by Ted Bell
“Yeah. A very bad actor. At the very top of the pyramid, or close enough. Volodya’s right-hand man and BFF inside the Kremlin.”
“BFF?”
“Best friend forever, a rather dated expression, now.”
“What?”
“Never mind, Brick. What happened to Borkov?”
“He was spending a long weekend aboard Putin’s new yacht, Tsar, in Monte Carlo harbor. He went to the casino, got pissed on vodka cosmos, took a woman back out to the yacht. Now he’s dead. Your pal Volodya, or President Vladimir Putin, as those of us not in his inner circle call him, rang me up at 0600 this morning and—by the way—you been talking to him lately?”
“No. Not for months.”
“Well. That’s odd. He seemed to know all the details of the deaths of our two CIA officials in both Maine and Paris. And he seemed to have a working knowledge of your role in bringing the Spider matter to . . . closure. You and Congreve. How you two lured the killer to Bermuda and took him out at your cottage. And since we three are the only living souls who know exactly what happened that night, well, that’s why I’m naturally curious about your speaking to—”
Hawke kept his rising anger in check.
“I have not spoken to Putin, Brick. All right? I would never do that without telling you immediately. Are we clear on that?”
“Yeah, yeah. Well, be careful of what you say from now on. There might be someone close to you who shouldn’t be.”
“Thanks for the heads-up, Brick.”
“You’re welcome. Anyway, Putin was not aboard the yacht on the weekend. The chief steward found Borkov in his stateroom sometime early next morning, dead of a massive coronary. He immediately called the Kremlin. Putin, upon hearing the very familiar M.O., put two and two together and called me. Said Borkov’s death sounded suspiciously like the work of Artemis Payne. A seductress who packs a heart attack. Was his information on the recent death of Payne accurate? I told him it was. And was he correct about your role in the matter? When I told him yes, he asked me to see if you would look into the present matter, the Borkov thing. As a personal favor to him.”
“Hold on. I’m supposed to investigate the murder of a top KGB guy?”
“I can always say no. But—”
“But what? Doesn’t KGB usually clean up its own messes?”
“Listen, Alex, I’ll be honest with you. I called the president immediately after Putin hung up. Told him the facts. POTUS was adamant. He definitely wants you to do it. Rosow says he’ll call C personally and ask for MI6 assistance in getting to the bottom of this. Assistance, in this case, meaning you.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Think about it a moment. Rosow and Putin are toe to toe over Russia’s new desire to acquire more and more real estate that used to belong to them but doesn’t anymore. Crimea and the Ukraine have made the West look like a hobbled giant. The rest of Ukraine will soon fall to the Russians and we won’t even squeal. CIA intel is that Estonia is the next item on Putin’s shopping list. He considers it already his, anyway, and he will have it. Washington is toxic these days, Alex, and our military is running on fumes. Our friends don’t trust us, and our enemies don’t fear us. I’ve never seen it this bad. And, since Rosow’s hands are tied, meaning he can hardly start World War III to prevent Vlad from doing whatever earthly hell-raising he wants to do, you appear to be the White House’s best option at the moment.”
“In what sense?”
“A fox in their henhouse, that’s you, Alex. Gather intelligence inside the Kremlin. Pick Putin clean. Feed him misinformation about NATO’s planned retaliatory war games; I don’t know specifics yet. Those I’ll need to hear from the White House. You’ll tell him he’s pissed off the wrong generals at NATO HQ. The American people have him down for a nut job. Tell him anything you want. Say that the Chinese are secretly planning to make a massive incursion across his Siberian border to lay claim to his vast lumber forests. Make it all up. You’re good at this stuff, remember?”
“What about UN sanctions? They always work.”
“Sanctions? Work? Seriously?”
“That was a joke, Brick. The synonym for joke in my book is UN sanctions. But, hold on, you went along with Rosow on this loony idea?”
