After Dominic had deposited them both at Knightsbridge the next morning, Hawke's first order of business was to deal with Elena's immediate financial affairs. That taken care of, he headed to his first medical appointment.
Marella came to find him later in the day. He'd gone one round with Archangel's shrinks, a second round with a bunch of people who poked and prodded at him and drew samples of his blood, and a third with the physiotherapists, and now all he wanted to do was to collect Elena and get out of there. "What is it?" he asked, not very graciously.
"Michael wants to see you."
"Thanks, I figured that. What for?"
"If I told you, that would spoil the surprise." She ignored the roll of his eyes and led the way back to Archangel's office. Waiting there was not only Michael but Dominic and Caitlin as well.
"Congratulations, Hawke," said Michael. "Pending the results of the toxicology testing, Dr. Greenspan thinks you're recovering quite well. Unless you start experiencing problems of any kind, he doesn't want to see you again until your next follow-up appointment in two weeks."
"You could have put that in a letter and mailed it to me," grumbled Hawke, slumping into a chair. He was unpleasantly surprised by how exhausted he was feeling, after a day of doing little more than sitting still. Not only that but the whole procedure, even though Archangel's staff had been pleasant and professional, had caused him one or two flashbacks to his sessions with Dr. Fairling, which had been unsettling to say the least. In spite of being so tired, he doubted he was going to sleep very well that night. "So what's with the conference?"
"We've found something that might interest you." Marella seated herself at the computer keyboard.
"It sure as hell interested me," said Michael.
Marella tapped keys, and the photograph of a man's face appeared on the monitor. Swarthy complexion, black hair swept back, broad cheekbones; between the graininess of the photo and the sunglasses the man was wearing, it was impossible to tell any more. "Know him?" asked Michael.
"No."
The picture split into two photos, one the original, the other the same man in profile. Hawke shook his head. He really couldn't care less who this man was, although from Michael's attitude he knew he ought to.
"His name's Jhagesh Khan," said Marella. "He has at least three aliases, but that's the name on the passport he was using when he met with . . . "
"Drum roll, please," interjected Michael, fairly rubbing his hands with glee.
" . . . John Bradford Horn in Dubai last month."
Hawke sat bolt upright.
"And who the hell is Jhagesh Khan?" asked Dominic.
"Mr. Khan is an Oxford-educated Indian national, an internationally respected political author and commentator. His usual theme is the rights of the individual versus the state, but in the last two or three years his topic has tended to be the rights of the small state versus the larger, or God forbid, the superpower."
"And what does a political author want with Horn?"
"Probably nothing. But under the alias of Aras Tarbet, Khan has been heavily involved in an attempt to form a small breakaway state called Bakustan, in an area of northern India on the border of Nepal. And under the alias of Deepak Pandya, he does some pretty lucrative trading in both weapons and dope."
"I still don't see what any of 'em would want with Horn," objected Dom.
"Maybe this will make things a bit clearer. Marella, play the tape, would you?"
"This was recorded by a Firm agent who had bugged Khan's Dubai hotel room," explained Marella. "When it was realized that our division was actively looking for any current information on Horn, a copy of the tape was made available to us." She hit another key and the sound of a man's voice came tinnily out of the speakers.
"Good morning, John. So kind of you to make time to come and see me. I know your schedule is very full." A smooth, deep voice, tinged with a British accent.
"Not at all. I can always make time for you, Jhagesh."
Hawke went rigid, feeling his heart rate jump. The second voice belonged to John Bradford Horn.
There were noises on the tape: footsteps and the chink of glasses as drinks were poured. Then Khan spoke again. "Do forgive me if I seem importunate, John, but I hadn't received any word from you for quite some time. I just wanted some reassurance that everything is still going well."
"Everything is going just fine. Dr. Fairling has been getting regular updates from the clinic. It's been nearly two months since Hawke has received any treatment and he's still completely under control. She'll be returning to the U.S. in about a month and the next phase can begin any time after that."
"The next phase . . . " said Khan musingly. "I still find it very disconcerting that a man's mind can be played with so easily. A few doses of some mystery drug, a few suggestions spoken in the ear of the subconscious, and this very strong-willed man is little more than a drooling infant. And then ‒ a snap of the fingers, and hey presto! He is recovered, yet willing and able to do whatever his new master commands. I must say, I disliked the entire idea enormously when you first proposed it, and I haven't changed my mind since."
Hawke felt his stomach lurch. His fists were clenched so tightly that his nails were being driven into his palms.
