by Ted Bell
“Commander Hawke, you’ve got problems,” the Colonel said, rubbing his chafed wrists. “I’ve been counting the frequency of those alarm sirens in the distance. Every twenty seconds now. Coming from the direction of the other camp. KGB I. About four klicks from here. A lot of those troops have already shipped out for Poland and the Estonia invasions. But there are at least ten thousand more under arms and headed this way. They will overrun this base and kill everyone in this room if you don’t do something about it. They don’t like me and they certainly don’t like my men. And frankly, my men hate their goddamn guts. And all of these damn Russians”
“What the hell can we do?” Hawke said, looking to Stokely for help.
“Set us loose on them, that’s what,” the Colonel said. “I got five thousand of the finest fighting men on the planet right here, living right inside this fence. Every one of them is loyal to me, not Putin. I give the word, and they’re weaponed up and marching up that road to meet those Russian bastards halfway here. Man, my guys will roll right over them and won’t stop till they get to Moscow. And I’ll be right there alongside those boys, too.”
Hawke stared at him.
“That sounds a lot like old-fashioned American patriotism, Colonel. Knowing what little I know, I wouldn’t think that would be something you were capable of.”
“My heart’s always been with the farm boys who fought at Lexington and Concord and, finally, Yorktown in 1781, Commander. I stand with the Patriots. Always the Patriots.”
“Do it, then,” Hawke said. “Call your troops to arms. Have you got enough time to mobilize them?”
“My guys? More than enough.”
“You got tanks, armored carriers?”
“Six special-order Chinese T-99 battle tanks, loaded with ammo and ready to roll. The best.”
“Good. But you’re not marching in front of your boys, Colonel, however much you’d like to be there. You’re coming with me. You and I are going to that dacha you told me about. We are going to have a nice little chat with Emperor Putin about changing his plans.”
“It’d be an honor to serve alongside you, Commander. Now I’d like to ask you a favor.”
“Go ahead.”
“My second-in-command is Russian. Good fighter, but I don’t trust him worth a shit. So, I’m thinking that I’d like to ask my new friend Gator over there if he’d consider a battlefield commission. I’d like him to step in as commander in charge of all our forces. And lead them into battle against the KGB troopers. Man’s got leadership written all over him.”
“Gator?” Hawke said. “What do you say?”
Gator had a million-watt smile on his face. “Hell, yeah. Hell, yeah! In a heartbeat.”
“Stoke? He’s your guy . . . yay or nay?”
“Absolutely, boss. Give Gator half a chance, he and his infantry will have those Commie troops for breakfast.”
“They’re not Communists anymore, Stoke,” Brock said.
“Don’t be so sure about that, Harry,” he replied. “A lot of those dudes would just love to put on those old Soviet uniforms. Including Vladimir Putin.”
“Get moving then, Gator,” Hawke said. “Show the enemy what you’re made of, son.”
“Sir, yessir!” Gator said, snapping to attention.
Hawke turned his attention back to the actor.
“Uncle Joe, can you come up with a helicopter at this hour? If you do, I’ll give you a seat on it. Out of here.”
“For that, you get two helicopters. As many as you need. What else can I do to help?”
“You can spend the entire time we’re on that chopper en route to Moscow giving me every single ounce of dirt you’ve collected on Putin. Everything you’ve picked up, in all the years you’ve worked for him. Which buttons to push. Where his weak spots are. How much vodka he drinks. All of that.”
“Deal. I love this stuff. You don’t happen to know anybody out in Hollywood, do you, Commander Hawke? Agents? I’m just asking.”
Congreve stifled a chuckle; Stoke wisely remained stone-faced; Harry Brock laughed out loud and said: “I love this guy!”
Hawke, who was about to spend a few hours locked inside a noisy helicopter in deep conversation with Uncle Joe, just looked off into the middle distance. He said, “Okay, that’s it, let’s go.”
CHAPTER 81
Rus Lodge, outside Moscow
I’ll leave you here, then,” Hawke said.
They’d hiked in, the two of them. Hawke and the colonel.
