by Ted Bell
TEN MINUTES LATER, a white-coated steward was showing them their stateroom on the promenade deck, portside. It was a beautiful room, paneled in walnut, with a king-size bed and a sofa, table, and chairs sitting under three big opening portholes flooded with light and blue sky. On the coffee table was a huge arrangement of white flowers with a little envelope on a plastic pitchfork. Also a silver bucket with a bottle of Roederer Cristal champagne on ice. Hollywood, Stoke thought. Had to be, right?
He handed the steward a twenty and asked where the TV was. The young fellow picked up a remote from the bedside table and hit a button, and an oil painting over the dresser slid up into the ceiling revealing a flat-screen Toshiba.
The steward bowed, said something in Russian, and left. Fancha, who seemed happy enough with their room and her flowers, began unpacking, and Stoke sat on the edge of the bed, figuring out the remote. Finally, he got Fox News, live from Salina, breaking news. News was always breaking, Stoke thought. Problem was, there was nobody left on the planet smart enough to fix it.
The state trooper had turned it over to the police chief, who seemed to be wrapping up his remarks. Stoke was sorry he’d missed the chief’s remarks. This was a big story, and he was about to be completely out of the loop for the next four days. He wanted to know what the hell was going on.
The chief was saying, “Thank you, and now I’d like to turn it over to two of my finest young officers. These two young fellas standing behind me were the last two on patrol inside the city. They’d be happy to take your questions. This is Officer Andy Sisko, and Patrolman Gene Southey. Officers?”
Stoke saw two uniformed patrolmen, clean-cut Midwest guys, step up to the podium, both looking a little nervous about all the cameras, being on national television.
“Officer Sisko, you were the last man to leave Salina?” a reporter called out.
“Yessir, I was. Me and Officer Southey were assigned to the last sweep.”
“You’re certain the town was completely evacuated? There were no remaining civilians?”
“Well, that’s right. Our fellow officers and the staties did a fine job. They made sure they got everybody out. Everybody.”
“Dogs and cats?”
“Very difficult. Most people took their pets, if they could find them. They left in pretty much of a hurry. So I’m sure some stray animals got left.”
“Officer Southey, even when a hurricane is bearing down on a town, we saw this in Key West last year, you still get a large number of people refusing to leave their homes. You didn’t see any of that in Salina?”
“No, sir, we did not. Folks here were real cooperative. Everybody just loaded up and vamoosed. We did run across one fella, though. He was still out there on the street, but we got him out in time, too.”
“Someone who’d refused to leave his home?”
“No, sir, he was making deliveries.”
“Deliveries? To a deserted town? What was he delivering?”
“Doughnuts. Bakery goods. He had a truck full.”
Stoke leaned forward on the edge of the bed, turning up the volume with the remote.
“You mean you had someone delivering doughnuts in an empty town? Under an emergency evacuation order?”
“Yessir. He’d slept through all the warnings is what he told us. Didn’t know anything at all about any warnings, any evacuation. Just going about his business.”
“Do you have his name?”
“Sure do. His name was Happy. Happy the Baker. Nice fella. Gave us breakfast on his truck right about here where I’m standing now. My partner and I had coffee and doughnuts with him right before she blew.”
Stoke’s jaw dropped, and, eyes riveted to the screen, he said to Fancha, “Happy the Baker, baby. That big guy who delivered the cake at the birthday blast here in Miami.”
But Fancha was already in the head with the door closed, changing her outfit. Didn’t hear him.
Stoke’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket.
“Hello?” he said, flicking it open.
It was Harry Brock. Calling from Moscow, where it had to be the middle of the night.
“Stokely, you watching this? Television? CNN?”
“Yeah, Harry, I’m watching. Happy the Baker.”
“Damn right, our old pal Happy the Baker from the birthday party in the Grove. Jesus Henry Christ. Happy the freaking bomb baker. He blew up that town, Stoke. That’s all there is to it. Why else would he be there?”
“Why the hell does he blow up a whole town?”
“Good question. How soon can you get out there?”
“To Salina?”
“Of course, Salina. You’re the only one on the planet who knows this guy on sight. Knows what he looks like, talks like. I need you out there now, Stoke. Is there a problem?”
