Warlord: An Alex Hawke Novel

by Ted Bell

  And then, a clear shot at the Queen.

  “Montague Thorne!” Hawke called out as loudly as he could.

  Their eyes met.

  Seeing Hawke had him in his sights, Thorne dropped and rolled behind a heavy sofa. Hawke moved toward him, firing into the sofa, then saw Thorne on his feet, running through the scrim of smoke and disappearing into the blackness, headed for the main staircase.

  HAWKE REACHED THE BOTTOM of the steps just as Thorne reached the top and raced away to the right. Emerging at the top, Alex saw the traitor about to duck into the nearest room, the Queen’s Library. Hawke had his pistol in his hand and fired at him. But he missed and the man ran into the room. He was trapped but he didn’t know it. The Library had only one door, the one he’d just entered.

  Thorne quick-peeked around the door and fired a short burst at Hawke. Alex returned fire and ducked back out of sight. Then he raced into the next room and the next after that until he entered the small, walnut-paneled office. Here the Queen answered her correspondence, wrote letters of thanks, or offered condolences. The office shared a common wall with the Library where Thorne had taken refuge, but it also had its own little secret.

  Hawke hurried behind the desk and pushed ever so gently on a wide wooden panel, almost invisible, in the center of the wall. On the other side of the panel were bookshelves full of books from floor to ceiling. Perfectly balanced, it made not a sound as it swung inward.

  Hawke, pistol in hand, peered into the Queen’s Library.

  Thorne had his back to him. He was still hiding beside the door he’d entered, weapon at the ready, fully expecting Hawke to appear at any moment. Thorne didn’t know it, of course, but he just had.

  Hawke stepped silently into the room and pointed his pistol at the back of the monster’s head.

  “Thorne,” he said, just loud enough to be heard.

  Montague whirled, bringing his weapon up.

  Their eyes locked.

  “You’re dead,” Hawke said.

  And pulled the trigger.

  EPILOGUE

  HAWKESMOOR, GLOUCESTERSHIRE

  IT WAS ON A NASTY NOVEMBER evening some months after the Balmoral affair that Alex Hawke received a most intriguing phone call. Because the call would ultimately have enormous significance in his life, he could recall every detail surrounding it.

  He remembered, for instance, that he had been sublimely stretched out on the worn leather sofa in his dimly lit library. Remembered four solid walls of leather-bound books disappearing up into the darkness near the ceiling. And that the dying embers of a fire were in need of a good stoking.

  But he was far too comfortable and engrossed in The Volcano Lover, a novel about his hero Lord Nelson and Emma Hamilton, to move. He would read a few pages, drift off to sleep, awake, and read a few more. Bliss.

  And then, across the room and sitting atop his desk, the bloody telephone rang.

  It rang, and rang, and then it rang again.

  He determined to let it ring off the bloody hook if need be.

  Nor did he wish to disturb dear old Pelham, last seen ensconced in the butler’s pantry, perched atop his ageless stool, round gold glasses precariously hanging on the tip of his nose, working on his latest needlepoint masterpiece while frozen snippets of rain beat against the windowpanes.

  Still, he must have dozed off, for suddenly Pelham was standing above him saying something about a telephone call. Most urgent, gentleman wouldn’t identify himself, said he must speak with Lord Hawke immediately.

  With a sigh, Hawke rose from the sofa and padded over to his desk to pick up the damn phone. Pelham vanished from the room just as Alex said, “Hello?”

  “Alex?”

  “Indeed I am. And who are you?”

  “It’s Halter.”

  “Halter! Good Lord, it’s been aeons.”

  Stefan Halter was a don at Cambridge. He also worked for both MI6 and the Russian KGB; he was the longest and most successful double agent in the history of the British service. He was a good man, brilliant, and he had saved Hawke’s life once, risking his own, on a remote Swedish island. In hindsight, Hawke might well have preferred to die.

  “Alex, we need to see each other. I have certain information that I must share with you. I’m not at all comfortable discussing this business on the phone.”

  “I understand. Would you like to come to Hawkesmoor? We could do some shooting, mix business with pleasure.”