"It's not quite as simple as you make it sound," Horn was saying, obviously not interested in disputing Khan's ethical concerns. "I understand from Dr. Fairling that the next step will likely be rather tricky. Bringing him back to relative normal so that he can retrieve Airwolf and fly her while still, as you put it, doing what his master commands. And while I deeply regret injecting a mercenary element into this conversation, might I remind you that Hawke's condition will not remain stable forever? According to the doctor, the longer he stays the way he is now, the harder it will be to re-program him and the less likely it is that the re-programming will be successful. I've yet to receive the next payment that will allow phase two to begin."
"Ah, well, no one can anticipate all contingencies. I am afraid that some events are running slightly behind schedule, and I am not yet ready for Airwolf to make her appearance in Bakustan."
"And I assume that the next installment of the twenty-five million dollars is also running slightly behind schedule."
"You assume correctly."
There was a short silence, then Horn said, "I'll need to give Dr. Fairling some kind of time frame before she returns to the U.S."
"It's difficult to be specific, John. Have you ever presided over the birth of a country? No? Let me assure you, these things do not run according to specific time frames. The wind must blow from the right quarter, not too strongly, not too lightly; all the heavenly bodies, it seems, must be in correct alignment, and all the auguries must be propitious; and augurs being what they are, it's very difficult to find omens to satisfy everyone."
"I agree, it's so hard to find good augurs these days."
Khan laughed merrily, seemingly not in the least offended. "It is indeed. But you might have been well advised to consult one or two yourself before your first encounter with Stringfellow Hawke; if you had, you might be ensconced right now on that cosy little Caribbean island you had your eye on . . . I should hope to require the services of Mr. Hawke and Airwolf in no more than six months. Hopefully less."
"You might want to consider that old maxim carpe diem, and forget about the omens. Keeping Hawke hidden away and under control is expensive, not to mention the danger that the Firm may regain possession of Airwolf in Hawke's absence. I may have to raise my price."
"Or cut your profit margin."
"I'm a businessman, Jhagesh."
"Oh, come now, John. You will be prolonging your revenge on the man; and that has always been far more important to you than any amount of money, has it not?"
"It's been a consideration, certainly." Horn sounded like he was smiling.
"Well, then, we will both have our satisfaction from Mr. Hawke in the end. Now I do hate to be so discourteous, but I have another appointment shortly, and I know you're a busy man . . . rest assured, I'll give you a more definite date before long."
Horn left the room amid mutual politeness and well-wishing. Marella pushed a button to stop playback.
Hawke knew they were all looking at him. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do most right then: crawl away and hide somewhere, or get his fingers wrapped tightly around John Bradford Horn's throat and begin squeezing. Hard. Until he felt something break.
"At twenty-five million dollars, Mr. Khan was going to get quite a bargain," said Archangel drily, "considering Airwolf's original R&D costs to the Firm. I suppose it's because she's second-hand."
"That was horrible," said Caitlin. She sounded like she was almost in tears.
"I'm sorry, Hawke," said Marella gently. "But at least now we know what Horn wanted you and Airwolf for."
"Yeah," he murmured. Getting to his feet with an effort, he said, "Dom, you ready to go? I don't think I want to stick around here any longer."
He didn't say a word on the flight back to the cabin. Muttering something in Dominic's direction, he jumped out of the helicopter almost as soon as the skids touched the dock and moved quickly up the steps.
"What's wrong?" Elena asked worriedly from the back seat.
Dom took off his headphones as the rotors slowly cycled down, then turned around to face her. "We just found out what Horn wanted with String. He was gonna sell him and Airwolf for twenty-five million bucks to some guy wanting to start up his own country in northern India."
"But String would never ‒ "
"By the time Horn and that tame doctor of his got finished with him, he sure as hell would. Sounds like Horn figured he'd be able to make String fetch and roll over for him and be happy to do it. String's a little upset. It's kinda made him forget his manners."
"Oh," she said weakly.
"Look, I don't know about you, but I could really do with some supper and I doubt String's gonna be too interested in cooking right now. Let's you and I see what we can find in his kitchen."
"Will he mind?" Elena didn't want to take any risks of offending Hawke, not considering the look on his face when he'd gotten out of the helicopter.
"Naw. Come on."
Hawke was at the bar, loading ammunition into his big stainless steel Smith & Wesson. He barely looked up as they came in.
"You're picking a funny time to go target shooting," said Dom. "In case you hadn't noticed, it'll be dark in a few minutes."
"You staying?"
"Thought I might."
Hawke shoved the gun in his belt and another couple of clips in his pocket, then headed for the door. He turned briefly and said to Elena, "Don't worry if you hear some shooting." Then he was gone again.
Elena swallowed. She'd never had any experience with guns beyond TV shows and movies, and the casual way Hawke handled the things terrified her. "Dom, he wouldn't do anything ‒ anything stupid, would he?"