“Yeah. Because the president’s right for a change. By inviting you, Putin’s handing us an opening ripe with possibilities. All good. You two have the weirdest of all historical political alliances, but you do seem to get along, correct? For God’s sake, Alex, he wants you to come over to his side! He’s open about it! This guy has no shame, no fear. You cannot make this stuff up. Even le Carre couldn’t make it up. It’s as if George Patton and Hitler were somehow secretly best buds all during the Battle of the Bulge . . . I mean—it’s just too offing weird to—”
“Calm down, Brick. I’ll do it. I’ll do it.”
“What? You will?”
“Putin saved my son’s life, Brick, remember? When Anastasia gave birth to Alexei, Volodya personally stepped in and stopped some KGB tsarist goons from bashing my newborn baby’s skull against the walls of the Lubyanka Prison maternity ward.”
“You do owe him a favor, I suppose.”
“You think? I put him back on the throne. My son still has a price on his head, Brick. Because I took out the old-guard KGB’s beloved Count Korsakova, and freed Putin from his prison. Which indeed put him back on the throne. But, duty always calls, doesn’t it. Tell the president I’m in, I’ll go see Volodya. See what I can dig up.”
“Good call. The president will be delighted. He wants you at the White House so he can brief you before you go to Monte Carlo. Tomorrow evening. I’ll be there, too, to hold your hand. Oh, and by the way, President Rosow has asked that you bring your friend Chief Inspector Congreve along for the ride.”
“As in, Ambrose, the real brains of the outfit?”
“Something like that, yes. Rosow’s got a major Sherlock Holmes fetish and he knows Congreve’s a serious Sherlockian as well. So. Will Ambrose do it? Go to Monte Carlo?”
“Try and stop him. An exotic murder mystery in a famous watering hole? He lives for this stuff. Brick, you know that.”
“I’m going to send a government Gulfstream G650 over there to Bermuda to pick you two up. I’ve booked a two-bedroom suite for you two lover boys at the Hay Adams right across the street from 1600. Our meeting with POTUS is scheduled for 1800 hours tomorrow evening.”
“And transport to Monte Carlo?”
“Same G-stream smoking out of Andrews at 0700 next morning. You’ll fly to Nice. An air force chopper will meet you at a remote part of the field and ferry you over to Monte Carlo harbor. Tsar, Putin’s personal floating pussy palace, has a pad on the stern.”
“You make it sound like you think this is all going to be one big laugh riot, a fun-filled holiday.”
“You don’t?”
“Fun? I have to be honest, Brick. I’m going into this with my eyes wide open. To be serious for a moment, I have to say, something about the whole thing smells funny.”
“Everything I touch smells funny these days, Alex. It’s the way the world is right now. A big hot mess. It’s starting to stink from the core. There’s no there there, anymore. Know what I mean?”
“I worry about Alexei. Despite your attempt to portray this new adventure in the most lighthearted fashion, I am about to put myself and my family in an unusually vulnerable situation by doing this.”
“I realize that. But, just remember. Your family at least has round-the-clock security at the highest level from Scotland Yard’s Royalty Protection squad. Buckingham Palace has nothing on you. Wills and Kate should be so lucky.”
“I know. Like I said, Brick, I’m worried.”
“I don’t want you to be. You’re going to be walking a very fine line over there. I need your full attention. So, tell me. What can I do for you? What will help you?”
“I’m doing you guys a rather
large favor, am I not?”
“You certainly are.”
“Thought so. I want Alexei and Nell living in the White House until this is over. Under full Secret Service protection. Round the clock. Same level as that enjoyed by the president and his family.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“You’re serious.”
“Deadly.”
“Well, what the hell. The White House. Uh, yeah, why not. I think I can arrange that.”
“It’s a deal breaker, Brick. I’m serious.”
“I trust your instincts at least as much as my own, Alex, perhaps more. Don’t worry. I’ll make it happen.”
“Good. I’ll ring Nell in London and tell her to pack up. My pilot will ferry them to Andrews AFB as soon as she’s able to put the move to Washington together. G’night, Brick.”
“They’re going to be fine, Alex.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He hung up.