  “It’s not a good idea for me to be seen in England at the moment. I’m sure you’ll understand.”

  “Yes. I’ll come to you then. Where are you? Not Moscow?”

  “No. I’ve a small chalet in Switzerland. Should I manage to live long enough to retire in one piece, it will be my home.”

  “Done. How do I get there?”

  “You still have your beautiful little airplane?”

  “Guilty as charged, your honor.”

  “Good. The nearest airport is Lucerne.”

  HAWKE CAUGHT A TAXI AT THE AIRPORT and went directly to the ferry docks on Lake Lucerne, just across the way from the main railway station. Halter had told him there was a boat called the Unterwalden departing promptly at noon and tickets could easily be had at the Vierwaldstättersee office right on the quay.

  Halter had promised a very pleasant trip down Switzerland’s most beautiful lake, emerald green and clear as gin. When Hawke heard the distinctive shriek of a steam whistle and saw the Unterwalden arriving at the dock, he knew why he was in for a pleasant voyage.

  She was a large, 1902-vintage paddle-wheel steamer, one that obviously had been impeccably restored. He was one of the first aboard. Mounting the stairs to the first class dining room for lunch, he saw that the modern designers had encased the ship’s engine room and the two huge steam engines entirely in Plexiglas.

  Gazing down into the pristine engine room, you could see the pulsing of the massive polished steel connecting rods that drove the paddle wheels, and even the man on the throttle, taking orders from three brass horns linked to the bridge. Hawke, transfixed by the sheer beauty and elegance of this century-old technology, almost missed the first seating for lunch.

  His table by the curved window offered splendid views of the Alps as the paddle wheeler zigzagged across the green lake, stopping at one tiny storybook village after another. The snowcapped Alps and thick green forests, laden with snow, marched right down to the lakeshore everywhere you looked. For perhaps the first time in his life, he felt thoroughly enchanted. Hawke imagined that there might be somewhere on the planet he’d like to live besides England.

  When the announcement came over the P.A. system that the next stop would be his destination, Vitznau, he was almost disappointed. He would have been more than happy to remain aboard and continue on to the southern tip of the lake.

  At Vitznau, Halter had instructed, he was to board one of the small trains that left every hour at quarter past. The rail station was a five-minute walk from the dock. He was startled to see that the tracks ascended the mountain at a nearly vertical angle. Slightly nervous about such a steep ascent, he asked the ticket master how the trains did it.

  “This is the oldest cog railway in the world, sir,” the kindly man told him in perfect English. “Built in 1898.”

  “Ah,” Hawke said, not overwhelmingly reassured, gazing out the window at the steep incline.

  “Don’t worry,” the man said with a smile. “Our little steam engines may look old-fashioned, and they are over one hundred years old, but they will get you safely to the top, I promise.”

  Like the steamship, the arriving Swiss train was a marvel. The engine, huffing and puffing steam as it descended into the station, was a lovely thing of brass and dark forest green, as were the uniforms of the two conductors. The cars themselves were bright red, which seemed to be the favorite color of the Swiss.

  Hawke gleefully bought his ticket and climbed aboard, more than ready for his ascent. Travel here in Switzerland, all of it, was not just get
ting from one place to another, he mused; it was all a glorious adventure. As the little train wound its way up the mountain, he heard cowbells clanging away as the livestock munched hay in and around countless farms. Every chalet was a delight, with brightly colored shutters and doors, and trim under the eaves.

  It took the train about an hour to reach the top, through some of the most spectacular scenery on earth. When he reached the tiny town of Rigi and climbed down from his car, he saw Halter waving to him from the platform. Professor Stefanovich Halter was hard to miss in a crowd. He was a tall, big man, a rugged bear of a fellow with sharp, dark eyes beneath wild bushy black eyebrows.

  And he was wearing the brightest red ski parka Hawke had ever seen, not to mention a large black mink Cossack trapper hat perched atop his head. He moved surprisingly gracefully for such a big man as he hurried along the platform toward Hawke.