The American looked at him and said: “This is a bad idea, you know.”
“Maybe so,” Hawke said, peering through the tangled branches of undergrowth in the woods. In the sky, columns of grey smoke were rising from unseen chimneys. He was pretty close now. Close enough. It was cold. It wasn’t raining yet, but the woods were heavy and wet. Close. Dark.
“He knows you’re coming, Commander. What’s to stop him from having you shot on sight? God knows these woods are full of itchy trigger fingers.”
“Pride. It would offend his precious pride. And because I told him I was coming. Killing me would solve nothing for him. It would ruin it. He likes the fact that I came. It’s hard to explain. He thinks it’s funny in a way.”
“Funny.”
“Yeah. We have a weird relationship. And this is how it has to end. You better head back to Moscow, Colonel. The rest will be worried. Oh, and Colonel?”
“Yessir?”
Hawke handed him a leather envelope stuffed with cash and said, “Keep this somewhere safe. There’s quite a bit of money inside.”
“You don’t have to—”
“It’s yours. You’re going to need it. And one thing before you go. Make sure Congreve gets on a train bound for England. Yeah? Tonight took a lot out of him. Another thing. I want you to take proper care of Uncle Joe. Despite all evidence to the contrary, he’s on the side of the angels. But right now, without our help, he’s a dead angel. Smuggle him across the Russian border, out of the country tonight. Fly to Switzerland. Get him to the Zurich airport. Buy that crazy little bastard a first-class ticket to L.A. and give him fifty thousand dollars. On me. And then, tell Stoke—no, that’s it, I guess. Take care of yourself, Colonel. That was a fine thing you did back there. Rallying your troops just in time to save our bacon, giving that Luttier kid a break like you did. America doesn’t know it yet, but they owe you a great debt. We all do.”
“Like you said, not like me. Siding with America. Patriotism, and all that old-fashioned crap. I was a patriot once, Alex. I really was. Before they—destroyed me.”
Hawke looked at him, thinking. “I knew about you, of course. Back then. Before it all went to hell for you, I mean. And I want you to know something. You are a patriot, Colonel. You proved it tonight.”
“Thank you . . . you won’t, uh . . .”
“I will never say a word. Who the hell knows? Maybe we’ll even share another foxhole sometime. I’d take you in a fight anytime. Take care, Colonel.”
“We almost met once, Alex.”
“Really? Where?”
“It was in Bermuda.”
“There on a fishing trip?” Hawke said.
“Something like that.”
“Stay safe,” he said, looking quickly away, trying to hide his emotions. But Hawke had seen his face and knew the man had been deeply moved.
“Wait—take this,” Hawke said. “I don’t need it anymore.”
“No—no, don’t do that. You gotta at least keep your damn weapon! What if he tries to . . . Christ, what if he—”
“Take it, Colonel. If I do need it, I’m already dead.”
HAWKE CAME TO A CLEARING in the woods. He stepped out into the open, the sting of wet wind on his cheeks. The dacha was large. Vintage Russian architecture. Onion domes. Lights on in a hundred windows. Six tall chimneys, all smoking. In the trees and on rooftops, he knew men watched him through gun sights . . . instinct made him reach for the small automatic in his empty pocket before he remembered th
at it was gone.
Too late now. Now it was all just waiting to see how it turned out in the end. And so he waited there at the edge of the misty wood, breathing the fresh pine-scented night air. Soon, he lost track of time altogether . . . waiting.
Four men came for him. Plainclothes. One of them, even larger than the others, had a growling Doberman straining fiercely at a short leash. Big men. Hands jammed in their pockets. Long black overcoats. Collars up. Hats pulled low over their eyes. They took their time about it, too. Walking slowly through the pools of light splayed across the lawns. No great hurry.
Making him wait still longer.
“Why are you here?” the man with the slavering Doberman said, shining a blinding white light in his eyes. They gathered round to peer at him. He was the object of sincere curiosity; they chatted about him like he was a new species. Maybe he was, to them.
“What?” Hawke said quietly.
“It seems you don’t recognize me, Lord Hawke. It offends me deeply. Are you armed?”
