Ted Bell - Warlord

"I have more on them, boss. My songbird says the top dog in the entire Sword organization is somebody named Abu al-Rashad. Code-named Scimitar in all the encrypted Internet communications. I even think I might know where he is at the moment. In the Quaid-e-Azam hospital in Islamabad, sick or wounded, I don't know which."

"He was right about the assassination attempt on Prince Harry in Afghanistan. You've got him scared enough to start telling the truth. Good work. See what else you can get out of him. Whatever it takes."

"Will do."

"Please tell me, God forbid, you're not waterboarding this guy, Stoke. Politically incorrect in Washington, you know, even when the fate of the whole goddamn planet is at stake."

"Me? Waterboard? C'mon, boss, you know I'd never stoop that low."

"Stoke, I'll call you back in exactly one hour. I need to convey every word you just said to the directors of both MI5 and MI6. Stay near that radio."

Click.

Then Stoke heard Harry Brock cursing and screaming in pain.

WHEN STOKE STEPPED BACK OUT into the blazing sun, he saw Harry Brock clutching his gut, blood spurting between his fingers and pooling on the deck.

"He's got a knife!" Harry said, his eyes on the little guy, backing away. "Fucker tried to kill me."

"You okay?" Stoke asked him.

"Not really."

"Looks like a flesh wound."

"Hurts like a bitch though, trust me."

"Harry. Pay attention. You get that map he drew?"

"Yeah, I got it, that's when he knifed me, handing it over."

The master terrorist was backed up against the transom at the stern, nowhere to go, waving the rusty fish knife around as if daring Stokely to try to take it away from him. Stoke told him to relax. Then he put both his hands in the air and started slowly toward him in as nonthreatening a fashion as a man his size was capable of.

"Ozzie, listen up, partner. You're fighting way outside your weight division. Flyweights should not get into the ring with heavyweights, it's a well-known fact. Ask anybody."

He spat out something unprintable in Farsi or whatever.

"Just throw the knife down and no one else has to get hurt," Stoke said. "Drop it on the deck and-"

Screaming the now all-too-familiar Islamic war cry, "Allahu Akbar!" the terrorist charged Stokely, the bloody fish knife raised above his head. Stoke calmly waited for him to strike, then shot out a plate-size hand and vice-clamped al-Wazar's right wrist just as his knife hand started down, pivoted, yanking his arm violently enough to dislocate his shoulder.

In a single, fluid motion Stoke whirled completely around, still gripping the man's wrist, and flung Azir al-Wazar high into the air, whereupon he dropped into a frothing frenzy of the bloodthirsty sharks still circling about twenty yards off Maiden Voyage's stern.

"Hey, Stoke," Harry said, taking a front-row seat on top of the bait box. His fist pressed deep into his flesh wound to stanch the bleeding, he was watching with some interest the flashing fins circling ever nearer to the screeching and wailing terrorist, now flapping about like a pregnant pelican trying desperately to get airborne.

"Yeah?"

"I think you forgot to inform our little buddy out there of his Miranda rights."

"Did I? Damn, I think you're right, Harry."

Stoke lumbered up onto the wide teak transom, cupped his hands around his mouth, and called out to the man in the water now boiling with his own blood, the man who'd just tried to kill him and his pal Harry.

In a loud, clear voice, Stoke said, "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand these rights as they have been read to you?"

Stoke heard only a very garbled response.

"What'd he say?" Brock asked.

"Hard to tell. If I had to guess, I'd say he's going to exercise his right to remain silent."

BRIXDEN HOUSE, ANCESTRAL HOME to Lady Diana Mars, and countless forebears both illustrious, nefarious, and notorious, was off the Taplow Common Road. Hawke slowed for the entrance gate, a massive black iron affair topped with numerous large gilded eagles atop marble columns, the birds sufficiently weathered over the centuries as to be discreetly unobtrusive.

Hawke rolled his gleaming black 1956 Ford Thunderbird to a stop just outside the gates and waited for the plainclothes detective to come out of the small guardhouse. While the man checked their names against the guest list, Hawke was content to sit and listen to the sweet rumble of the automobile.

The car had proved a worthy stand-in for the battle-scarred Locomotive, still undergoing massive bodywork after being pummeled with bullets in the assassination attempt. The T-Bird, as he lovingly called it, had the removable hardtop and he'd left the top at home so he and Sahira could enjoy the early August sunshine.

It was clear and unseasonably cool, with late afternoon sunlight like great bars of gold, laying upon the green hills and valleys.

He particularly liked the vintage American car for the lean beauty of its lines, its snarling mouth, and the single flaring nostril of the air intake centered on its bonnet. He'd replaced the stock Ford engine with a huge, low-revving Mercury V-8 of five-liter capacity, and the result was rock-solid performance; the T-Bird was definitely not a precision instrument like a good English sports car, but he counted that a virtue.

"Dr. Karim, Commander Hawke, welcome to Brixden House," the Scotland Yard man said, smiling as he ticked their names off against their identification and the big iron gates swung inward. "I hope you enjoy your evening."

"I'm sure we will," Hawke said, returning the professional smile. He put the car in gear, accelerated, and turned to Sahira to say, "Welcome to the infamous den of spies. You'll feel right at home."

Hawke motored slowly up the long, meandering drive. Sahira seemed to be enjoying the view over vast acres of parklike grounds offering occasional glimpses of classical statuary, sloping green lawns, lakes, and one or two small Greek temples.

"I'm sorry. Did you say 'den of spies'?" she asked a few moments later.

"I did. This place will be full of them tonight, but that's not what I meant. Over the years, Brixden House acquired a very sketchy reputation-you've heard of the 'Brixden Set'?"

"Not really, no."

"In the prewar years, a circle formed around Diana's great-grandmother, the Viscountess. Brixden House became a de facto salon for a right-wing, aristocratic group of politically influential individuals. The Viscountess hosted splendid parties for her friends, which surely included hot-and cold-running Germans, some of them undoubtedly spies. This Germanophile cabal was not only in favor of the appeasement of Adolf Hitler, but also of promoting friendly relations with Nazi Germany."

"Fascinating," she said, her eyes on the magnificent Italianate palace standing atop great chalk cliffs overlooking a graceful bend in the gently flowing Thames. Dusk was near, and every window, large or small, was blazing with light.

"Ah, but the best was yet to come. The 'Swinging Sixties' brought fresh scandal to the house. It was apparently the scene of wildly decadent sex parties. Including the one where Cabinet Minister John Profumo met and bedded Christine Keeler. A woman who just happened to be simultaneously sleeping with a Soviet agent. Profumo went down in flames and so did Harold Macmillan's government."

Sahira smiled. "Well, you've certainly given me a gold mine of information for dinner table conversation."

"Diana wouldn't mind, I assure you. She's a splendid lady, feet on the ground, a woman who seldom lets anyone or anything bother her. Ambrose is a very, very lucky man to have found her."