Tsar

by Ted Bell

  Paddy stepped into an empty elevator and hit the express button for the top floor. It shot up like a friggin’ rocket, and he stepped out a couple of minutes later. It was like landing on another planet.

  A marble-floored glass room now took up the whole top floor of the Empire State. The ceiling and walls, all glass and steel, had to be seventy-five feet above the heads of all of the people milling around drinking and schmoozing. He made his way over to the windows on the Fifth Avenue side. All around him were the tops of the towers of Manhattan and, overhead, the snow clouds lit up by the searchlights on the streets below. In the center of the room was a square glass elevator tower that went right through the ceiling and up to some kind of radio tower or something that rose another twenty stories or so above where he was standing.

  There was a big covered platform about halfway up the tower and a lot of activity going on. He walked around a little, trying to see what the deal was, but it was impossible to see from down here.

  “King Kong supposed to show up again tonight?” he asked the bartender at one of the many bars around the edges of the room. Most of them had lines, people waiting for a drink, but, for some reason, not this one.

  The guy laughed and said, “You’d think, huh? No, just the world’s richest man, is what they tell me.”

  “Gimme a vodka rocks, will you?”

  “Vitamin V, coming right up.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You work for this guy?” the barkeep said, filling a tumbler with the bar hooch and sliding it over.

  “Yeah. Long time.”

  “You in sales? I’ll tell you why. I’d like to get one of those new Zeta machines for my kid. You know, the little computer that looks like a brain? I tried every CompWorld in town, but they’re all like back-ordered forever.”

  “I ain’t in sales. Sorry.”

  “Hey, no problem. You want another?”

  “With a name like Smirnoff, it’s got to be good, right?”

  Paddy shoved his glass over for a refill, and the guy said, “So, your boss must be pretty smart, huh? Invent the Zeta and all that shit. He’s what, a Russian, right? What’s his name again?”

  “Only name I’ve ever heard is somebody calling him Tsar Ivan. Tonight’s my first shot at actually seeing the guy up close and personal.”

  “Well, guess what?” the bartender said, backing away from the bar and looking straight up, “I think you’re about to get your shot. Holy shit. Will you look at that?”

  Paddy backed away from the bar and looked up, too. He was so startled and amazed at what he saw that he dropped his glass, and it shattered on the marble floor. In the roar of the crowd, he never heard it hit.

  WHAT PADDY SAW floating high above the glass ceiling was nothing less than a flying miracle. It was not an airplane. And it was not a blimp, exactly, though it moved like one. It had to be some new kind of airship. But it was like nothing he or anybody else had ever seen before. It was this four-hundred-foot-long zeppelinlike thing, its hull a gleaming silver. On its flank, forward, was the huge word TSAR illuminated in bright red. On her tail section, the great Russian red star, restored to respectability by President Putin before he’d mysteriously disappeared off the face of the map.

  But the thing wasn’t shaped like any blimp he’d ever seen before, either. For one thing, there was a big opening at the nose, huge, and then the thing tapered back to a much smaller section at the tail. It didn’t look like a Goodyear blimp at all, not in the slightest.

  It was a strange shape, weird, but it reminded him of something. The only thing Paddy could compare it to, what it actually looked like, was one huge flying jet engine. As if a giant jet engine had fallen off some giant jumbo jet’s wing and was just flying along all by itself. There were triple rows of windows along the side, and you could see all of the people in there, looking down at the party below.

  Yeah, that was it, an enormous silver jet engine, moving very slowly toward the big aerial at the very top of the Empire State Building.

  He kept backing up, trying to see more of the thing, and he backed right into somebody, knocking him to the floor.

  “Hey, jeez, I’m sorry,” Paddy said, turning around and offering the guy a hand, pulling him to his feet. He was a little guy, and Paddy almost jerked him off his feet into the air.

  He’d been wearing thick black glasses, and they were tilted sideways on his face. Paddy adjusted them for him and tried to brush whatever he’d been drinking off the front of his thick wool sportcoat. Bloody Mary, it looked like from the stalk of celery balanced on his shoulder. Not good.

