Ted Bell - Spy

“Tell us, Ambrose,” Hawke said as soon as they were all seated, “exactly how it was that this purloined telegram changed everything.”

“With pleasure, assuming this is not too familiar ground, Sir David.”

Sir David looked up from his first course. “Well-trod ground, yes, Ambrose. But my appetite for military history far outweighs my desire for this damnable aspic. Please, Ambrose, tell the story.”

“Well, you see, Alex, by early 1917, the Germans had us dead to rights. We were fresh out of young men and fresh ideas along the Western Front. We’d gain a foot of muddy ground only to lose it in the next day’s slaughter. Half a million had died at Verdun alone. Our allies the French were drained and the Russians dying.”

“But it was the bloody U-boats had us in a corner,” Sir David said.

“Indeed. The U-boats had effectively cut our small island off from food and all other supplies. We could have held out for another two months. We were desperate for fresh troops in large numbers, men whose reserves of fighting spirit were still untapped.”

“The Yanks.”

“Correct. President Wilson was determined to keep the Yanks out of the war. But, Whitehall knew that only the entry of the United States into the fray would chase the German wolfpacks from Britain’s door. We were stalemated in that bloody abattoir of trenches, and the German U-boats were circling in for the kill. But then we got very, very lucky and intercepted Herr Zimmermann’s telegram.”

Hawke said, “The Mexican government was tempted by the notion that they might reconquer their lost territories in the southwest. Correct?”

Congreve piped up, “Precisely, Alex. This is what I was able to gather from the now deceased yesterday. These Latino-Arab terrorists are developing highly creative strategies for attacks based in Mexico. The border is still the soft underbelly of America. America’s greatest vulnerability.”

“So this modern day Zimmermann was following in the footsteps of his famous namesake? Stirring up trouble in Mexico?”

C said, “Until, for whatever reason; he apparently had a change of heart and contacted us. I assume you’ve brought along this deathbed letter I’ve heard about, Alex?”

“Yes, sir,” Hawke said, pulling it out of his inside pocket. “It’s in some code neither Ambrose nor I have ever encountered before, sir. Numeric. Apparently random, but obviously not.”

Hawke handed Zimmermann’s folded letter across the table.

“I’ll get this to our signal section immediately.”

C must have pressed a hidden button on the floor with his foot because two people suddenly appeared at the doorway. A man and a very pretty young woman.

“Yes, sir?” the man in the dark gray suit said.

C held out the envelope. “Geoff, get this to Signals right away. With a note from me. Saying Alex Hawke got it from the dying German ambassador.”

“Done, sir,” the man said, taking it.

“Oh, Pippa,” C said to the woman who’d escorted Hawke up to C’s office at MI6. “You remember Alex Hawke. He’s the fellow attending that conference in Key West next week. You’ll be accompanying him as aide. Make sure he has everything he needs will you?”

“Of course, sir,” Gwendolyn Guinness said, glancing over at Alex Hawke before she turned and left the room.

C said with a brief smile, “Brilliant girl. I’m quite sure you two shall get along famously, Alex.”

Hawke shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He knew C was deliberately putting him in an awkward position.

“Sir, with apologies, I haven’t spoken to the American secretary about my attendance yet. Terribly sorry. I’m planning to call her this very evening.”

“That won’t be at all necessary, Alex. I’ve already spoken to her. Just this morning, in fact. She’s expecting you on the fifteenth of December. Now, then. Who’d like some more of this perfectly cooked goose? Alex?”

C rose and moved to the sideboard to carve more meat. Hawke seized the opportunity to lean across the table and whisper to Congreve, “His bloody idea of humor. It’s my goose that’s cooked. And he’s signed up Miss Guinness to make sure I’m well done.”

“Don’t mind him, Alex. You forget, he’s not feeling well.”

“Yes, of course,” Hawke murmured, his eyes flashing. “The spy who came down with a cold.”

22

DRY TORTUGAS

S toke surfaced in the shadow of El Bandito’s hull. He looked around for a dark fin slicing through the water and was suddenly aware of a black shape looming above him. Sun was so bright, you couldn’t even make out the face, but it was Sharkey all right. So, Luis had already gotten himself aboard. Stoke’s ascent up the line must have taken longer than he thought. He rapped on his mask with his knuckles. How come everything seemed so blurry up here? Must have gotten saltwater inside his mask.

Either that or the whole damn world was on the fritz.

Luis was leaning out over the gunwale, offering Stoke a hand up the ladder. Stokely was mighty glad to see that brown hand. A minute or so ago, when he was coming up the anchor rode, he was thinking he wouldn’t have the strength left to get back on the boat without some help. He was wondering if he could even haul himself all the way to the surface. And wondering where that mako was hiding.

Luis shouted to him again. He had a battered bucket of fish guts in his hand and was in the process of flinging its contents over his shoulder, long loopy entrails and assorted other things. Most of the chum was going in the boat but some of it made it over the gunwales and into the water.

“C’mon, man! Get your ass out the water!”

Stoke looked up at him and smiled. “Where’s that damn shark?”

“I’m telling you, you’re just not hearing me. Why you think I got out of the water so fast? That mako is nosing around up here on the surface now. He just cruised over to the other side of the boat. I threw some chum over there. C’mon, bossman, grab my hand.”

“Chum? You threw chum?”

“Grab the hand, man. I’m telling you!”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming as fast as I can,” Stokely said, reaching up to take the man’s hand.

Luis was wiry, but he didn’t look like the kind of man who could pull a midsize Buick out of the water single-handedly. Thank God he was stronger than he looked, because Stoke realized he was fading fast. With his last little ounce of reserve he got up the steps and over the toe-rail and staggered forward toward the pilothouse. He needed to get out of the sun and lay down for a while. He almost made it to the door, too. The faded green deck rushed up out of nowhere to greet him. As he went down, Luis grabbed his tank and kept him from hitting the deck.

“Take it easy, boss. Lay down a minute.”

“Chum?” Stoke said, sinking to his knees. “You got a hurt diver coming up and you throw chum in the water? Jesus, Luis!”

“I told you I threw it on the other side. Keep him occupied.”

“Yeah, but still—”

“Shit, Stokely, man, we got to get you to the hospital. You bleeding bad, man. It’s worse now.”

“I’ll be all right. Get this damn tank off me. And slice off a piece of that hose there and tie it off above my elbow. Tight. Tourniquet one-oh-one.”

“Like this?” Luis said, cinching it with his teeth.

“Yeah, you got it. That’s good but tighter.”

Stoke tried to get to his feet but it didn’t work. He was in serious danger of blacking out. He lowered himself to the deck, rolling over on to his back. The sky was blue above and he tried to focus on a single white cloud that hung just above their stern. It was blurry but maybe that was just the cloud. He saw Luis Sr. up on the flying bridge. Papa was just sitting up there with his back to the wheel, staring down into the cockpit with concern on his face. Nothing a skipper hates worse than human blood running in his scuppers.