It was one of Alex’s old jokes and she laughed even though he didn’t. She thought she was funny and if nobody else did, so what? He just kept staring at her with those crazy eyes. Good thing she couldn’t focus very well because she’d swear he was trying to hypnotize her.
“What’s your name?” Vicky asked him.
“I’m Grigory.”
“Nice to meet you, Grigory. I’m drunk.” She giggled and stuck out her hand. He shook it and his hands were hot and moist.
“You stay here, on this little island?” he asked, leaning toward her. He was stirring his drink with his long white finger.
“Me? Oh, hell no. I’m on the QEII out there.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The Elizabeth, Mary, some old queen. See it out there, all lit up?”
“Oh. Such a beautiful yacht. To whom does it belong?”
“Oh, a friend of mine.”
“Not Alexander Hawke?”
“You know him?”
“Not well. Only by reputation, of course. He is famous, you know.”
“Really? For what? Oh, thanks, Amen. Cut me off after this one, okay? I’ve bagged my limit. Sorry, what did you say, uh, Grigory, is it?”
“Is not important. You and your friend are here long?”
“A week or two, I think.”
“That long? How boring. Whatever will you do all day?”
Boring? His eyes were boring into hers. Is that what he meant? Boring? No. He wanted to know what she was going to do all day. That was it. Well, something exciting and glamorous, that’s for sure. What? This European sophisticate expected something exotic, she was pretty sure about that.
“Well, I don’t know, exactly,” she said finally. She was having trouble remembering why she was even here. “Oh, I know! Tomorrow afternoon, we’re going to a place called Hog Island. Doesn’t that sound like fun? There’s a blind pig there named Betty. Have you heard of her?”
“Oh yes, she’s quite famous in these islands. Well, good-bye. My pleasure speaking with you, Miss—”
“Sweet,” she said. “Like sugar.”
The strange man was gone. Poof, like in a horror movie.
She scanned the dance floor for Stoke, but everyone looked the same. She thought she saw Ambrose chatting up the blonde in the far corner but he was a bit blurry. She felt uneasy. She looked for Amen. Maybe some coffee would be good. She called him but he couldn’t hear her above all the hubbub.
Suddenly, she needed air.
She climbed off the stool, pressed herself into the writhing mass on the dance floor, and headed for the door, smashing through the bodies, desperate for a gulp of fresh air. She was outside. She seemed to have acquired a glass of delicious dark rum. The moon was so bright, it seemed like another day had begun.
Steps led down to the beach. She walked along the surf and found a little stand of palms with a great view of the harbor. Soft, powdery white sand in the moonlight. Blackhawke all ablaze out on the horizon. She sat beneath the whispering palms, sipping the rum, enjoying herself immensely, finally drifting into a lovely tropical dream.
Stokely and Ambrose, having searched most of the island, finally found her on the beach about half an hour later, sound asleep under a coconut palm. Stoke threw her over his shoulder and they carried her back to the waiting launch.
“Girl fell asleep,” he said to Brian, who was driving the boat. “Long day. Needs a good night’s rest and she’ll be good as new.”
Vicky woke briefly, said something incomprehensible, and then collapsed with her head on Ambrose’s shoulder. She snored deeply all the way across the bay.
Stoke was right.
It had been a long day. But the long days were really just beginning.
34
At eight o’clock in the morning, Commander Zukov was summoned to the main finca to breakfast alone with General Manso de Herreras. Two heavily armed guards posted outside the dining room waved him inside. Manso was seated at the huge table all alone, drinking a solitary glass of fruit juice. A place setting of solid gold had been set opposite the general and he motioned for Zukov to sit down. He did so, but waved away the approaching waiter. The general stared at him for an eternity before speaking.
“This fucking Russian who sold me the submarine. Golgolkin. You know him?”
“Yes, slightly,” Zukov said. “Black Fleet. Vladivostok. At one time, a promising officer.”
“Then?”
“The cliché Soviet scenario. Peace, vodka, and women. One night he surfaced without periscope surveillance and struck one of our own destroyers in the South China Sea. Considerable loss of life. That was it.”
“He has come here, the idiot, begging for his life.”
“General. Tell me. What has he done?”
“Done? Put everything in jeopardy! Everything! Met with some fucking Englishman named Hawke in the Exumas a week ago. Trying to peddle the second Borzoi, I hear. The Englishman apparently asks a lot of questions and Golgolkin gives a lot of answers. My sources in Washington say the Englishman was in the American capital the very next day! Bastard! I initiated reprisals against this Hawke, using Golgolkin’s contacts at the Russian embassy. But they, too, were disastrous.”
“What will you do?”
“What I always do. Go through, not around.”
“I will deal with Golgolkin. He is an embarrassment.”
“No. Bring him to me. I may have one last use for him.”
Zukov opened the door to the fat Russian’s room without knocking. There were three naked girls in his bed. One leapt up, a short, chubby little thing with enormous breasts bouncing, and ran to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Zukov couldn’t tell if she was laughing or crying.
“The majordomo told me you were ill and could not come down for your breakfast,” Zukov said. “You were missed.”
“I am better now,” Golgolkin said, the two men speaking in Russian. Leaning back against the pillows, one fat pink arm around each of the two girls, he said, “Room service.”
“Fidel is scheduled to go before the cameras in three hours. He is refusing to step down. Two of the brothers want to shoot him.”
“I have bigger problems,” the Russian said, and drained a beaker of orange juice and vodka.
“Yes, you do, comrade. El nuevo comandante, General Manso de Herreras, wants to see you. Now.”
“Where is he?”
“I’m to bring you to him. You’d better tell your little playmates goodbye and come with me.”
“Comrade Zukov, I need help. I have made a mess of this. I am probably a dead man. But you owe me, Zukov. You have a submarine under your feet again, thanks to me.”
“I will do what I can, Comrade Golgolkin. That’s all I can promise. I work for the Cubans, now, not the Russians.”
“That fucking Englishman Hawke is responsible for this mess! He made me tell. It wasn’t vodka talking. I swear it. I was going to die. He was going to kill me and Grigory without a thought.”
Zukov looked away from the pitiful spectacle on the bed. He had other things on his mind.
“Get dressed. He’s waiting. I’ll be outside.”
Golgolkin sighed, climbed out of the bed, and pulled on a bathing suit imprinted with cartoon exploding Cuban cigars. He saw his soiled white guayabera on the floor at the foot of the bed and he shouldered himself into it. Fear was rising in his stomach and the sour taste of it overpowered the vodka and orange juice he’d been drinking since sunrise.
Golgolkin did not expect to see the sun set on this day. He turned to the two girls remaining in his bed.
“If I’m still alive at sundown, we’ll go for a nice swim,” he said, patting them both on their heads. He smiled and walked out into the sun. Zukov was just outside his door, leaning against the balcony rail of the finca, smoking a yellow cigarette.