sunny days and rum-soaked nights.
There was an eclectic mix of locals, charter skippers, international boat bums, rich American or British yachtsmen, and even a surprising number of movie stars. Everyone posing with his or her arms around Amen. Amen’s appearance changed with the passing decades, but he was the only constant.
“I’d say there are only three ways of getting one’s picture up on this wall, Constable,” Hawke said. “No doubt you have arrived at a similar conclusion, you being the famous bloodhound, after all?”
“Better hound than hare,” Congreve replied, rubbing his chin and perusing the photographs. “I would say that there are actually four.”
“Yes?”
“You’ve got to be rich, famous, or an alcoholic,” Ambrose declared.
“And the fourth?” Hawke asked, delighted.
“All of the above, of course.”
“Precisely,” Hawke said, looking at his friend with an admiring smile. “Ambrose Congreve, Scotland Yard’s own Demon of Deduction,” Hawke added.
Alex then looked out toward the docks, frowning. The Russians were still there, shouting. Arguing about just how much money they might gouge out of the rich Englishman, Hawke imagined. Bloody hell, he hated waiting.
“What the devil is keeping those two? And what are they going on about anyway?” Hawke asked. “Are we having this bloody meeting or are we not?”
“I’ve been eavesdropping. They’re fighting over a woman. Grigory came back to their boat last night and found Nikolai having a go at someone Grigory fancied. Not being very nice to her either, apparently. Someone named Gloria. A local girl from what I can make out.”
“Your Russian seems sound enough.”
“Flawless.”
“Here’s the thing. Go tell those bastards I’m walking out of here in fifteen seconds.”
“Right-ho,” Congreve said, and pushed through the screen doors and out into the sun.
Hawke looked around the ancient saloon. Every arched wall was festooned with fishing nets, buoys, giant mounted marlin and sailfish, conch shells, shark jaws, and endless strings of Christmas lights. Somehow, he thought to himself, it all worked.
Two or three “members” were seated at the bar, wholly absorbed in some kind of dice game, paying scant attention to Hawke or anyone else. The tables were all empty. Lunch crowd gone, cocktail crowd not yet arrived. Good.
The two crewmen from Hawke’s launch had scouted the yacht club yesterday and proclaimed it ideal. Now, both armed, they had stationed themselves none too discreetly on either side of the club’s front door.
The younger of the two, ex–U.S. Army sharpshooter Tommy Quick, was happily tossing fried bacon rinds into the waters surrounding the docks. In the gin-clear water, Tom could see literally dozens of large nurse and bull and sand sharks cruising over the white sandy bottom, instantly rising to snap up his treats as quickly as they hit the surface.
Hawke had met Sergeant Thomas Quick at the U.S. Army’s Sniper School at Fort Hood. Hawke had audited a course there one summer and successfully recruited the Army’s #1 sniper. Quick could easily see that working for Alex Hawke would be a far more exciting and lucrative career than anything the U.S. Army offered.
The world knew Hawke as one of the world’s most powerful businessmen and head of a massive conglomeration of diversified industries. A very select group of people knew that he frequently did highly secret freelance work for the governments of the United States and Great Britain.
Since joining Hawke, Inc., Quick had bought gold mines in South Africa, been in a room deep in the Kremlin while Hawke chatted with the Russian defense minister, and spent a long night helping Hawke attach limpet mines to the hulls of ships full of illegal weapons sitting in the bay off Bahrain. On the first anniversary of his employment, Quick had given Hawke a gift that the man still wore, an Army Sniper School T-shirt that read:
You Can Run But You’ll
There was an eclectic mix of locals, charter skippers, international boat bums, rich American or British yachtsmen, and even a surprising number of movie stars. Everyone posing with his or her arms around Amen. Amen’s appearance changed with the passing decades, but he was the only constant.
“I’d say there are only three ways of getting one’s picture up on this wall, Constable,” Hawke said. “No doubt you have arrived at a similar conclusion, you being the famous bloodhound, after all?”
“Better hound than hare,” Congreve replied, rubbing his chin and perusing the photographs. “I would say that there are actually four.”
“Yes?”
“You’ve got to be rich, famous, or an alcoholic,” Ambrose declared.
“And the fourth?” Hawke asked, delighted.
“All of the above, of course.”
“Precisely,” Hawke said, looking at his friend with an admiring smile. “Ambrose Congreve, Scotland Yard’s own Demon of Deduction,” Hawke added.
Alex then looked out toward the docks, frowning. The Russians were still there, shouting. Arguing about just how much money they might gouge out of the rich Englishman, Hawke imagined. Bloody hell, he hated waiting.
“What the devil is keeping those two? And what are they going on about anyway?” Hawke asked. “Are we having this bloody meeting or are we not?”
“I’ve been eavesdropping. They’re fighting over a woman. Grigory came back to their boat last night and found Nikolai having a go at someone Grigory fancied. Not being very nice to her either, apparently. Someone named Gloria. A local girl from what I can make out.”
“Your Russian seems sound enough.”
“Flawless.”
“Here’s the thing. Go tell those bastards I’m walking out of here in fifteen seconds.”
“Right-ho,” Congreve said, and pushed through the screen doors and out into the sun.
Hawke looked around the ancient saloon. Every arched wall was festooned with fishing nets, buoys, giant mounted marlin and sailfish, conch shells, shark jaws, and endless strings of Christmas lights. Somehow, he thought to himself, it all worked.
Two or three “members” were seated at the bar, wholly absorbed in some kind of dice game, paying scant attention to Hawke or anyone else. The tables were all empty. Lunch crowd gone, cocktail crowd not yet arrived. Good.
The two crewmen from Hawke’s launch had scouted the yacht club yesterday and proclaimed it ideal. Now, both armed, they had stationed themselves none too discreetly on either side of the club’s front door.
The younger of the two, ex–U.S. Army sharpshooter Tommy Quick, was happily tossing fried bacon rinds into the waters surrounding the docks. In the gin-clear water, Tom could see literally dozens of large nurse and bull and sand sharks cruising over the white sandy bottom, instantly rising to snap up his treats as quickly as they hit the surface.
Hawke had met Sergeant Thomas Quick at the U.S. Army’s Sniper School at Fort Hood. Hawke had audited a course there one summer and successfully recruited the Army’s #1 sniper. Quick could easily see that working for Alex Hawke would be a far more exciting and lucrative career than anything the U.S. Army offered.
The world knew Hawke as one of the world’s most powerful businessmen and head of a massive conglomeration of diversified industries. A very select group of people knew that he frequently did highly secret freelance work for the governments of the United States and Great Britain.
Since joining Hawke, Inc., Quick had bought gold mines in South Africa, been in a room deep in the Kremlin while Hawke chatted with the Russian defense minister, and spent a long night helping Hawke attach limpet mines to the hulls of ships full of illegal weapons sitting in the bay off Bahrain. On the first anniversary of his employment, Quick had given Hawke a gift that the man still wore, an Army Sniper School T-shirt that read:
You Can Run But You’ll
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