The salvagers said the boat must have hit a rock. Snowy said they were crazy. The salvagers showed them the eight inch ragged hull gap they had temporarily patched. The insurance underwriter showed up and said he might have to write the boat off as a total loss.
Hawkins thanked him, then called the number Kelly had given him the night before. When his old commander answered, Hawkins said, “When did you join the mafia, commander?”
Kelly said he didn’t know what Hawkins was talking about.
When he learned about the loss of the navy contract and the Osprey, he said, “Wow. Double whammy. Don’t blame you for being pissed. Might be just a coincidence. Run of bad luck.”
“Bad luck didn’t punch a hole in my boat. Where are you?”
“At the war college.”
“Stay put, I’m on my way to Newport.”
Hawkins steamed with anger during the drive to Rhode Island, but he couldn’t contain a smile when he saw Kelly waiting at War College Gate 1. The granite-hard face was nestled in a cushion of heavy jowls, but the commander had maintained his fireplug physique and ramrod posture and he looked good in his tailored suit. Navy blue, of course.
Kelly climbed into the truck, shook Hawkins’ hand, and directed him through another security checkpoint to the two-story white stone structure that had housed Newport’s Asylum for the Poor until the navy took it over in 1884 for the war college. The building had been converted into a museum after the navy university and think tank expanded to a sprawl of multi-story buildings on Coasters Harbor Island, a couple of miles from the cliff mansions built by the Vanderbilts and Astors. Lights glowed in the first floor windows. Kelly led the way through the front entrance and along a hallway. He stopped in front of a closed door.
“I’m leaving you here. The folks inside are waiting for you.”
“Anyone I know?”
Kelly shook his head. “Like I said, I’m only the messenger. Got a call from an old higher-up who asked me to drag you here. My job is done. Good to see you. Looking great.”
Hawkins smiled at Kelly’s familiar machine gun delivery.
“Looks like life’s treating you well, too,” Hawkins said as they shook hands.
“Couldn’t be better. Terrific wife. Six beautiful grand kids. None interested in the navy. But I’m working on it.” He handed Hawkins a business card.
“Consultant on naval security?” Hawkins read off the card.
“Work with the Pentagon on foreign arms deals. Sort of a respectable arms dealer.” He jerked his thumb toward the closed door. “Good luck.”
“Thanks, commander. Great to see you.”
Kelly started down the hallway, only to stop as if he had forgotten his car keys.
“Remember what I said back in the old days about friendly fire?”
“Sure,” Hawkins said. “There is never anything friendly about a bullet coming your way, no matter who fires it. What aren’t you telling me, Jack?”
Kelly smiled but there was no mirth in his slate-gray eyes. “I hear things.”
“What sort of things?”
“Never seen it like this, Matt. Real snake pit. Just watch your ass. Make sure your perimeter is secure.”
His continued down the hallway, his hollow footsteps echoing on the wooden floor. With Kelly’s warning lingering in his ears, Hawkins knocked softly, half expecting a python or a cobra to answer. He was almost disappointed when a woman opened the door and greeted him with a pleasant smile.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Hawkins. My name is Anne Hilliard. We’ve been waiting for you.” Her voice was polite and as neutral as a telephone service recording.
Hilliard was a well-constructed woman in her fifties. She wore a canary-yellow two-piece suit with a high military-style collar. She had short hair the color of corn-silk and her face was wide and bland. She stepped aside to allow Hawkins into a room decorated with wall paintings of naval battles. Seated at a long, rectangular table of dark wood were three men and one woman.
Hilliard directed him to a vacant seat at one end of the table and took a chair at the other end.
“I’ll start by introducing myself,” Hilliard said. “I’m an assistant to the special counsel on security to the President. My boss advises the White House on the appropriate response to threats to our country. The people in this room constitute a task force that represents various entities charged with counter-strategy.”
She turned to an apple-faced man sitting to her right. “Dr. Fletcher?”
The man gave a slight nod. “My name is Charles Fletcher, Lieutenant Hawkins. I am a retired naval officer and I am fortunate to teach naval history at this historic institution. Since age is equated with wisdom, I have been asked to moderate this discussion.”
With his shiny cheeks, twinkling eyes, white goatee, tufts of cottony hair sticking out behind his ears and his prep school pseudo-British accent, Fletcher seemed to Hawkins like a character from a Dickens story. He wore a rumpled Oxford cloth shirt and striped necktie under a buff-colored vest that had a button missing,
Seated next to Fletcher was a man in his middle thirties dressed in a European cut charcoal pinstripe suit. His face was smooth and boyish and his perfectly shaped short blond hair looked as if it were painted on his head. His name was Ian Scanlon and he was with the Mid-East desk of the State Department.
A florid, heavy-set man wearing a naval officer’s uniform with a captain’s insignia introduced himself as Mike McCormick and said he was with naval intelligence. The last person to speak was a young woman named Natalie Glassman from the Homeland Security Department.
Hilliard picked up a dossier. “We all have been given copies of your personnel file and know about your distinguished combat career with the SEALs.”
“Then you all know that my distinguished navy career ended five years ago.”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s in the file.”
Hawkins glanced at the faces around him. “In that event, could someone tell me why I’m here?”
“Fair question,” Fletcher said. “If Ms. Hilliard doesn’t mind, I will answer it with a question of my own. What do you know about Prester John?”
Hawkins stared at Fletcher and tweaked his mouth up in his trademark smirk. “Is that a serious question?”
“I assure you it is of the utmost seriousness.”
Hawkins dug into his memory. “As I recall, Prester John was a mythical king who ruled over some sort of lost Shangri-La kingdom.”
“Let me offer a few corrections. Prester John was not a myth. Nor was his kingdom. Both existed.”
“Fascinating, Dr. Fletcher,” Hawkins said, warily. “But I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”
“Bear with me, please.”
Hawkins nodded to be polite.
Fletcher smiled and went on. “The legend of Prester John had its origin in 12th century Europe with rumors of a king, said to be descended from the Magi, who ruled a wealthy kingdom east of Babylon. Many expeditions tried to find him, but none were successful. Then in the 1100s, Pope Alexander III sent his physician Philip to deliver a message to the Prester asking for help fighting the infidels, who were pressing Christendom. Philip was known to have made it as far as Palestine, but was never seen again.”
“Thanks for the history lesson, but I still don’t know what this has to do with me.”