HAWKE HAD BEEN BELOW AT the nav station on the radio with Brick perhaps ten minutes, if that. Yet when he emerged up on deck, he saw no sign at all of Crystal. It had stopped raining, and Pelham was removing and stowing the canvas awning he had so thoughtfully rigged for the evening.
“Ah. My dinner guest?”
“No longer with us, m’lord.”
“So I see. Kidnapped, perhaps? Abducted at gunpoint?”
“She left quite voluntarily, sir.”
“Any message of farewell for the host?”
“Perhaps five minutes after you went below she took out her mobile and placed a call. Perhaps one-minute duration. Then she climbed up on the cabin top, stripped off her dress, and dove into the harbor. When last seen, she was swimming rapidly toward that large yacht out near the harbor mouth. Celestial, I believe she’s called. Quite a good swimmer, too, I would say . . .”
“Was she . . . what’s the phrase I’m looking for?”
“Naked?”
“That’s the one. Was she naked?”
“No, sir, she was not. Madame was wearing a brassiere and a pair of panties. Both pink.”
“Pink, you say? I see. I need to know these things, you understand. The . . . uh . . . details. It’s my business. And, uh, God is in them, as someone once said.”
“Certainly, sir. Seemingly meaningless details to mere mortals such as I may prove of vital importance to someone in your line of work.”
“Precisely. I’ll be back in about an hour. Please don’t wait up. Leave the dishes in the galley. I’ll wash up when I return. You go to bed, old possum. Taking my motorcycle over to Shadowlands to have a little chat with Chief Inspector Congreve. Something’s come up, you see.”
“So I inferred, m’lord. As the chief inspector is wont to say, it would seem that the game is afoot once more.”
“Do me a favor will you, old soul? Lock up tight and turn on the perimeter security system after I leave. Something about our guest this evening that didn’t quite add up.”
“I could not agree more.” Pelham sniffed. “That woman smelled to high heaven.”
“Perfume.”
“I do not refer to the lady’s perfume, m’lord.”
“That’s a bit stiff, Pelham.”
“A gentleman never hurts anyone’s feelings unintentionally, m’lord.”
Hawke smiled.
“I imagine she’ll be back.”
“I would certainly hope not, m’lord.”
“Well . . .”
“It is my belief that you dodged a bullet this evening.”
“Metaphorically speaking, of course?”
“Indeed not. Literally.”
“Crystal? Oh, please, Pelham. She’s simply a gay divorcée out trolling for her next husband.”
“If you insist, m’lord.”
CHAPTER 19
The north coast road, which twisted and curved beside the dark and heaving midnight sea, was an oilslick with rain. Hawke wound up the revs. The vintage Norton Commando snarled up a steep and misty hill. Cresting it, he could see Congreve’s home spread out below like a small and twinkling village overhanging the sea. The property had been in Congreve’s wife’s family for generations and the two newlyweds were seldom happier than the times when they were in residence there.
Hawke braked at the hilltop, took in the enchanting vision below, and accelerated down the hillside. A moment later, he roared between the large stone pillars and the massive wrought-iron gates at the entrance to Shadowlands.
“Ah, there he is, now, darling,” Congreve said to his wife, Lady Diana. He put down his English newspaper, stood up, and bent to throw another log on the open fire. The couple always repaired to the library after supper, either for a game of gin rummy or quiet reading before bedtime. On a rainy night like this, there was nothing more conducive to a good night’s sleep than quiet time by the fireside before retiring.
“Who on earth, at this hour?” Diana said, looking up from her needlepoint.
“Alex Hawke. Can’t you hear his signature motorcycle growl?”
Diana made a show of looking at her wristwatch.
“Bit late for a social call, isn’t it, darling?”
“It’s not social, dear. It’s business.”
“Oh. Marvelous. What mayhem are you two up to now? You two have already engineered one bloody shootout on this island that practically destroyed his lovely cottage. Isn’t that enough excitement on this little island for one season?”
“Apparently not. He rang when you were upstairs dressing, just before dinner. There’s been another murder, apparently. Another spy bites the dust. Would you like to sit in and learn the gruesome details of the case or retire to the sanctuary of your boudoir?”