Hawke took a closer look.
“Ah. So sorry. Der Wolf, is it not? Fancy meeting you here. I thought you were dead.”
“In Cuba we met, yes? Some years ago, now. I remember you left without properly thanking me for my hospitality up in those mountains.”
“The Wishing Well. What fond memories.”
“Yes. I’ve moved up in the ranks, Commander Hawke. I am now President Putin’s chief of security. I asked you a question.”
“What?”
“Are you armed?”
“No.”
“Do I need to check?”
“No.”
“Maybe we’ll have a look anyway, shall we? He’s clean? All right. Come with us.”
“Where are we going?”
“To the boathouse. Down by the lake. The president is waiting there. He said you asked to see him alone. He is abiding by your wishes.”
“Right.”
Liar.
VLADIMIR PUTIN WAS STANDING BY the fire. Shadows flickered across the broad planked floor and climbed walls covered with huge paintings of life in the ancient forest. Flickered across Putin’s face. The shaggy black head of a massive bear looked down from above the heavy stone mantel. Gleaming black marbles for eyes. Demonic.
Here we go.
Hawke drew himself up to his full height and strode across the great expanse of worn Turkish carpets and put his hand out.
“Volodya,” he said, giving the Russian all the smile he could muster at the moment.
“Alex,” Putin said and gripped Hawke’s hand. Any trace of warmth the Russian had ever felt toward the English spy had surely gone, fled from his face, his fingers, his cold, cold heart.
They just stood there. Each man looking at the other. After all these years, each had remained intensely curious about the other. It had always been that way. It was what had made it tick between them.
“Have a drink?” Putin said, walking over to the drinks table heavily laden with crystal decanters. “Rum, right? Bermuda?”
“Not tonight, thank you. I’m driving, you see.”
Putin smiled. “You haven’t changed.”
“You have.”
“Not really, Alex. Cigarette?”
“Yes. Thanks. This may sound odd, but it’s good to see you,” Hawke said, flicking his lighter and inhaling deeply. The Russian tobacco brought him immeasurable comfort. Putin smiled and said: “I know what you mean. Odd. But it’s good to see you, too, Alex.”
“Sorry it’s come to this, Volodya. It didn’t have to.”
“Yes, it did. It was always coming to this, Alex. We both knew it from the beginning. Even in that damnable cell of mine at Energetika Prison. Remember that? The night we met?”
“Of course I do. You saved my bloody life.”
“So I did. You look well.”
“You, too.”
“I see you have a dog, Volodya. Handsome chap. What’s his name?”
“Blofeld. Russian wolfhound.”
“Ah, Blofeld, of course. Ian Fleming, wasn’t it? Ernst Stavro Blofeld. In Thunderball, as I recall.”
“An evil Russian genius with aspirations of global domination, remember?” Putin said, with a wry smile. “Blofeld, Putin, what’s the difference?”
Hawke laughed. “How could I forget? I loved that book.”
“Let’s sit down, shall we, Lord Hawke?”
Hawke looked back at him and smiled.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “my title still irritates me.”
Putin laughed. “Good. I’m glad to see it. Some things never change.”
THERE WERE TWO LARGE LEATHER armchairs facing the fire and they took them. A half-full tumbler full of vodka stood on the table beside the Russian president. He took a sip and stared up at his bear. Putin seemed so benign, almost wistful, that Hawke began to worry about his state of mind.
A man at home on a rainy night. His faithful dog sleeping at his feet. Not a care in the world. Except perhaps the end of that world at daybreak.
Hawke was first to break the silence.
“Look. It goes without saying that I appreciate your agreeing to see me here tonight. Especially under these circumstances. And, despite how this evening may or may not end, I strongly believe this was the right thing for us to do.”
“I agree. How do you wish it to end, Alex?”
“Sensibly. We both walk it a step back. Anything less would not be the act of any rational human being. We’ve got everything to gain. Just as we’ve got everything to lose. We both need to clearly understand which is which. And act accordingly. That’s really all I have to say.”
“Who do you speak for?”
“Myself.”