  “Never mind,” the man said. “It’s all right. It was an accident.”

  Paddy thought the little guy was pissed off, but maybe he wasn’t, so Paddy stuck out his hand and said, “Paddy Strelnikov, nice to meet you.”

  “Dr. Sergei Shumayev,” the guy said in a thick Russian accent, readjusting his coke bottle glasses.

  “Hell of a deal, huh? That thing up there?”

  “Yes. What exactly do you do for us, Mr. Strelnikov?”

  “Me? I’m in the, uh, ‘analytical department.’”

  Shumayev smiled at the egregious euphemism. Every large Russian corporation created its own mini-KGB, usually known as the “analytical department.” It was staffed with people good at collecting information, eavesdropping on rival companies, and stealing documents. They also performed other, less sanitary services, what the American thriller writers referred to as wet work.

  “What’s your specific role in the department, Mr. Strelnikov?”

  “Well, special assignments. Security, mostly. My section deals with industrial espionage, stuff like that. Here in the U.S., I also provide personal security to some of our high-level executives when they’re traveling here and abroad.”

  “Ah, very good. A bodyguard.”

  “Something like that, yeah.”

  “That’s a very unusual ring you are wearing. Does it have some special significance to your job?”

  Paddy laughed. He loved it when people noticed his ring. “No, sir. This ring here I bought in a pawn shop in Hoboken for fifty dollars. Nobody knew what it was. See the lightning bolt? And the letters TCB? Well, that stands for Taking Care of Business. It’s the exact ring that Elvis Presley gave to everyone in his posse. Back in the sixties. That was their motto, TCB, and I made it mine, too.”

  “Fascinating.”

  “How about you, Doc? What do you do?”

  “Aeronautical engineering. That’s my baby up there.”

  Both of them watched as huge dangling cables were thrown down from the front and sides of the hovering airship and made fast to the mooring mast. Floating there in the clouds, with the searchlights playing on it, Paddy thought it was the most beautiful man-made thing he’d ever seen.

  “No kidding! Wow! You worked on that?”

  “Vortex 1 is its name. I designed it. With a great deal of technical help from our chairman, of course. It was entirely his vision. His original concept. I was lucky enough to be able to execute it for him.”

  “No offense, but how come you’re not up there on the platform with all the other big shots meeting him?”

  Now the little fellow really was pissed off. “Officially, I’m supposed to be, of course. It’s just that I’ve lost my wife in the crowd. She went to the ladies’ powder room twenty minutes ago, and I haven’t seen her since. She’d kill me if I went up there without her.”

  Paddy winked and said, “I know what you mean. Women, huh? I could write a book myself. Hey, let me ask you, Doc, what is that big hole in the front of the airship for? It’s wild-looking.”

  “It’s called a plenum,” Shumayev said. “It draws in atmospheric air through a spiral-vortex-generating cone, hence the name of the ship. The air is then accelerated through a BDP Tesla bladeless disc air pump system. This accelerated and pressurized air is then forced out through a central ring of slits located along the side of the craft. You follow?”

  �
�Sort of.”

  “Think of a fish’s gills.”

  “Gotcha. So, what makes it go?”

  “All that pressurized, oxygenated, and velocitized air flowing in through the plenum forms vortices along the outside hull of the airship. This reduces friction and creates a slip effect as the craft travels through the air. So, the craft is first pulled into a frontal vacuum, into the vortex, as it were, and additionally squeezed through the air, compliments of the greater pressure exerted by the expelled air traveling aft along the hull of the craft. That’s pretty much it.”

  “How do you steer it?”

  “See those outboard pods with the blinking red lights? They’re fitted with smaller electric-drive BDP propulsion systems. We mounted them at different locations around the hull to provide a high degree of directional control and afford vectored thrust stability in any weather conditions.”

  “Wow.”

  “In a word, yes. Wow. That mast tower up there was originally intended to be a dock for mooring airships back in the 1930s. However, after several futile attempts at mooring a zeppelin in the strong winds present up here at 1250 feet of altitude, the idea was scrapped. So, Mr. Strelnikov, you and I have the honor of witnessing a very historic moment.”

