sure you don’t want a Dark and Stormy?” Ambrose asked.

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Really? Local favorite, practically the national drink of Bermuda. Rum, dark, of course, and ginger beer.”

  Hawke nodded.

  “Desmond,” Ambrose said to the lovely old fellow hovering nearby, “a pair of Dark and Stormys when you’ve got a moment…not too much ice. Ah, here we are! Lovely night for it, wouldn’t you say?”

  The two men had arrived at the carved limestone balustrade surrounding a lower portion of the terrace, a curved patio directly on the sea. There was no wind tonight, Hawke noticed, and not a ripple on the ocean, all the way to the horizon. The light of the full moon on the glassy water was electric, producing an almost neon blue that was startlingly beautiful. A fishing boat lay at anchor, so still it might have been welded to the sea.

  Desmond arrived with a silver tray, and each man took one of the icy sterling tumblers.

  “Well,” Hawke said, taking a swallow of the potion, “let me raise a toast, then.” He lifted his drink and said, “To health. And to peace.”

  “Peace and health,” Congreve said, lifting his own goblet. “Long may they wave.”

  “Are you happy?” Hawke asked his friend, pretending to stare out to sea.

  “I am,” Congreve said, his eyes shining. “Very.”

  Hawke smiled. “Good. Then let’s get down to cases, shall we, Ambrose? Tell me, how does it look?”

  “How does what look?”

  “Come on. The bling-bling.”

  “The bling-bling?” Congreve said, regarding Hawke as if he’d lost his mind. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “The rock, the ice, the D flawless. Remember?”

  “The ring, do you mean, for heaven’s sake? My mother’s diamond?”

  “Yes, of course, the ring, Constable. The diamond engagement ring. Was she floored? KO’d in the very first round, I’ll wager.”

  “Still upright, I’m afraid. I haven’t given the thing to her yet.”

  “Not given it to her? Really? Based on our last dinner conversation at Black’s in London, I should have thought the presentation was imminent. That’s why you two were coming out to the balmy mid-oceanic isles. Seal the deal or do the deed or whatever.”

  “Hmm.”

  “So. Where does the thing stand now? Are you engaged or not?”

  “Bit difficult to say, really, isn’t it?”

  “Not at all. You proposed to the woman. She accepted. I was there at Brixden House the night you dropped a knee, remember? That orchestral proposal? Berlioz?”

  “Ah, yes. That’s correct. But there have been…complications. Things have arisen since then.”

  “What kind of complications?”

  “Well, I mean to say, difficulties.”

  “Difficulties with what?’

  “Communication, apparently.”

  “Communication?”

  “Hmm.”

  “What about it?”

  “It seems we don’t.”

  “Don’t communicate?”

  “Precisely. Don’t communicate my deepest feelings.”

  “You’re a man. You don’t have any deep feelings.”

  “I keep saying that.”

  “She loves you.”

  “I know. And I her.”

  “Well? Give her the bloody ring, and get on with it! Is there anything on earth more symbolic of one’s deepest feelings? I mean, a diamond is forever. Isn’t that what they say?”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right. You brought the rock along to Bermuda, one hopes. Ideal setting to bestow precious stones upon females feeling insecure about a chap’s deepest feelings, much less his honorable intentions.”

  “Yes, yes, of course I’ve brought it. It’s upstairs in my shaving kit, awaiting the ideal moment. Perhaps on a sail in the moonlight. Something along those lines.”

  “In your shaving kit? You’re kidding.”

  “No, no. It’s safe as houses. I’ve got an old can of mousse a raser with a false bottom. It’s in the bottom of the can.”

  “I suppose that’s all right if you trust the staff. I’d hide it someplace more original were I you. When do you intend actually to bend the final knee, then, old fossil? Full moon tonight, you know. How those facets will sparkle. I could excuse myself early and-”

  “Alex, please. These things take time. Planning. I alone will know when the moment is right. Now, then, what are you up to? You certainly look tan and fit. No hint of the dreaded accidie about you.”

  “Accidie? Is that more of your bloody French lingo?”

  “Boredom, Alex, in any language. You show no signs of it, dear boy. What accounts for that? Keeping busy, are you, you and Pelham in that cozy little cottage of yours? Bermuda’s own odd couple, I must say.”

  “Pelham and I? We’re not odd at all. A trifle eccentric, perhaps, rough and ready, but hardly odd.”

  “So, what do you two hardy boys do with yourselves all day? To keep you both from going barking mad?”

  “Pelham has his needlework in the evening. He’s taken up fishing, too, uses a monofilament hand line and reels them in by the bucket-load. Many’s the evening he fries up something he’s hooked in our little lagoon. Rockfish à la Pelham with a Gosling’s Black Seal rum sauce. Bloody marvelous should you ever be lucky enough to receive a coveted invitation to Teakettle Cottage.”

  “Diana and I would be delighted. What else?”

  “Bit of Scrabble or Whist on rainy nights, the two of us. I’m reading a lot. I finished Tom Sawyer, and now I’m on to Huckleberry Finn. Bloody marvelous, Mark Twain, I never realized. Did you know Twain adored Bermuda? Came here scores of times.”