"Like blowing his own brains out, you mean? Naw, don't you worry, honey. He'll be wanting to save all his bullets for Horn." Dominic busied himself building the fire. Elena opened a few kitchen cupboards but found herself staring sightlessly at Hawke's pantry with her arms wrapped around herself, shivering slightly.
Dominic came over and steered her toward the fireplace, then fetched a knitted afghan and draped it over her shoulders. "Hey, you want me to take you back to the city tonight rather than staying up here? Cait'll be happy to put you up again."
She almost said yes, then shook her head no. "I don't want him to think that he scared me away. Not that I care if he thinks I'm a chicken. I know I'm a chicken. But people shouldn't think that their own friends are scared of them."
"That's a nice thought," said Dominic approvingly. "Don't you worry, he'll be fine after he's blown off some steam. String can look mean; hell, he can be mean sometimes. But he'd never do anything to hurt a friend. I've known him since he was a little kid, and I can tell you, he's not always what you might call a nice person, exactly. But he's a decent person."
He'd attacked Ann Strete, though, which qualified as neither nice nor decent. She wondered if Dominic knew about that. Did Ann count as a friend? She'd never been sure about that. Obviously Ann and String had had some history, probably been lovers, but it hadn't sounded as if they'd actually been friends. Even so, was there any justification for what had nearly been a rape? String was the only person who could tell her that, and she could hardly ask him.
"And you're not a chicken, either," Dominic was continuing. "If you were, you wouldn't be here right now, you'd still be sitting back at that clinic. You and String both." He squeezed her shoulders. "Now, let's get some coffee going, huh? Then I'm pretty sure I brought up some cans of stew the last time I did a grocery run for that big grouch."
Elena couldn't help smiling. Dominic Santini knew the real String better than she did, after all. And she had a feeling she could trust Dominic. Maybe she was just a sucker for that adorable smile, but in the sane and daylight world, she herself was quite sure that String was no rapist. It would take a more judgmental mind than hers to decide if he could be held accountable for his actions in the strange mental underworld in which he'd been forced to exist at Green Hills.
Dom dealt with the antique wood-burning stove with the ease of long practice, and the two of them drank coffee and ate warmed-up canned beef stew. A large section of Hawke's pantry seemed to be set aside for provisions for guests ‒ either Hawke realized that not everyone cared for a steady diet of trout, or else Dominic knew he was shopping for himself ‒ with some fruit and cookies for dessert. He helped her clean up, then, after a renewed offer to take her back with him and her repeated refusal, he left.
After the helicopter was gone, the only sound was the crackling of flames in the fireplace. Elena considered locking the door, but decided not to. She didn't want Hawke smashing a window or shooting out the lock if he came back and couldn't get in.
Hawke didn't come back. Eventually Elena fell asleep on the sofa. At some point the sound of distant gunfire brought her awake with a start, heart pounding, but soon everything was silent again. Elena flopped back to the cushions. I'm glad I'm not a deer, she thought.
Thinking of the look on Hawke's face as he stood there loading his gun, she shivered and thought, I'm really glad I'm not John Bradford Horn, either.
The next time she woke up, it was bright daylight and Hawke was in the kitchen scrambling eggs. Not only had he managed to slip into the cabin after his nocturnal ramblings without waking her, he'd shaved and, judging by his damp hair, had showered as well. If she'd slept through all that, obviously the soporific effect of the fresh air here was more than enough to counterbalance her troubled state of mind.
Maybe that was true for Hawke as well. Considering how he'd looked yesterday evening, he now appeared remarkably relaxed as he pushed eggs around in the skillet. "Morning," he greeted her.
"Unh." Elena realized she'd fallen asleep in her clothes. "I'll be right back." She went upstairs ‒ yes, the bed had definitely been slept in ‒ showered and changed. By the time she came back down, the eggs were on the table, along with orange juice, toast, butter and marmalade.
He poured her a cup of coffee. "Sorry about last night. I just needed to calm down, I guess. Hope I didn't wake you when I was shooting."
She was suddenly very glad that she hadn't given in to her desire to get the hell away from the cabin, and him. "I think I heard some of that. But otherwise I slept fine."
He nodded. They ate in silence, until Hawke suddenly said, "Did Dom tell you what happened yesterday? That we finally found out why Horn wanted me?"
She replied carefully, "He just said something about Horn planning to turn you and Airwolf over to somebody who was going to pay him a lot of money for your services, to help him start up a new country, or something. It sounded unbelievable."
"My services. That's a laugh. More like slave labour." He was beginning to tense up again. Well, thought Elena, I've been here before; I know how to deal with this.
"Think of it this way, isn't it flattering to think that someone is willing to pay twenty-five million dollars for you?" she said, gently mocking. "I mean, I don't suppose he'd want to spend that kind of money on me. You're special."