  “How many passengers will it carry?”

  “Exactly one hundred. Just like the late Concorde aircraft. But our passengers will travel in a great deal more comfort and style, I promise you.”

  “How fast?”

  “A bit slower than the Concorde,” the little guy said with a smile. “She’s capable of 150 miles per hour. Considerably faster than the new Queen Mary 2, I might add, if one’s crossing the Atlantic as she’s just done.”

  “I think I just found your wife,” Paddy said, grabbing the little guy’s elbow. A huge red-haired woman in a black sequined gown was plowing through the crowd and headed straight toward them, murder in her eyes. “Thanks for the info, Doc. I’ll be seeing you around.”

  “No!” Shumayev whispered, “Please don’t go. Just stay with me for a few minutes, all right? Until she calms down?”

  You had to feel sorry for a guy who needed a bodyguard around his wife. He said, “Yeah, okay. But it’s going to cost you, Dr. Shumayev.”

  “Anything. What can I do?”

  “When all the excitement dies down, I’d like a guided tour of that thing. The Vortex 1. Could you arrange that?”

  “Consider it my privilege, Mr. Strelnikov,” he said as the lady arrived.

  Mrs. Shumayev was one unhappy camper. She was opening her wide, red-painted mouth to let her hubby have it when the little guy interrupted.

  “Dearest, this is my colleague, Mr. Strelnikov. I was just about to invite him to join us aboard TSAR for the demonstration flight out to Long Island tomorrow morning.”

  “Say what?” Paddy said.

  “Where the hell have you been?” the irate woman said in Russian. “I step into the powder room for two seconds, and-”

  Paddy Strelnikov gave her his best smile and said, “It’s my fault, Madame Shumayev. I’m with security. I thought there was a threat situation here, and I removed your husband until we got it cleared up. So-hold on a sec.” Paddy spoke into the sleeve of his jacket and cupped one ear, listening intently to a nonexistent earbud. “What’s that? All clear? Good.” He smiled. “All clear now, Doctor. It’s safe for you and your wife to go up to the platform now.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Strelnikov,” Shumayev said. “Your concern for our safety is deeply appreciated.”

  “TCB,” Paddy said, and headed back to the bar for another cocktail. “TCB.”

  12

  BERMUDA

  “Lovely day for it, Cap,” Hawke’s driver said, looking back at his passenger with a huge white smile. He was a handsome young Bermudian police cadet officer named Stubbs Wooten. Attached to the British consul’s office in Hamilton, Wooten had been assigned by C to fetch Hawke from St. Brendan’s Hospital.

  Now they were driving west out along the South Road in the direction of Somerset Village. They had passed the venerable resort at Elbow Beach and the lovely old Coral Beach Club, and were en route to what Bermudians called the West End. There, at the very tip of the island, stood the Royal Naval Dockyard.

  Having risen early and endured the physical ordered by his superior, Hawke was now scheduled to meet C at the Dockyard at eleven o’clock. He had half an hour, which Stubbs assured him was plenty of time.

  The ocean, periodically visible on their left, was brilliant blue, and only a few white clouds drifted in over the island from the west. Their route took them past the Southampton Princess Hotel, a huge pink palace sitting atop a hill overlooking the Atlantic. Just beyond, Hawke could see the soaring white tower of the Gibb’s Hill Lighthouse, built of cast iron in 1846 and providing comfort to seafarers ever since.

  But Hawke wasn’t interested in sightseeing at the moment. He was far more interested in the noisy black motorcycle some hundred yards behind him. He thought he was being followed.

  “I wonder, Stubbs,” Hawke said, craning around once more to look over his shoulder at a lone motorcyclist. “Did you see that chap on the bike back there in the parking lot at St. Brendan’s Hospital?”

  Stubbs studied the fellow in his rearview mirror.

  “No, sir. But I did notice he’s been following us quite a while. A Jamaican, I think. Rasta gang member, possibly. You think something’s wrong, sir?”