  “I need hardly remind you your dear mother was born on the Mississippi, Alex. Small wonder you find Mr. Clemens’s marvelous books so appealing.”

  “I suppose you’re right. I do get a sense of her in those pages of his.”

  “So, in a nutshell, you’re reading Twain by the fireside while Pelham lurks about down by the lagoon, harrying the finny denizens of the deep. That about it?”

  “What else? We’ve a small stable on the property, and I ride on the beach most mornings. Good strong black horse named Narcissus, loves to run. Swimming a good deal helps, I suppose. Six miles a day. Which reminds me. I must tell you about the most remarkable woman I met this afternoon and-”

  Lady Diana Mars appeared at Hawke’s elbow, all gossamer and glittering stones at the neckline and sparkling in her swept-up auburn hair. She was a beautiful woman with a fine mind and a generous spirit, and Congreve was damned lucky to have found her, especially so late in his life. Alex,
along with everyone else, had put the renowned detective down for a lifelong bachelor. Diana had changed all that.

  “Alex, you darling boy,” she said, going up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “It’s so very good to see you.”

  “And you,” Hawke said. “You look lovely, Diana, absolutely radiant. And Shadowlands is wonderful.”

  “I’ll give you the grand tour later if you’d like. We can even take the Scarlet Runner around the grounds. They’ve gotten the steam engine up and running again, apparently. But right now, I’ve got to go to the kitchen and see about dinner.”

  “Just us three,” Hawke said. “What a treat.”

  Ambrose and Diana looked at each other.

  Diana said, “Well, yes, Alex, it was just the three of us until about an hour ago. We’ve a surprise guest for dinner. Ambrose hasn’t told you?” She looked at her man again, and Congreve frowned.

  “Sorry, dearest, hadn’t got round to it yet,” Ambrose said, expelling a fragrant cloud of Peterson’s Irish Blend.

  “Coward,” Diana said to her beloved, taking Ambrose’s hand and squeezing it.

  “Well, who is this mystery guest?” Hawke asked, looking at the two of them, who were looking at each other. “Don’t tell me the monarch heard I was coming and arrived unexpectedly on your doorstep.”

  “No, no, not Her Majesty the Queen, I’m sorry to say. But someone equally formidable. Tell him, dear, don’t keep the poor boy hanging.”

  Ambrose looked at Hawke like a brain surgeon steeling himself to deliver a less than ideal diagnosis.

  “Sir David Trulove rang me up earlier today, Alex. He just arrived in Bermuda late last evening. I offered to put him up, but he’s staying with some dear old friends who live here on the island, Dick and Jeanne Pearman. They’ve a lovely place over in Paget called Callithea. They’ve put Sir David in their guest house, Bellini.”

  “C is here? On Bermuda? Why?”

  C was the chief of MI-6, the British Intelligence Service. As far as Hawke knew, his idea of an extended vacation was a leisurely stroll to the corner concessionaire for a pack of his favorite smokes, Morland’s, a blend of Turkish and Balkan tobaccos with three gold bands on the filter.

  “Well, good question. He’s been out inspecting the Royal Navy Dockyards all day. Lord knows why. Nothing but curio shops and a few restaurants out there now. At any rate, he called here rather early this morning looking for you. Sounded as if you yourself might be in a spot of eau chaud with the old boy.”

  “Eau chaud?”

  “Sorry. Hot water.”

  “Just because one can speak French doesn’t mean one should.”

  Congreve sighed and gave Hawke a narrow look.

  “At any rate, he feels you dropped off his radar without much warning. I told him of our dinner plans with you tonight, and it would have been rude not to include him.”

  Hawke was astounded. “What on earth would he be doing in Bermuda, Ambrose? C, of all people. He doesn’t take holidays, as far as I know. He barely takes food and water.”

  “You’ll have to ask him, I’m afraid,” Ambrose said, getting his pipe going again.

  “Oh, come on, Constable. Spill it. You must have some inkling. What does your gut tell you?”

  “My gut? I wouldn’t trust my subconscious if it were only just around the corner.”

  Hawke had known Ambrose Congreve for far too long not to suspect he was holding something back. He could feel the beginnings of tension surging into his neck and shoulders, and the feeling was not altogether unpleasant. Of course, he could be leaping to conclusions. C, the chief of British Intelligence, might well take a few days’ island time. He worked like a dog, round the clock, but the head of MI-6 was certainly entitled to some vacation now and then.

  But he would not be calling around looking for Alex Hawke if something spicy wasn’t up. Would he?

  Diana squeezed Alex’s hand and moved away. Hawke watched her floating across the moonlit terrace toward the house and thought she’d never looked lovelier. Congreve was a lucky man.

  “Dinner will be served in one hour. I’m off for the kitchen,” Diana said, smiling back at the two men, “Sir David’s just arrived, Alex. I put him in the library. He said he had to make a few urgent calls, but he wanted a word with you before dinner. I have a feeling you’re in for quite a session.”

  “So much for peace,” Hawke said to Ambrose after Diana had left them alone. “That’s what I bloody came here for, isn’t it? A little peace?”