“Good. You are a warrior. Perhaps one of the very finest who ever lived. And therefore I have every hope you will understand me when I tell you I cannot retreat from the status quo. Mighty Caesar has crossed the Rubicon, Alex. Alea iacta est—the die is cast. No turning back.”
Putin eyed Hawke, took another sip of vodka, and waited for Hawke’s response.
“No. I cannot accept that.”
“Apparently you believe you have a choice.”
“At least hear me out, Volodya. For both our sakes.”
Putin said nothing. He reached down and scratched his dog’s head, whispering sweet nothings to him in Russian.
The meeting seemed to be over before it had even begun.
CHAPTER 82
Funny thing,” Putin finally said.
“What’s that?”
“I’ve been reading Plutarch’s Caesar. While I waited for you this evening. That book on the table beside you. There it is. Hand it to me, won’t you?”
“Here you go.”
“I came across a passage . . . Let me find it. Ah, here we are.” He began to read aloud. “And Caesar stood on the banks of the Rubicon and said, ‘Here, will I abandon peace and desecrated law. Fortune, I follow only you. Farewell to treaties. From now on, only war shall be our judge.’”
“War is our judge?”
“Hmm.”
“Whatever you believe, Volodya, you cannot possibly believe that ‘war shall be our judge.’ That doesn’t even make any sense!”
Putin took another sip of vodka, smiled at him, and said, “And now you disparage my beloved Caesar? Tell me. Upon what meat doth this our mighty Hawke feed that he is grown so great?”
“Volodya, listen to me. Caesar was talking about breaking Roman law by crossing a river into Italy. That was a small civil war in 49 BC, for God’s sake. Not risking modern global warfare with billions of lives hanging in the balance.”
“War is war. In both Caesar’s finest hour and in mine.”
Hawke, veering toward despair at all this, said nothing for a moment or two. Desperate for time to marshal his whirling thoughts, he said, “They will destroy you, you know.”
“Who will destroy me?”
“The Americans.”
“The Americans have grown weak.”
“No. Her leaders are weak. Her generals and her people are strong. As are those in my own country. They are closely allied against you, America and Britain. The Allies will not let this stand. The attacks on American and British soil. The brutal invasion of Estonia. And even now, your troops and tanks are rolling across the Polish border. Two NATO countries whose freedom our alliance is sworn to protect.”
“Farewell to treaties, Alex. That time has passed.”
“You believe I come to bury Caesar. But I came here to try to help you. To make you see reason. I’m offering you a bloody lifeline, damn you! To try and save you.”
“Say what you have to say. I am weary of this conversation.”
“The generals are waiting for a sign from you.”
“What do they expect?”
“The cessation of hostilities against my country and the U.S. The immediate and permanent withdrawal of all Russian air, naval, and infantry forces inside the two besieged nations and on the borders of the others.”
“Never.”
“They will go nuclear then. The American and British generals. There will be no stopping them and no turning back.”
“Over a mere political dispute? Laughable. Land that was stolen from the motherland by centuries of illegal treaties? War over that? Never. It will be the same as before, Alex. Deliberation, sanctions. Negotiations, delays, and more demands. Disappearing lines in the sand. Ultimatums and mythic deadlines, just as the foolishness with the Iranians. More fucking sanctions. But, war? No, Alex. They are too afraid to do that.”
“You really believe we are afraid?”
“I do.”
“Feuerwasser? Is that it? That magic potion of yours, the one that will end all your problems. You think to threaten the world with it. You don’t drop bombs, you have them delivered by the caseload. By now, you’ve shipped hundreds of thousands of cases of it to cities around the world. You claim you can blow the whole world up at the press of your mighty button. As you demonstrated so convincingly with that freighter in France, you are become death, the destroyer of worlds.”
“One does what one can, Alex.”
“Warehouses in places like Isla de Pinos, Los Angeles, New York, or London, packed to the bloody rafters with that stuff, suddenly become Ground Zero, is that it? A plague of simultaneous Hiroshimas? Is that your dream? A worldwide apocalypse with one flick of your finger. Is that it?”