  “I think he was parked up in the trees by the emergency entrance. I’m fairly sure I saw him when I came out to meet you.”

  “Possible, sir. You want me to lose him?”

  “When is the next turning off this road, Stubbs?”

  “We got Tribe Road Number Three coming up on the right. ’Bout half a mile now.”

  “Good. Turn into it, and stop the car. Let’s see what this fellow does.”

  “You got it, Cap,” Stubbs said, clearly enjoying this bit of drama. He loved his job, the important people visiting his island whom he got to meet, but it was seldom exciting.

  Stubbs didn’t signal his turn or even slow much, just suddenly braked and jerked his wheel hard right. The little sedan threatened to go up on two wheels as it negotiated the hard turn. As soon as they were safely around, Stubbs stood on the brakes and skidded to a stop on the side of the road.

  As the dust settled around the car, Hawke kicked open his rear door and said, “Wait here, Stubbs. I’ll see what he wants.”

  “Are you armed, sir?” Stubbs asked.

  “Yes, why?”

  “Because some of these Rastafarian gentlemen will be armed, sir. Watch out for him. He most likely has a knife. Maybe a gun.”

  The cyclist, caught short by Stubbs’s sudden maneuver, almost lost it. But he stayed upright and managed the turn without a spill. He braked to a stop, eyes on the man standing in the road, hands in his pockets, smiling at him. Without a word, the biker splayed his long legs out on either side of the bike and stared insolently at the tall white man now coming across the road toward him.

  “Morning,” Hawke said, looking around as if taking in the beautiful day. The biker was dressed like a typical Bermudian tough. Jeans, motorcycle boots, and an oversized jersey with Emperor Haile Selassie’s image plastered on the front. Masses of gold chains around his neck. Chunky gold watch that looked real enough.

  He was young, maybe twenty-five, Hawke thought, and had the build of a serious prize fighter. One who still worked out with the bag or in the ring on a regular basis. His nose was as flat as his face. Massive upper-body strength, lean with well-developed arms, quads, and lats, and riding a very expensive Triumph motorcycle. He was either dealing drugs or working for someone who paid him large sums to do the odd, violent favor.

  “I said good morning,” Hawke repeated, taking another step toward the bike.

  The kid didn’t reply, just leaned back on his seat and slowly removed his helmet, shaking his head as he did so. Dreadlocks suddenly exploded from under the black helmet
and fell to his shoulders. He smiled for the first time, revealing a mouth full of golden teeth.

  “You got a bad driver, mon. I serious. Him very dangerous.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “My name? Desmond. Don’t try to lose me like that again, mon. It won’t work. I stick to you like glue on glue.”

  “Now, why on earth would you want to do that, Desmond?” Hawke asked, his right hand gripping Desmond’s handlebar and wrenching the front wheel hard left so that the bike was immobilized.

  “Hands off de bike, mon!”

  “Who’s paying you to follow me?”

  “I just out for a ride, mon. It’s a beautiful mawnin’, like you say. Why you get so all excited? Having a little fun, dat’s all, huh? And take de hand off my bike before you lose it.”

  “Lose it?”

  Desmond lifted the jersey so Hawke could see the cane knife stuck in a scabbard on his wide leather belt. A sawed-off machete, razor-sharp on both sides.

  “Desmond, listen carefully. I want you to turn this bike around and go back to wherever you came from. Tell whomever you’re working for that following me is a very bad idea. I’m a very private person. I’m here for a quiet holiday. Someone spoils my vacation, they will wish they hadn’t. All right? We understand each other?”

  Desmond spat in the dirt and looked up at Hawke with his reddened eyes blazing. He was seriously baked on marijuana, Hawke realized. But the thug didn’t say anything, just showed his gold teeth once more and reached for the knife.

  The Jamaican was vaguely aware of blurred movement. Hawke had seized Desmond’s wrist in a compromising position before his fingers ever reached the knife handle.

  “I will break it, Desmond, I promise,” Hawke said. “Right now, I’m applying pressure directly to the scaphoid, the small carpal bone at the base of the thumb. It’s the one easiest to break, also with the most painful result.”