  “Qui desiderat pacem, praeparet bellum!”

  “I’m sorry. What did you say, Constable?”

  “‘Let he who desires peace prepare for war.’ Flavius Vegetius Renatus. Roman military strategist, fourth century.”

  “Ah. I thought that might have been Flavius. Sounds like something the old bugger might say.”

  Congreve was not amused.

  “Vastly overrated, peace, I daresay,” Ambrose said, looking at his friend with narrowed eyes.

  “Well, that’s a fairly bellicose comment, coming from one who fancies nothing so much as burrowing about in his garden amongst his bloody dahlias.”

  “I have hidden depths, Alex. Even from you.”

  Hawke took a long swig of his rum. “Ah, well, no matter. Easy come, easy go.”

  “Another Dark and Stormy?”

  Alex shook his head. “You know what this is all about, don’t you, Ambrose? Why C is here on the island?”

  “Hmm,” Congreve said, and he meant it.

  “Spill it.”

  “Russians.”

  “Russians?”

  “Remember the hungry Russian bear, Alex? Remember the Cold War?”

  “Vaguely. That was my father’s war, not mine.”

  “Well, it’s back with a vengeance. Only this time around, it’s not cold. It’s hot as hell.”

  9

  GULF OF ALASKA

  The skipper of the Kishin Maru, a giant commercial fishing trawler sailing out of Shiogama, Japan, had been on the bridge for the duration of the sudden and appalling storm. The blow had appeared out of the clear blue, with nothing on radar or weather sat to indicate its approach or severity. Only a sharp drop of the mercury minutes before the storm hit had alerted the crew to what was in store for them.

  The waves were mountainous, now thirty feet or more and building. Winds, now out of the northeast, were clocking at more than fifty knots. And the barometer was at 29.5 and still dropping.

  The skipper’s trawler, normally in use as a pirate longliner, was now seining in the Gulf of Alaska for Alaskan pollock. Noboru knew he was inside the two hundred mile limit imposed by the Americans because of overexploitation, but at the moment that was the least of his problems. The sudden blow had caught him unawares and he was scrambling to secure his vessel.

  Captain Noboru Sakashita’s trawler, owned by the giant Japanese fishing conglomerate Nippon Suisan, was accustomed to navigating dangerous waters. Indeed, it was company policy to push the edge of the envelope, as the Americans said.

  Noboru’s company was run by a madman named Typhoon Tommy Kurasawa, a man who liked to live, and work, dangerously. He had one rule for his commercial skippers: Do whatever it takes to fill your holds. The ships in his fleet were all “pirates.” They carried no markings, to ensure that they could fish without restriction. These fishing pirates all flew “flags of convenience” to hide their owners’ identities. FOCs were sold by many countries with no questions asked.

  Typhoon Tommy hated the Americans. But he loathed the Russians more. Russians shot first and asked questions later.

  Just six months earlier, Noboru’s FOC trawler had been fired on by a Russian Border Coast Guard patrol vessel. The Japanese captain, under corporate orders, had been fishing the banks off Kaigarajima Island, part of the disputed Russian-controlled northern territories. It was there, in a place called the Kuril Islands, that the shooting took place.

  When Noboru, under orders, had sailed outside the authori
zed area, the Russians had immediately fired flares in an attempt to get him to stop. He slowed his vessel, radioing Nippon headquarters for further instructions. Meanwhile, the Russians had launched dinghies loaded with armed men in an attempt to board him. That’s when he’d further ignored their orders and tried to escape. The border patrolmen in the small boats had opened up with machine-gun fire.

  Three of Noboru’s crewmen had been killed instantly. Three others who had been wounded had fallen into the water and were taken captive aboard the Russian patrol boat. Later, the Russians claimed the illegal Japanese trawler had rammed their patrol boat and refused to stop despite repeated orders to do so. The Russian ambassador to Japan had taken this case to Tokyo, and there had been a very public trial. Protesters from Greenpeace had hounded the captain mercilessly every day outside the courthouse.

  Noboru was lucky just to avoid the loss of his commercial license and even jail.

  “Sir!” the radioman shouted above the noise of the wind. “We have an emergency distress beacon. Repeating SOS signal. Very close by, sir.”

  Noboru stepped away from the helm and held out his hand for his binoculars.

  “How close is the EPIRB?”

  “Half a mile off our starboard bow, sir. You may be able to see him shortly.”

  The captain stood at the rain-streaked windows and scanned the horizon as much as the shifting waves allowed. The emergency position-indicating radio beacon used a five-watt radio transmitter and GPS to indicate the precise location of a mariner in distress. It was odd, Noboru thought, that he’d heard no radio messages of a vessel in distress prior to the EPIRB broadcast. Whatever boat this raft had come from, she’d gone down in an awful hurry.

  A minute later, he saw the life raft sliding down the face of a huge wave. It looked like a small red mushroom bobbing on the storm-tossed sea. By its size, he judged it to be an emergency offshore raft, two-man. Self-righting, with the bright red canopy top providing high visibility and protection from hypothermia. Probably from a small yacht and not a commercial vessel. That might account for the lack of a radio distress call prior to abandoning ship.