  “Welcome to the top of the world,” he said, extending his hand. For a dyed-in-the-wool Muscovite, Halter had a pitch-perfect Oxbridge accent, the product of a boyhood at Eton and Cambridge.

  Hawke shook his hand warmly and said, “I warn you now, Halter, I may never leave. It is too glorious for words.”

  “It is rather pretty, isn’t it. Look at the two tallest mountains over there beyond the lake. That’s the Eiger to the left, and beyond that the Jungfrau. You’ve come on the perfect day. Cool and clear. We’ve been besieged with snow all month. Shall we be off? Don’t tell me that’s all the luggage you’ve brought?”

  Hawke slung his black nylon duffel bag over his shoulder and said, “I assume you don’t dress for dinner up here, do you? I’m afraid I didn’t bring a dinner jacket.”

  Halter laughed and said, “Follow me, Alex, your carriage awaits. My God, it’s good to see you. You look marvelous by the way. I heard you went through a rough patch out in Bermuda.”

  Hawke ignored that and said, “Would you mind terribly if we stopped at a Realtor’s office en route to your chalet? I should very much like to buy a house. Before sundown if possible.”

  “Not at all. Brought your checkbook?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  They started off, walking through the streets of the picturesque hamlet.

  “Ah, here we are,” Halter said, as the two men rounded the back of a small gasthaus where diners sat on an upper deck enjoying the amazing views, the sunshine, and great glass steins of beer.

  “This is yours?” Hawke said, looking at the lovely red sleigh behind two sturdy Swiss dray horses that very closely resembled palominos.

  “Only way to get around up here. I cannot abide those horrid snowmobiles, and thank heaven there are few of them about up at the summit.”

  Hawke climbed inside after tossing his duffel behind the bench seat. Halter flicked the reins and they were off. The horses were beautifully tacked with a surfeit of gleaming silver sleigh bells that tinkled merrily as they made their way through the snowy wood.

  “Do your comrades at the Kremlin know about this place?”

  “Alex, you are the first and only person I have even told about this house, much less invited for a visit.”

  Twenty minutes later Halter reined in the horses, stopping just below a small but exquisite Swiss chalet. It had bright red shutters with decorative cutouts on every window, a steep pitched roof, and lots of carved Swiss imagery under the eave of the top floor.

  “It’s perfect, Stefan.”

  “With all due modesty, I must agree. Let’s hurry inside and get you some food and drink, shall we?”

  Once inside, sitting before a roaring fire in an ancient stone hearth, Halter took a sip of lager and looked carefully at his old friend.

  “Alex, what I’m about to tell you will most certainly be a shock to you. I was shocked myself and that’s a difficult thing to do. But I want you to hear me out before you respond. And I want you to know beforehand that what I tell you may well turn out to be pure fabrication. Misinformation designed by the KGB for purely political reasons. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Hawke said, his heart suddenly trip-hammering inside his rib cage. “Tell me.”

  “Anastasia may still be alive.”

  “What?” Hawke felt as if he’d been struck in the heart by a giant wielding a sledgehammer.

  “She may not have died in the airship explosion in Sweden.”

  “But that’s—”

  “I know, impossible. We both saw her loaded aboard on the stretcher minutes before the explosion. At least, we saw someone carried on board. The body was concealed beneath a fur blanket.”

  “Yes, but we saw her arm slip down. The white ermine jacket she’d worn to the Nobel—”

  “I know, I know. But apparently it may not have been her. I’m told the housekeeper at the summer house, for whatever reason, donned the ermine jacket, covered herself with the blanket, and had herself—Alex? Are you all right?”

  Hawke had gone as still as death and as pale as wax. He covered his eyes with his trembling hands and, his voice breaking, said, “This cannot be true, Stefan. It simply cannot! I saw what I saw. I saw what I saw.”

  “Let me get you something. Brandy? Schnapps?”

  “Brandy, please. I can’t, I really just cannot deal with this, you know. After all this time. All this grief. All this goddamn pain I’ve been carrying around for—for—what? And now I’m finally—what? What am I, Stefan?”

