Tsar

by Ted Bell

  “Jet lag.”

  “You know what cures that? Pussy. We got that up here, too. In spades.”

  PADDY DRAINED THE last of his second Bloody Bull and put the glass down on the mahogany bar. The bartender, a Ukrainian girl named Anna who was a dead ringer for Scarlett Johansson, whisked his glass away and said, “One more?”

  Paddy shook his head and turned to Dimitri. “So, let me get this straight. You’re saying you think I could get a job working for the man? I mean, directly?”

  “Man, I know you could. I’m telling you, he just lost his closest security guy in that latest assassination attempt three months ago in Moscow. Driving out of Red Square. This guy was more than muscle, he was the man’s last surviving brother. In real life, his real brother, is what I’m saying. Lifelong best asshole buddies. The brother took a stomach full of lead for the man. Now he’s got nobody.”

  “What about me?”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m nobody. Backstreet borscht with a gun.”

  “Fuck that! Man, he knows you. He knows exactly who you are. That prison thing? Shit, I was in the screening room watching CNN with him the night you showed the world the true meaning of Death Row, man. You should have seen him light up. I’d be surprised if he doesn’t carry your laminated picture around in his fuckin’ wallet. And sinking that Japanese trawler up in Alaska? C’mon, Beef. You think he doesn’t know who’s out there getting his personal shit done for him every day? He knows everything, man.”

  “Taking care of business,” Paddy said, twisting his ring around so he could see the lightning bolt. “TCB.”

  “Straight up. Yeah. And you know what else, I personally think you should have a little talk with him.”

  “What?”

  “Talk to him. See if he likes you. Why the fuck not?”

  “He’s here?”

  “Of course he’s here. You think he checked into the Plaza? This is where he lives half the time. Look, I’m going to call him, all right? Tell him you’re aboard, that we’re old friends and shit. You down with that?”

  “Dimitri, hold on a second. What about you? Why don’t you take the job?”

  “Are you kidding me? I live in a flying pussy palace, Beef! I ain’t going anywhere. Ever. Don’t move, I’ll be right back.”

  “You going to call him?”

  “Hell, yeah, I am.”

  He left. Paddy said to Anna, “I gotta tell you, the views from this thing are unbelievable.” He was staring down at forests of swaying treetops just below. The Pine Barrens, he thought, and that must be the Peconic River over there. Yeah, that’s what it was, all right. They were about sixty miles from the city. A leisurely voyage, and so damn quiet!

  “I’ve got the best office in the world,” Anna said with a shy smile.

  “You sure do. Tell me something, Anna, at what altitude does the Tsar sail?”

  “Oh, right now, I’d say we’re cruising at about six hundred fifty feet. That’s our normal altitude when the winds allow. The captain likes to fly so the passengers have a view.”

  “We’ll keep to that all the way out to Montauk?”

  “If the winds hold. Normally, we would climb higher if the currents were more favorable aloft. But we’re not trying to get anywhere in a hurry today.”

  “How high can you go?”

  “Maybe four thousand feet.”

  “Anybody ever tell you what a pretty smile you have?”

  “Occasionally,” she said, laughing.

  “You live on this thing?”

  “Of course. It’s my castle in the sky.”

  14

  Five minutes later, Dimitri was back, deadpan, no expression on his face. He plopped down on the adjacent barstool and ordered another club soda from Anna, then swiveled around and looked at Strelnikov.

  “So?” Paddy said. “What? You talk to him?”

  “Yeah, I talked to him.”

  “And?”

  “He’d like very much to talk to you.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “Nope.”

  “When?”

  “Like, uh, now.”

  “Now. Where? Here?”

  “Of course not here. In private. I’ll take you. Come on.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “The music room.”

  “Oh. The music room. Why didn’t I guess that?”

  “He’s composing a fucking symphony. You believe that? For the Moscow Symphony Orchestra. But he’s going to stop right in the middle of that and talk to you.”

  “Holy Jesus.”

  “Let’s go.”

