gaunt, even haggard. Hell, they’d all been through it. The horror of Vicky’s death, the outrageousness of it, had taken an enormous toll on anyone and everyone who cared for Alex Hawke.
Other than Hawke himself, Congreve seemed the hardest hit, both personally and professionally. MI5, MI6, and the Yard were all over it and doing all they could. To Congreve’s great chagrin, however, they had rebuffed his every effort to get involved.
“What exactly am I supposed to do about this, Sutherland,” Ambrose said now, ignoring his freshly arrived pint. “Sit on my bloody hands and do nothing? Good Lord!”
“Aye. It’s frustrating.”
“It’s a bleeding outrage, is what it is,” Congreve said, properly browned off now, “We both still work for Scotland Yard, unless I’m very much mistaken. Has someone from Victoria Street told you differently?”
Sutherland stared morosely into his half bitter, feeling every bit as frustrated as his superior. “Hmm. It would seem that we are surplus to the Yard’s requirements, Chief.”
Ross and Alex Hawke had a long history together. During the Gulf War, when Alex was flying sorties for the Royal Navy, Ross had been right behind him in the after cockpit, serving as Commander Hawke’s Navigation and Fire Control Officer. Kept the boss from getting lost in the desert and lit up the juiciest targets, basically.
Near the end of that conflict, after a particularly nasty skirmish in the skies over Baghdad, they’d been brought down by a SAM-7. Both men had ejected from the burning fighter, landing in open desert about thirty miles south of Saddam’s capital. Captured and imprisoned, they’d barely survived their treatment at the hands of the Iraqi guards. Sutherland, more than any other prisoner, had been beaten senseless during daily “interrogations.” Hawke, seeing his friend near death, saw no hope but escape from the makeshift hellhole.
That night, Hawke had killed a number of guards with his bare hands. They’d fled south across the desert, navigating by the stars, searching for the British or American lines. For days and nights on end, Hawke had carried Sutherland on his back. They were wandering in circles, staggering blindly over the sand-blasted dunes, when an American tank unit under the command of U.S. Army Captain Patrick “Brick” Kelly had finally spotted them.
The same Brick Kelly who was now U.S. Ambassador to the Court of St. James.
Sutherland sipped his half-pint and considered Congreve’s question. Why had they been rebuffed by the Yard at every turn? As one of Hawke’s inner circle, he wanted immediate action and he’d seen precious little.
“They won’t let us near it,” Ross finally said with a gallows grin, “because they think we’re too close to it.”
“Too close? Too bloody au fait? ”
“Let me rephrase it, sir. They imagine our emotions might cloud our judgment.”
Ambrose Congreve scoffed at the very notion, picked up his pint and drank deeply. He looked past the patrons of this somewhat grim establishment to the sheeting rain swirling about the streetlamps and clawing at the windows.
“Not even allowed to inspect the crime scene? Turned back at the very edge of the woods where Stokely discovered the shooter’s lair?” he asked the air. “Me? Ambrose Congreve? Words fail me.”
“Aggro?”
“Beyond aggravation, Sutherland. Well and far beyond. Do you suppose the scene tape is down at this point?”
“We’re two weeks in.”
“Tape is down, then. Forensics and scene-of-crime officers will be long gone.”
“What are you thinking, sir?”
“I’ll bloody well tell you what I’m thinking. Are we all even here?”
“Surely you don’t intend to—”
“Pay a little nocturnal visit to the crime scene? That’s exactly what I intend, Sutherland.”
“You can’t be serious. In this weather? At this hour of the night?”
Congreve drained his pint, slipped off the barstool, gathered himself up, and leaned
Other than Hawke himself, Congreve seemed the hardest hit, both personally and professionally. MI5, MI6, and the Yard were all over it and doing all they could. To Congreve’s great chagrin, however, they had rebuffed his every effort to get involved.
“What exactly am I supposed to do about this, Sutherland,” Ambrose said now, ignoring his freshly arrived pint. “Sit on my bloody hands and do nothing? Good Lord!”
“Aye. It’s frustrating.”
“It’s a bleeding outrage, is what it is,” Congreve said, properly browned off now, “We both still work for Scotland Yard, unless I’m very much mistaken. Has someone from Victoria Street told you differently?”
Sutherland stared morosely into his half bitter, feeling every bit as frustrated as his superior. “Hmm. It would seem that we are surplus to the Yard’s requirements, Chief.”
Ross and Alex Hawke had a long history together. During the Gulf War, when Alex was flying sorties for the Royal Navy, Ross had been right behind him in the after cockpit, serving as Commander Hawke’s Navigation and Fire Control Officer. Kept the boss from getting lost in the desert and lit up the juiciest targets, basically.
Near the end of that conflict, after a particularly nasty skirmish in the skies over Baghdad, they’d been brought down by a SAM-7. Both men had ejected from the burning fighter, landing in open desert about thirty miles south of Saddam’s capital. Captured and imprisoned, they’d barely survived their treatment at the hands of the Iraqi guards. Sutherland, more than any other prisoner, had been beaten senseless during daily “interrogations.” Hawke, seeing his friend near death, saw no hope but escape from the makeshift hellhole.
That night, Hawke had killed a number of guards with his bare hands. They’d fled south across the desert, navigating by the stars, searching for the British or American lines. For days and nights on end, Hawke had carried Sutherland on his back. They were wandering in circles, staggering blindly over the sand-blasted dunes, when an American tank unit under the command of U.S. Army Captain Patrick “Brick” Kelly had finally spotted them.
The same Brick Kelly who was now U.S. Ambassador to the Court of St. James.
Sutherland sipped his half-pint and considered Congreve’s question. Why had they been rebuffed by the Yard at every turn? As one of Hawke’s inner circle, he wanted immediate action and he’d seen precious little.
“They won’t let us near it,” Ross finally said with a gallows grin, “because they think we’re too close to it.”
“Too close? Too bloody au fait? ”
“Let me rephrase it, sir. They imagine our emotions might cloud our judgment.”
Ambrose Congreve scoffed at the very notion, picked up his pint and drank deeply. He looked past the patrons of this somewhat grim establishment to the sheeting rain swirling about the streetlamps and clawing at the windows.
“Not even allowed to inspect the crime scene? Turned back at the very edge of the woods where Stokely discovered the shooter’s lair?” he asked the air. “Me? Ambrose Congreve? Words fail me.”
“Aggro?”
“Beyond aggravation, Sutherland. Well and far beyond. Do you suppose the scene tape is down at this point?”
“We’re two weeks in.”
“Tape is down, then. Forensics and scene-of-crime officers will be long gone.”
“What are you thinking, sir?”
“I’ll bloody well tell you what I’m thinking. Are we all even here?”
“Surely you don’t intend to—”
“Pay a little nocturnal visit to the crime scene? That’s exactly what I intend, Sutherland.”
“You can’t be serious. In this weather? At this hour of the night?”
Congreve drained his pint, slipped off the barstool, gathered himself up, and leaned
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