Hawke gave her a filthy look. Elena ignored it and rose briskly from the table. "Now come on and help me get this stuff cleaned up. Don't you have some exercises to do?"
"Oh, come on. I was wandering around in the forest for most of the night. I'm tired."
"So?" she said heartlessly. "Where's that list the physio people gave you? You were the one who said you wanted to do this."
"Slave-driver."
"Don't worry. You can have a nice afternoon nap."
Of course, as she had known, Hawke was the real slave-driver of the two, demanding far more of himself than anyone else would have done. Over the following two weeks he worked out almost non-stop in one form or another. Rather than encouraging him, she found herself trying to prevent him from over-doing his self-imposed fitness regimen. She was beginning to wonder if he possessed any gears at all between neutral and overdrive.
When he did stop, he usually loaded his gun for a bout of target practice. She suspected that he saw Horn's face on every target he set up.
Occasionally, he seemed to zone out, staring off into space with whatever he'd been doing forgotten. It was the only physical sign she could detect that the long course of Dr. Fairling's treatment hadn't entirely relinquished its hold. In isolation, it seemed even spookier than it had when it was his normal state. It didn't happen often and when it did it didn't last longer than a few minutes; by the end of the second week the episodes seemed to have stopped entirely.
The only facet of his old life that he didn't seem eager to resume was flying Airwolf. He didn't mention it, and Elena had no idea whether the helicopter simply wasn't that important to him, or if he had some perfectly valid reason for not talking about it. Maybe he just wasn't feeling physically ready for flying yet, or maybe he needed to have a specific, important reason to use the machine ‒ after all, from what she'd seen of it, it was hardly the kind of thing he'd take to the supermarket for a grocery run ‒ or maybe it was some kind of classified military craft which he wasn't allowed to discuss with her, which seemed more likely.
Or maybe it still haunted his nightmares.
After two weeks he went back to Knightsbridge for the next round of medical appointments, and spent several hours on the Firm's firing range. Archangel asked to see him before he left.
"Hawke," he greeted him over a pile of paperwork on his desk. "How are you feeling?"
"You tell me. I'm sure you've already got the doctors' reports."
"Well, yes." Archangel had the relevant papers set in the one clear space on his desk. "Physically, you may not be ready to run a marathon yet, but you're perfectly healthy aside from a few sore muscles. I imagine you already knew that."
Hawke nodded.
"But unfortunately the drugs that Dr. Fairling gave you seem to have an extremely long half-life, and there are still traces of them in your bloodstream. Dr. Greenspan is not going to give you clearance to start flying again until they're completely gone."
"And how long will that take?"
"We don't know exactly what we're dealing with here. These drugs are something we haven't seen before. His best guess is another month."
"Michael ‒ "
Archangel raised a placatory hand. "Hawke, one thing we do know is that these are extremely potent, mind-altering chemicals. Do you want to be up there screaming around in Airwolf if there's a chance these things could still be affecting you? I know you're stubborn, but I don't think you're stupid. Besides, as I recall you were having some issues just with the thought of Airwolf. In fact, you were so screwed up, to put it bluntly, that you actually tried to destroy it by ramming it with a twelve-year-old subcompact car." Archangel put up one hand to rub his moustache, covering his mouth.
Hawke ignored that. "Well, what about that stuff that Caitlin shot me up with, when I was in Horn's place in Texas? Wouldn't that work?"
"Do you want to die again?" asked Archangel brutally.
"I didn't die."
"You came damn close to it. Certainly it was enough to fool Cait. Next time it could be for real. That stuff's as dangerous as the drugs it was designed to neutralize. Strictly last-resort."
Hawke slumped back in his chair. Archangel went over to his small bar and poured a shot of Scotch for both of them. "Only another month, Hawke."
"At somebody's best guess."
Archangel shrugged.
After a silence while both men swallowed their drinks, Hawke asked, "Any sign of Horn?"
"None at all, I regret to say. We've cleaned out his five known residences and assorted other boltholes in the U.S. Three we already knew of, and Ann told us about a few more. No sign of either him or Fairling at any of them. Wherever he is, he's dug himself in deep."
"No chance he could have gotten out of the country?"
"It's a possibility," Archangel allowed. "But it's not likely. Every border and point of departure were being watched by just about every law enforcement agency in the country, covert and otherwise, within an hour of Airwolf picking you up."
"So our best chance of finding him is still making him come after me."
"Hawke ‒ " began Archangel, alarmed.
"Don't worry, Michael. I'm not planning on putting myself on billboards or anything like that. I'd rather not meet him again myself until I'm back to flying. I'm just going to keep on doing what I'm doing, and hope I get a nibble."
"I just hope," said Archangel sourly, "that that nibble doesn't turn out to be more like a shark bite."