  They left the bar and turned right down a softly lit corridor hung with what Paddy was pretty sure were paintings he’d seen in books. Each one had its own little brass light on it. Pictures of lily pads, et cetera, little bridges in gardens. French guy, what was his name? Monet or Manet or one of those.

  “You’re lucky, Beef,” Popov said. “He’s in a good mood today.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He got a call from Stockholm early this morning. He’s going to get the Nobel Prize in physics this year.”

  “Holy shit. What’d he do?”

  “He’s an astrophysicist, you know, just one of his many hobbies. He discovered something called a black body, some kind of radiation that helps prove the big bang theory or something. Dark matter. What do I know? He thinks the real reason he got the prize is the Zeta machine. Making a computer all the Third World countries could afford. He says the Nobel committee loves that do-gooder shit over there. Look at Al Gore, Carter, f’crissakes.”

  “Is he psyched? You gotta be, I mean the Nobel Prize, c’mon, jeez mareeze.”

  “Yeah. He’s pretty happy about it. Here we are.”

  Popov rapped lightly on another leather-padded door, this one unmarked. He then pushed it open and stuck his head inside.

  “Let’s go,” Dimitri whispered, taking Paddy’s elbow. “Don’t say anything. We’ll just take a seat over there, and he’ll talk to you when he’s ready.”

  Walking into that little room was like stepping back a couple of centuries. It was four white walls with gold moldings everywhere. There were four large paintings depicting fairy-tale musical scenes in heavy gold frames, one on each wall. In the near corner was a harp. There were two men in the room, and Paddy didn’t know who was who. Over in one corner by the window was a tall, gaunt man dressed in a black military uniform. He was standing with his back to the room, hands clasped rigidly behind his back, staring out the window.

  The far corner was a kind of triangular bay window, containing a baby grand piano. The floor beneath the piano was glass. The other man, who was playing the instrument, did not look up and seemed unaware that anyone had entered his sanctuary. This piano guy, Paddy figured, had to be the man himself.

  Korsakov, who had long snow-white hair, didn’t look at all like Paddy expected. He was seated very upright on the bench. He wore a dark red velvet robe of some kind with a hood draped behind his head. He was playing the piano with his left hand and scribbling furiously with his right in a large leather notebook. There was a light on the piano, shining on the keyboard and a silver bowl of fruit.

  To the right of the piano, along a wall some fifteen feet away, were a small silk-covered sofa and two armchairs. The new arrivals sat down on the sofa beneath a painting of angels playing harps and listened.

  Paddy didn’t know dick about classical music, but the notes Korsakov was playing sounded beautiful, or whatever. After a few minutes, Popov leaned over so he could whisper in Paddy’s ear.

  “That piano he’s playing?”

  “Yeah?”

  “That was the piano on the Hindenburg.”

  “The what?”

  “The Titanic of the Skies. The giant Nazi zeppelin that blew up at Lakehurst, New Jersey, back in 1937. You never heard of that?”

  “Maybe. So, what, the piano didn’t burn up, too?”

  “It wasn’t on
board. It was back in Germany at the Bluthner factory undergoing a tune-up. Made of aluminum and covered with pigskin. Hitler bought it and had it in his office at the Reichstag. The Russian Army smuggled it out of Berlin after the war. The boss bought it especially for this room.”

  Paddy was suddenly aware that the music had stopped and that Count Ivan Korsakov was staring at them over the top of Hitler’s pigskin piano. He stretched his delicate fingers above the keyboard and clicked them like castanets.

  “Good morning, Mr. Strelnikov,” he said good-naturedly, in English. “Welcome aboard. I trust you are enjoying yourself on our sky vessel.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he stood up and walked across the parquet floor, taking one of the armchairs. He was tall and thin but muscled at the shoulders, and under the red robe he was wearing some kind of dark green velvet jacket. Very fancy buttons and piping on the sleeves. A smoking jacket, Paddy thought they were called. There was a gold pin stuck into one of his lapels.

  At the top of the pin was a lapis lazuli crown with three red rubies, reminding Paddy that he was in the presence of true Russian aristocracy.

