Ted Bell - Hawke

“Do me a small favor, Conch?”

“Name it.”

“Turn up ‘Beach House’ just a smidge?”

“No way,” she whispered. “And, please. I know it’s difficult but try and act professional. I’m the secretary of state now, Alex.”

Hawke smiled at her. “Oh, right. I forgot.”

“Yeah, well. Next time you see your pal the president, tell him to stop playing grabass with me every time I’m alone with him in the Oval Office, okay?”

“Yes, Madame Secretary.”

The secretary’s family, de los Reyes, was one of the oldest sugar families in Cuba. They’d lost thousands of acres when Fidel entered Havana, and the secretary’s father had moved his whole family to Key West. Bought a large Victorian just across the road from Truman’s Little White House. Consuelo had grown up a true citizen of the Conch Republic, bonefishing, drinking beer, swearing like a sailor.

After earning her doctorate in political science at Harvard, and before entering politics, Conch had taken a few years off. Returning to her beloved Florida Keys, she’d become one of the best bonefishing guides in the islands. Hawke had spent a week under her tutelage at Islamorada Key and fallen for her almost immediately.

In addition to being the most beautiful woman he’d ever known, she could spot the mere shadow of an elusive bone sliding over the shallows at sixty yards. After a glorious week in the Keys, fishing the flats, drinking beer, and listening to Buffett while the sun went down, he was hooked. That was all long ago, but it was a time neither of them had forgotten, nor were they likely to forget.

Conch took Hawke by the hand and led him across an expanse of richly colored Aubusson rug to the large windows overlooking the Lincoln Memorial. It was still snowing, but you could see the majestic structure where Lincoln sat.

“I see you’ve moved your office,” Hawke said.

“I did,” she replied. “To be able to see my hero over there. He helps me, Alex, I promise you. Now, let me introduce you to my colleagues.”

They entered a small anteroom the secretary often used for meetings like this one. On a large silk brocade sofa, two men unfamiliar to Hawke were seated, sipping coffee. Both stood up as they approached, and Consuelo did the introductions.

“This is Alexander Hawke, gentlemen. An old fishing buddy of mine. Alex, this is Jeremy Tate from the CIA and Jeffrey Weinberg, the deputy secretary of defense for nuclear matters. Both of them have been wetting their pants at the idea of meeting you.”

Both men uttered small coughing noises at this remark and stuck their hands out.

Alex shook hands with Weinberg, then Tate. The CIA chap had small eyes set in a porcine face. Aggressive type, Hawke thought, withdrawing his hand from Tate’s grip before any fingers were broken. Weinberg was tall, thin, and bushy-browed, looked like a rumpled academician from Harvard come to Washington with the new administration. Which is exactly what he was.

“What’s this? The latest from Savile Row?” Tate said, smirking at Hawke’s odd outfit. “I’ve always admired the British flair for understated elegance.”

Hawke had taken an instant dislike to the man. He ignored the comment and turned to Weinberg.

“What, exactly, do you do, Mr. Weinberg?”

“He’s a bomb baby-sitter,” Tate said.

“That’s not far from the truth,” Weinberg said, smiling. “I keep track of all our nuclear weapons, making sure every single one is under the command and control of the president.”

“Don’t fall for this false modesty bullshit, Alex,” Consuelo said. “He also monitors every single nuclear weapon possessed by any nation on earth. It is his primary task to identify and locate any weapon that may have fallen into the hands of terrorists. He’s the one that noticed a Borzoi had disappeared.”

“And once you’ve located them, what then?” Hawke asked Weinberg.

“I develop techniques and strategies to seize or neutralize such weapons. I believe the use of a nuclear weapon is a sin against humanity. I’m the lucky guy in charge of global sin prevention.”

“I think I may have found you a whole boatload of sinners, Mr. Weinberg,” Hawke said. “Shall I begin?”

“Yes, of course,” Secretary de los Reyes replied. “Sit down, please, everyone. Coffee, Alex?”

“This Fiji water is fine, thank you,” Hawke said, pulling up a side chair and sitting down. He looked at each of them in turn before he started speaking.

“Yesterday afternoon, on Staniel Cay in the Exumas, I met with two Russian arms dealers. Based on information I’ve gathered since receiving the assignment, I felt they might be very helpful,” Hawke began. The CIA fellow pulled out a notebook and pen and started noisily turning the pages of his book. Hawke stared at him until he looked up. “Ready?” Hawke asked.

“Sure. Sorry,” Tate said, but he didn’t look it.

“Their names are Golgolkin and Bolkonski. The former being the one who did all the talking. Both are ex-Navy, Soviet Submarine Command at Vladivostok, childhood friends, classmates at the Academy. Am I going too fast for you?”

“No, no,” Tate said. “Go ahead.”

“I was shown a portfolio of weapons for purchase which I can describe in detail should anyone want to hear it. Soviet scuds, scud launchers, SAM-7’s, hovercraft. All the usual hardware and materiel, I can assure you.”

“Submarines?” Weinberg asked.

“No. I had to make that request specifically,” Hawke replied. “I told them I was interested in purchasing an Akula-class bomber.”

“You mean ‘boomer,’ ” Tate said.

“No. I mean bomber. You call them boomers. In the Royal Navy, we call them bombers.”

“Whatever. And what did the Russkies say?” Tate asked.

“They said they had an Akula. 1995-vintage Typhoon. Fifty million, half up front, half on delivery. Six months to get the vessel seaworthy and assemble a trained crew. Then delivery to the specified location.”

“I’m wondering,” Weinberg said. “Did you get any sense at all for whom they might be working?”

“None,” Hawke said. “I got the feeling they were independent agents. Of course, I could be wrong. Obviously, there’s some kind of infrastructure behind them. What they do is a bit more complicated than selling used autos.”

“What happened next, Alex?” the secretary asked.

“I told them I really wasn’t interested in the Akula I. I really wanted a Borzoi. They denied any knowledge of such a craft. After a bit of unpleasantness, they admitted the possibility that such a submarine might be purchased. I invited them aboard Blackhawke to continue negotiations. You’re looking for a Borzoi, these are your guys, all right.”

There was a heavy silence in the room. The secretary of state looked at Weinberg and mouthed the word bingo.

“Blackhawke?” Tate asked.

“My yacht,” Hawke said.

“Of course,” the CIA man said. “Your yacht.”

“Quite. I invited them to join me for dinner. I showed them the money provided me by your CIA station man in Nassau. After dinner, I invited them on a tour of the yacht. It was then that I offered them an immediate five million in earnest money if they met my conditions.”

“Good strategy, Alex,” the secretary said. “Bait the hook immediately.”

“Thank you. I told them I wanted a guaranteed six-month delivery. I wanted to personally inspect the boat before any commissioning took place. And, finally, as the secretary and I discussed, I said that I wanted to speak directly to their last purchaser as a confirming reference.”

The two men and Consuelo de los Reyes leaned forward to hear what he had to say next.