Free Hawke by Ted Bell

said, suddenly restless. “I’m Alexander Hawke. My esteemed colleague, Mr. Ambrose Congreve, whom you’ve met, will be handling the translations. Ambrose, you have the floor.”
    As Congreve translated this bit, the waitress approached Hawke. Her flashing eyes and body language indicated that she was not in the best of moods. Surprising, since he’d heard so much about the sunny disposition of the people in these islands. This singular exception to that rule presented herself at the table.
    “Hello,” Hawke said, though his smile went unreturned. “Four Kaliks should do it, thanks.” Blackhawke’ s crew drank nothing but the local Bahamian beer, and that was good enough for Alex. The girl nodded grimly and headed for the bar. Her walk did lovely things to the back of her shift.
    Congreve coughed discreetly to get Hawke’s attention.
    “May I present Mr. Nikolai Golgolkin and Mr. Grigory Bolkonski,” Congreve said to Hawke. “Golgolkin, the Russian bear with the steel glasses, seems to be the one in charge. The chap on the left, who is a dead ringer for Rasputin, is a former submarine designer and weapons expert from the Severodvinsk shipyard on the Kola Peninsula. Both are very pleased to meet the famous Hawke.”
    The little “mad monk” didn’t seem all that pleased. He turned his black eyes on Congreve, anger suffusing his face. He’d clearly heard the Rasputin reference and was not amused.
    “Lovely,” Hawke said, smiling.
    “They apologize for their rudeness in keeping you waiting and beg forgiveness. It seems they are uncomfortable having this discussion in such a public place, but they have brought a gift. Vodka.”
    “They certainly have a gift for drinking the stuff, judging by appearances,” Hawke said.
    Golgolkin produced a small, rectangular red velvet box, which he placed in front of Hawke. Hawke opened it and smiled. It was Moskoya Private Label. Quite rare. Bloody marvelous stuff after a few hours in the freezer.
    “Very kind,” Hawke said, looking from one Russian to the other. “A most generous gift. Let’s get to it. According to our mutual Syrian friend in Abu Kamal, they will have a portfolio of their wares with them, correct?”
    Congreve began translating and soon they were all chattering again in what was, to Hawke’s ear, still a most unlovely language.
    The waitress arrived with a tray and placed a sweating bottle of Kalik in front of each man. Her angry eyes avoided those of the two Russians and her volcanic mood sent tremors to her fingers as she served them. Such a pretty girl, Hawke thought. Pity she was so unhappy.
    As she handed Hawke his beer, he couldn’t help but notice the rough red abrasions around each of her wrists. A quick glance down at her bare feet and ankles revealed that they, too, were red and raw. This poor girl had recently been abused, and badly.
    “What is your name?” Hawke whispered to the girl, taking her gently by the hand.
    “Gloria,” she replied, her eyes downcast.
    “Gloria,” he repeated, remembering it as the name of the woman Congreve had heard the Russians arguing over. “Yes, I might have guessed that.”

5
    It was hard for Hawke to conceal his unbridled loathing for the two Russians. To think, just moments before, he’d actually been feeling sorry for these two sodden degenerates. Make that godless Commie sodden degenerates. In Alex’s world there was right. And there was wrong. And there were no shades of gray.
    The kind of work Alex Hawke did, covert assignments for both the British and American governments, often meant dealing with cretins like these two. But Hawke was a man who loved his life’s calling deeply and passionately. He relished each and every assignment. Now, after the long, restless hiatus that had been January, he looked forward to this one with keen anticipation.
    He stared at the two men sitting across from him. According to everything he’d learned from Cap Adams, the CIA station agent in Kuwait City,