  “You would like some Russian tea, perhaps? We have Kousmichoff, I believe.” Korsakov said.

  “I’m good, sir,” Paddy said, crossing his legs and trying to hide his nervousness.

  He didn’t know why he was nervous. The man was the opposite of what he’d expected, some beady-eyed businessman. But no. Handsome as a king in a storybook. His white hair reached his shoulders in curls, and his eyes were a pale watery blue. They looked right through you, but they didn’t seem to mean any harm on the way inside.

  “Someday, you must tell me the saga of the Kishin Maru,” Korsakov said, smiling at him. “I understand it got a little rough in the life raft. Unpleasant.”

  “You know about that?”

  “Mr. Strelnikov, I only have a few minutes. I am having one of my very rare musical inspirations, and if I let it expire without jotting it down, it may vanish forever. So, let me just say that I am aware of your recent activities and very pleased with the results. I’ve read your file. I thank you for your bravery and dedication to my cause. Do you know what that cause is?”

  Paddy stared at him blankly. He didn’t have a freaking clue.

  “My cause is simple. Order. I cherish order. Only with the cosmic forces aligned in order can the heroic human quest for the sublime flourish. You cannot compose a symphony, or a Declaration of Independence, or even design a simple airship, for that matter, in the midst of chaos. Today, more than ever in human history, I believe, order and chaos struggle for supremacy in our world. Do you follow?”

  “I think I’m with you so far.”

  “We are not involved in a clash of civilizations but in a clash between civilization and barbarism. Chaos.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I abhor chaos in any form. I am determined that order shall prevail. When I see countries ignoring the sanctity of our oceans, as Japan has done, I send them a signal. When a psychopathic monster wantonly murders newborn babies, I send a signal. I mention just two that you obviously know about. I send countless signals like the two I’ve just mentioned. All around the world. You are one of my messengers. So, you see, Mr. Strelnikov, how important men like you are to me personally. You sound my clarion call, you are my heralds of order. Some might say I seek nothing less than a new world order to come.”

  “Well, thank you, sir. I guess I don’t know what to say.”

  What the fuck is a herald?

  “Say nothing. I suffered a grievous personal loss three months ago in Moscow. In less than a minute, Chechen assassins plunged my life into chaos. I understand Dimitri has informed you of this horror.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I travel a good deal. Frequently to places where local security leaves much to be desired. There are many threats against my life, and I cannot eliminate them all. I need someone, Mr. Strelnikov, someone like you, to help restore order in my daily life. Do you understand?”

  “I do.”

  “Would you be willing to accept the position? I am talking about your becoming my chief personal bodyguard. Possibly, after a certain period of time has elapsed and you have proven your strength and loyalty, I would consider you for a higher position. Perhaps as one of those who will help me implement my worldwide vision for a new order. Security is order. Order is peace.”

  “Well, I, uh…”

  “Consider the humble atom, Mr. Strelnikov.”

  “The atom.”

  “Yes. The atom. A positively charged nucleus surrounded by whirling negatively charged electrons. Immutable, indivisible, perfect. That is my cherished cause. That men and nations behave in an orderly fashion, like the very stuff they’re made of. Atoms. So. Yes or no? What is your answer?”

  “I’m not sure I follow. Is this about the atoms thing?”

  “Do you want the job, or do you not want the job?” he said, a razor’s edge in his voice.

  “Oh, yes. I certainly do want the job, sir. Sorry if I-”

  Ivan Korsakov got to his feet and returned to his piano. He sat down on the bench, took up his notebook, and immediately began playing a piece of music that sounded as if the little angels in the picture hanging over Paddy’s head had written it.

  After a few minutes, the two men on the sofa quickly realized they no longer existed and rose without a word, headed for the door.

  “You start immediately,” Korsakov said, not looking up or interrupting his playing to speak. “Dimitri will find you suitable accommodations aboard this ship and provide the necessary paperwork and orientation for your new position.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Paddy said, but it was doubtful the great man heard him.

