Free Tsar by Ted Bell Page B

see, but the smile on his face and the angle of the well-used pipe jutting from one corner of his mouth told Hawke all was well with his oldest and dearest friend.
    Hawke removed the key from his still-ticking machine and turned the bike over to a smiling young Bermudian in a starched white house jacket who promised not to run off with it. Hawke watched the young man wheeling it away and then turned to the legendary Scotland Yard detective.
    “Hullo, old warrior,” he said to his friend. “Still using the swagger stick, I see.”
    It was his leg. Ambrose had been tortured by a pair of Arab fiends in the Amazon jungle many moons earlier. They’d systematically broken most of the bones in his right foot, knee, and lower leg. Doctors at London’s King Edward VII Hospital who’d performed the knee replacement had originally thought he’d not regain use of the leg. But, not surprisingly, the tough old Scotland Yard copper had prevailed. After months of anguished therapy, with Diana’s love and encouragement at every painful step, he’d left the hospital for good. He’d walked out with a cane, but he’d walked out.
    Hawke stuck out his hand, but Ambrose ignored it, stepping forward to embrace him. They stood that way for a moment, arms wound tightly around each other, neither saying anything, just two men exceedingly happy to see each other once more. Hawke, who was not normally given to leaky displays, had to use every ounce of his will to keep the tears that filled his eyes from spilling over.
    “Alex,” Congreve said finally, clapping him smartly on the shoulder and stepping back to take his measure. “God, it’s good to see you looking so fit.”
    “And you,” Hawke managed to croak as they entered the house side by side. “Where is everybody?”
    “Diana will be down in a moment. She’s upstairs gilding the lilies. Let’s go out on the terrace, shall we, and have something lethal. What would you like, Alex?”
    “Rum, please. Gosling’s if they’ve got it.”
    Hawke followed Congreve through the main house, moving slowly down a long vaulted and torchlit hallway that led to the white marble terrace and the moonlit sea beyond. There seemed to be chaps in white jackets everywhere, all with shiny brass buttons and highly polished black shoes. Congreve had certainly landed himself in cushy surroundings, up a notch or two from his quaint cottage in Hampstead Heath.
    “They’ve got it. You’re quite sure you don’t want a Dark and Stormy?” Ambrose asked.
    “Never heard of it.”
    “Really? Local favorite, practically the national drink of Bermuda. Rum, dark, of course, and ginger beer.”
    Hawke nodded.
    “Desmond,” Ambrose said to the lovely old fellow hovering nearby, “a pair of Dark and Stormys when you’ve got a moment…not too much ice. Ah, here we are! Lovely night for it, wouldn’t you say?”
    The two men had arrived at the carved limestone balustrade surrounding a lower portion of the terrace, a curved patio directly on the sea. There was no wind tonight, Hawke noticed, and not a ripple on the ocean, all the way to the horizon. The light of the full moon on the glassy water was electric, producing an almost neon blue that was startlingly beautiful. A fishing boat lay at anchor, so still it might have been welded to the sea.
    Desmond arrived with a silver tray, and each man took one of the icy sterling tumblers.
    “Well,” Hawke said, taking a swallow of the potion, “let me raise a toast, then.” He lifted his drink and said, “To health. And to peace.”
    “Peace and health,” Congreve said, lifting his own goblet. “Long may they wave.”
    “Are you happy?” Hawke asked his friend, pretending to stare out to sea.
    “I am,” Congreve said, his eyes shining. “Very.”
    Hawke smiled. “Good. Then let’s get down to cases, shall we, Ambrose? Tell me, how does it look?”
    “How does what look?”
    “Come on. The bling-bling.”
    “The bling-bling? ” Congreve said,