“Another murder? The latter, thank you. I’ll leave you two boy detectives to your beloved cloaks and daggers. Please do apologize to that dear man and tell him he’s invited here to dinner Thursday a week . . . I’m going up. Good night.”
She folded her book, rose, and drifted upstairs just as the front door gong sounded throughout the darkened rooms of the ground floor.
“I’ll get it!” Ambrose cried. No staff tonight, he’d given them all the night off as it was a Sunday evening.
“Sorry about the hour,” Hawke said, soaked to the skin, shedding his sodden leather jacket and hanging it on one of the pegs in the hall. “Couldn’t be helped,” he said, using his fists to clear the water from his eyes.
Ambrose stepped aside, ushered his friend through the door, and shut it against the raging weather. “Come along, I’ve got a roaring fire in the library. Just the thing for you.”
Hawke followed him down the wide hall hung with shadowy portraits of yore.
Ambrose plowed ahead, saying over his shoulder, “You know, it’s odd. I was just thinking at dinner that we could use a little intrigue around here. Haven’t told Diana, of course, but I’m coming down with a mild case of island fever. The floors are rising up and the walls are closing in. Even my beloved Sherlock Holmes is not providing the electric juice I crave.”
Ambrose waved his friend into the room and went straight to the drinks table. “Sit down, sit down,” he said and Hawke collapsed into the chair recently vacated by Lady Mars.
“I’ve got just the cure, Constable,” Hawke said, crossing his long legs. “How does murder sound?”
“Murder? The mere mention of the word sets the sleepy neurons alight and shocks the dormant nervous system into vibrant life once more!”
“Few men on this earth would have quite that reaction, Constable.”
“Well. More’s the pity. Murder cures a host of ills, does it not?” Congreve said, smiling at his own small attempt at wit as he poured a glass of whiskey for himself. “Tell me. Who has murdered whom. And where? And why?”
“Start with where. The murder occurred less than twenty-four hours ago in Monte Carlo.”
“Exotic locale. Good start. Who’s our victim?”
“Russian. Some kind of KGB bigwig. A general, I bel
ieve. Putin’s pal, apparently.”
“That, too, sounds marvelous. Am I invited?”
“You’re to be the lead investigator in the case. At the specific request of the president of the United States, if that name rings a bell.”
“Really?”
“That’s what Brick Kelly told me tonight. He wants your brain on the thing, apparently.”
“President Rosow is second to no one in his ability to judge the capacities of his fellow man. How delightful! When do we leave?”
“Tomorrow morning, Hawke Air, 0700. Be ready at six, I’ll pick you up. I wanted to brief you so you could sleep on it. That’s why I’m here tonight. First stop, Washington. We’re meeting with the president in the Oval Office tomorrow evening at six.”
“Have a sip of something, Alex, you’re still shivering.”
“Rum, please. Gosling’s if you’ve got it. Neat.”
“Of course I’ve got it. Lightning in a bottle. Now. Pray tell. Why on earth is the American president even remotely interested in this little murder in Monte Carlo? Say when, please.”
Hawke waited until the crystal tumbler was nearly full.
“When!” he said, and then Congreve handed him the drink. “And, thank you. . . . Because Vladimir Putin called the president, who called the director of the CIA, and specifically asked for you and me to investigate it. number one. Brick immediately called me. And here’s the crux. Rosow loves the notion of someone on our side getting cozy with the Russian leader at this particular moment. Tensions at a boiling point all around the world, as you well know. China, North Korea, Syria, Yemen, Iran, Saudi, Iraq, Ukraine, you name it. Frankly, I don’t know how Rosow keeps them straight.”
“With all due respect to the American president, Alex, I’m not so sure he does.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m uneasy about the position our American cousins seem to be finding themselves in lately. In fact, I would venture to say they are at their weakest state in a century or more. And Washington leaders seem to have trouble everywhere they turn, not all of it from their enemies.”
“Self-inflicted,” Hawke said, scratching the stubble on his chin.