  Once they were outside, back in the corridor, Paddy whispered, “I gotta be honest, I know he’s a genius and all, but sometimes he sounds like a goddamn nutball.”

  “He gets on these jags about atoms, yeah.”

  “Maybe it’s just me. But didn’t we split the atom? It was in Life magazine years ago, f’crissakes. So, how is it ‘indivisible’? See what I’m saying?”

  Popov looked at him as if he hadn’t a clue, which he certainly did not, pounded him on the back, and said, “But hey, there you go! What did I tell you? You’re in! Welcome to paradise, Beef. Let’s go forward to the observation platform and get a view of the landing.”

  “We’re landing?”

  “Yeah. He’s just completed a new mooring tower on his estate at the tip of Montauk Point. He’s building these towers everywhere he has a house or palace, which is practically everywhere. Bermuda, Scotland, a Swedish fjord, you name it. We’re going to try this one out for the first time today. There’s a big lunch on the lawn for the press, and then we’re heading back to the city to drop them off. Tonight, at midnight, we turn around and sail for Miami.”

  “Miami?”

  “You got it, comrade. We’ll be there by the end of the week, depending on the prevailing winds.”

  “Who was the weird Nazi in the black uniform?”

  “That would be my boss. General Nikolai Kuragin. Head of the Third Department, the secret police.”

  “The Russian secret police?”

  “Hell no. Count Korsakov’s private army, his personal secret police. Kuragin was there checking you out. That’s why he stuck around when you spoke to the big guy.”

  “Checking me out why?”

  “That whole bodyguard thing was just a little game they were playing. Kuragin was the one interviewing you, to see how you handled yourself. He’s considering you for a job. Bigger than what you’re used to. High-risk. So he wanted a firsthand peek at the new guy. Now that you’ve been given the official blessing, I’m sure he’ll be wanting to talk to you out at Montauk.”

  “What kind of job are we talking?”

  “Ramzan Baysarov. Ever heard of him?”

  “No.”

  “Chechen rebel warlord. Not even thirty years old and yet the scourge
of the Kremlin. General Kuragin put a ten-million-dollar bounty on his head after that attack that killed the count’s brother. Ramzan’s also one of the guys linked to the 2002 Moscow theater attack that killed one hundred seventy people, the 2004 subway attack that killed forty-one, and a double-suicide bombing at a Moscow rock concert that killed seventeen.”

  “Seriously pissed-off guy.”

  “Yeah. Yeltsin and Putin had him sent to a Siberian gulag for twenty-five years. Apparently, he didn’t like his pillow mints or the room service and checked out early. He just gave a press interview to ABC. He says he won’t quit killing Muscovites until everyone in Russia feels his pain.”

  “And?”

  “A couple of our guys had a chat with the ABC reporter last night. That reporter may have felt a little pain himself. Anyway, we now know where Ramzan is hanging out these days. Miami.”

  “Miami.”

  “Right. And Friday night is his thirtieth birthday. His Chechen Mafiya buddies in Miami are throwing a little bash in his honor. Big mansion on the water in Coconut Grove. Half the fuckin’ Chechen rebel sympathizers in America are going to be there.”

  “What’s my job?”

  “Make sure Ramzan doesn’t finish blowing out all his little candles.”

  “Miami, huh? Beats the shit out of Alaska.”

  “Beef, trust me. You’re going to love your new job.”

  “One more question.”

  “Yeah?”

  “If I do this guy Ramzan, do I get the ten mil?”

  15

  BERMUDA

  Stubbs came to a stop where the sandy lane dead-ended at the dock. They’d reached the easternmost tip of St. George’s, taking Government Hill Road all the way to Cool Pond Road. It was nearly five o’clock, and the sun was still shimmering on Tobacco Bay. A few very large sport-fishing boats were moored on the bay, riding the gentle swells.

  There was a freshly painted white post bearing a very discreet sign that read “Powder Hill-Private.” It stood just beside the floating platform that led out to the dock itself. The dock looked like any of the others jutting out into this small and tranquil bay. Most had small sailboats or runabouts moored alongside.