  “Drink this. Let’s not talk for a few minutes. Do you want to walk around in the snow for a bit? Take some deep breaths of cold air? Might help.”

  “No. I want to hear it all. I’m all right.”

  “You’re in shock, Alex. Perhaps we should speak after dinner and—”

  “No! I want to hear it all! Right now. Every damn bit of it.”

  “All right. I’ll tell you all I’ve heard. The KGB went to Sweden immediately after the tsar’s death. Went to his house. Searched it. They claim they found Anastasia hiding in the cellar. Barely alive. She’d attempted suicide. Rat poison. But they got her to the clinic on the mainland in time.”

  “And then?”

  “Returned her to Moscow. Lubyanka Prison. She was there for a year. They…coerced a confession from her. Treason against the state. She was tried and condemned to death by hanging.”

  “God. Oh, my God.”

  “You remember General Kuragin?”

  “Of course. The little town in Sweden. The man who cut off his own left hand to avert suspicion. Betrayed the tsar. Gave us the code to the Beta machine.”

  “Yes. At the last minute, Kuragin interceded in her behalf. Saved her life. If I had to guess, I’d say Putin was behind it in some way.”

  “Putin?”

  “Yes. After the tsar’s death he was one of many political prisoners freed from Energetika Prison. He’s been restored to power as you well know. Saving Anastasia could have been Putin’s way of retaliating against those who’d betrayed him in favor of Count Korsakov. I really don’t know the details, but she was released into General Kuragin’s custody.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “The KGB took possession of the tsar’s country estate. You’ve been there, Jasna Polana. They use it for winter military training exercises, high-level meetings, entertaining visiting dignitaries, whatever. General Kuragin has retired. He lives there now, running the place, so to speak. So does she. Under lock and key. Constant guard. The place has become an armed fortress.”

  Hawke stood up, went to the hearth, and put both hands on the mantelpiece, facing away from Halter. Tears were coursing down his cheeks. His breathing was very shallow, and he was shaking badly as he tried to compose himself.

  Halter waited silently for the question he knew was coming. It was some time before Hawke gained sufficient control of his emotions to ask it.

  “And what about—what about my son?”

  “Alive. He was born in Lubyanka Prison. He is now with his mother at Jasna Polana.”

  “He would be—how old now?”


  “Almost two, Alex.”

  Hawke’s heart was in his throat as he said, “One last question, Stefan.”

  “Anything.”

  “Who told you all of this?”

  “General Kuragin.”

  “Kuragin. I was afraid you’d say that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, Stefan, you and I are the only two men on earth who know that General Kuragin betrayed his tsar and his country for fifty million dollars in a Swiss bank.”

  “And now he wants both witnesses to his treason eliminated.”

  “It’s a possibility we must consider.”

  Hawke turned and faced his friend.

  “I-I don’t know what to say, Stefan. I don’t know whether to believe this or not. I’m terrified of believing it. And terrified of not believing it.”

  “I’ve felt the very same way ever since learning about this. There were times when I thought I’d never be able to tell you all this.”

  “I killed Korsakov, Russia’s beloved tsar. I’m sure the Kremlin wants me dead. I’m still amazed they never came after me in Bermuda. I was expecting a bullet to the head every single day.”

  “Yes. This could well be a very elaborate KGB ruse. Ordered by Kuragin. A trap, with Anastasia and her child as the perfect bait. A way to bring you to them while exacting a horrible emotional punishment upon you before he silences the voice that can bring him down. They are certainly capable of concocting such a monstrous assassination.”

  “I am returning to Russia. If Anastasia and my son are alive, I promise you I will find them and I will bring them out. Or happily die trying.”

  “I know, Alex. I knew you would feel that way. I’m of course prepared to help you in any way possible, from inside the Kremlin. And, if you’ll allow me, even going with you to bring them out if you want me.”

  “And expose yourself? After all these brilliant years? You cannot do that. England needs you alive, right where you are.”

  “It would be a glorious way to end my career, I believe. Helping you to find the two of them. All of us coming out together.”