Ted Bell - Warlord

Hawke hurried behind the desk and pushed ever so gently on a wide wooden panel, almost invisible, in the center of the wall. On the other side of the panel were bookshelves full of books from floor to ceiling. Perfectly balanced, it made not a sound as it swung inward.

Hawke, pistol in hand, peered into the Queen's Library.

Thorne had his back to him. He was still hiding beside the door he'd entered, weapon at the ready, fully expecting Hawke to appear at any moment. Thorne didn't know it, of course, but he just had.

Hawke stepped silently into the room and pointed his pistol at the back of the monster's head.

"Thorne," he said, just loud enough to be heard.

Montague whirled, bringing his weapon up.

Their eyes locked.

"You're dead," Hawke said.

And pulled the trigger.

IT WAS ON A NASTY NOVEMBER evening some months after the Balmoral affair that Alex Hawke received a most intriguing phone call. Because the call would ultimately have enormous significance in his life, he could recall every detail surrounding it.

He remembered, for instance, that he had been sublimely stretched out on the worn leather sofa in his dimly lit library. Remembered four solid walls of leather-bound books disappearing up into the darkness near the ceiling. And that the dying embers of a fire were in need of a good stoking.

But he was far too comfortable and engrossed in The Volcano Lover, a novel about his hero Lord Nelson and Emma Hamilton, to move. He would read a few pages, drift off to sleep, awake, and read a few more. Bliss.

And then, across the room and sitting atop his desk, the bloody telephone rang.

It rang, and rang, and then it rang again.

He determined to let it ring off the bloody hook if need be.

Nor did he wish to disturb dear old Pelham, last seen ensconced in the butler's pantry, perched atop his ageless stool, round gold glasses precariously hanging on the tip of his nose, working on his latest needlepoint masterpiece while frozen snippets of rain beat against the windowpanes.

Still, he must have dozed off, for suddenly Pelham was standing above him saying something about a telephone call. Most urgent, gentleman wouldn't identify himself, said he must speak with Lord Hawke immediately.

With a sigh, Hawke rose from the sofa and padded over to his desk to pick up the damn phone. Pelham vanished from the room just as Alex said, "Hello?"

"Alex?"

"Indeed I am. And who are you?"

"It's Halter."

"Halter! Good Lord, it's been aeons."

Stefan Halter was a don at Cambridge. He also worked for both MI6 and the Russian KGB; he was the longest and most successful double agent in the history of the British service. He was a good man, brilliant, and he had saved Hawke's life once, risking his own, on a remote Swedish island. In hindsight, Hawke might well have preferred to die.

"Alex, we need to see each other. I have certain information that I must share with you. I'm not at all comfortable discussing this business on the phone."

"I understand. Would you like to come to Hawkesmoor? We could do some shooting, mix business with pleasure."

"It's not a good idea for me to be seen in England at the moment. I'm sure you'll understand."

"Yes. I'll come to you then. Where are you? Not Moscow?"

"No. I've a small chalet in Switzerland. Should I manage to live long enough to retire in one piece, it will be my home."

"Done. How do I get there?"

"You still have your beautiful little airplane?"

"Guilty as charged, your honor."

"Good. The nearest airport is Lucerne."

HAWKE CAUGHT A TAXI AT THE AIRPORT and went directly to the ferry docks on Lake Lucerne, just across the way from the main railway station. Halter had told him there was a boat called the Unterwalden departing promptly at noon and tickets could easily be had at the Vierwaldstattersee office right on the quay.

Halter had promised a very pleasant trip down Switzerland's most beautiful lake, emerald green and clear as gin. When Hawke heard the distinctive shriek of a steam whistle and saw the Unterwalden arriving at the dock, he knew why he was in for a pleasant voyage.

She was a large, 1902-vintage paddle-wheel steamer, one that obviously had been impeccably restored. He was one of the first aboard. Mounting the stairs to the first class dining room for lunch, he saw that the modern designers had encased the ship's engine room and the two huge steam engines entirely in Plexiglas.

Gazing down into the pristine engine room, you could see the pulsing of the massive polished steel connecting rods that drove the paddle wheels, and even the man on the throttle, taking orders from three brass horns linked to the bridge. Hawke, transfixed by the sheer beauty and elegance of this century-old technology, almost missed the first seating for lunch.

His table by the curved window offered splendid views of the Alps as the paddle wheeler zigzagged across the green lake, stopping at one tiny storybook village after another. The snowcapped Alps and thick green forests, laden with snow, marched right down to the lakeshore everywhere you looked. For perhaps the first time in his life, he felt thoroughly enchanted. Hawke imagined that there might be somewhere on the planet he'd like to live besides England.

When the announcement came over the P.A. system that the next stop would be his destination, Vitznau, he was almost disappointed. He would have been more than happy to remain aboard and continue on to the southern tip of the lake.

At Vitznau, Halter had instructed, he was to board one of the small trains that left every hour at quarter past. The rail station was a five-minute walk from the dock. He was startled to see that the tracks ascended the mountain at a nearly vertical angle. Slightly nervous about such a steep ascent, he asked the ticket master how the trains did it.

"This is the oldest cog railway in the world, sir," the kindly man told him in perfect English. "Built in 1898."

"Ah," Hawke said, not overwhelmingly reassured, gazing out the window at the steep incline.

"Don't worry," the man said with a smile. "Our little steam engines may look old-fashioned, and they are over one hundred years old, but they will get you safely to the top, I promise."

Like the steamship, the arriving Swiss train was a marvel. The engine, huffing and puffing steam as it descended into the station, was a lovely thing of brass and dark forest green, as were the uniforms of the two conductors. The cars themselves were bright red, which seemed to be the favorite color of the Swiss.

Hawke gleefully bought his ticket and climbed aboard, more than ready for his ascent. Travel here in Switzerland, all of it, was not just getting from one place to another, he mused; it was all a glorious adventure. As the little train wound its way up the mountain, he heard cowbells clanging away as the livestock munched hay in and around countless farms. Every chalet was a delight, with brightly colored shutters and doors, and trim under the eaves.

It took the train about an hour to reach the top, through some of the most spectacular scenery on earth. When he reached the tiny town of Rigi and climbed down from his car, he saw Halter waving to him from the platform. Professor Stefanovich Halter was hard to miss in a crowd. He was a tall, big man, a rugged bear of a fellow with sharp, dark eyes beneath wild bushy black eyebrows.

And he was wearing the brightest red ski parka Hawke had ever seen, not to mention a large black mink Cossack trapper hat perched atop his head. He moved surprisingly gracefully for such a big man as he hurried along the platform toward Hawke.

"Welcome to the top of the world," he said, extending his hand. For a dyed-in-the-wool Muscovite, Halter had a pitch-perfect Oxbridge accent, the product of a boyhood at Eton and Cambridge.