“I’m onboard the Pushkin, about to take off. Check out this Tsar operation on the airship going to Stockholm. With Fancha. I told you about it. She wants me-”
“Stoke, listen carefully. Ever since the party, I’ve been looking hard at your boy Happy. He is a Russian-American. A made mafiya assassin from Brooklyn. His real name is Paddy Strelnikov. He’s undercover KGB, is what they’re saying at Langley. The bombing of Salina was intended to look like an Iranian operation. A group calling itself Arm of God. But it’s not Iranian, damn it, that doesn’t make any sense. The ayatollahs are scared shitless of the U.S. right now. So, maybe it really is a goddamn KGB operation. Fucking Russians, I wouldn’t put it past them these days. Anyway, look, I want you to get out there and find Happy’s fat ass or find out where he went. Find him, and bring him in. The Russians might be making some kind of move, Stoke, a big move. This might be part of it. That’s all I can tell you now, okay?”
“I’m on my way.”
“Get this guy, Stoke. He’s critical. One more thing. Before he blew up the town, he murdered the mayor and her family in their beds. Husband. Two little kids. Left a cell phone with a phony Arabic message on one of the corpses. That information has not been released to local law enforcement.”
“Christ,” Stoke said.
“You’re going?”
“I’m gone.”
The phone went dead in his hand just as Fancha opened the door to the head. She’d changed into a beautiful turquoise skirt and blouse. She’d never looked prettier. That smile, the one he loved, the one that meant she was happy. She spun around, and her skirt flared out like a ballerina’s.
“Hey, baby, why isn’t that champagne opened yet? This girl is thirsty.”
“Oh, yeah. I should have opened that. Sorry.”
“Stokely, honey, you don’t look so good. Is something wrong?”
“Yes, baby. Something is wrong.”
“How wrong?”
“Really wrong. Bad wrong.”
“You’re not going with me.”
“No, honey, I’m not. I can’t.”
She turned around and went back inside the bathroom and closed the door. Didn’t slam it. Just closed it. And locked it.
Stoke picked up his unpacked suitcase and rapped softly on the bathroom door.
“Fancha? I’m sorry, baby. Let me explain.”
No response. He pressed his forehead against the door and spoke softly.
“Baby? I’m so sorry. Let me just kiss you good-bye. Okay? Please.”
Nothing.
“It’s business, honey. National security. What am I supposed to do?”
He could hear her in there, sobbing.
He left the stateroom without another word, pulling the door closed behind him, seriously disgruntled.
War isn’t hell, he thought to himself, charging angrily down the corridor to the airship’s aft elevators.
Hell, no.
Sometimes it was much, much worse.
43
TVAS, RUSSIA
Korsakov’s winter palace was plainly visible now, countless lighted windows winking through the dark, snow-laden forests. The blisteringly fast troika flew across an arched w
ooden bridge spanning the frozen river. The sleigh went airborne for a long moment at the top, and Hawke found the speed, the fierce cold, the ringing sleigh bells, and the snow-spangled forests sparkling in the starlight exhilarating.
He glanced at Anastasia, sliding his cold hand under the fur throw and placing it on her warm thigh. She slid closer to him, never taking her eyes off the hindquarters of the three flying horses. She watched their every movement, like a pilot casting her eye over her instrument panel, and whispered corrections as they flew over the landscape at impossible speeds. Hawke was mesmerized by her art, her precise skills at something he’d never known existed.
“How much of this enchanted forest is Korsakov property?” Hawke asked. For the last half-hour or so, there had been endless miles of dry-stacked stone walls and small cottages in neatly fenced fields. Now a high yellow wall lined the left side of the snowy lane.
Asia laughed. “Alex, you were on Korsakov land two hours before your train arrived at Tvas station.”
“Ah. Sizable holdings.”
She cast a quick smile in reply and flicked the reins.
“Not really. We used to control all of Siberia-Storm! What’s gotten into you? Pay attention! Lightning, get along with you! Turn! Turn! We’re home at last!”
Nothing had prepared Hawke for the sheer grandeur of the Korsakov winter palace.
The troika suddenly careened off the snowbound country road and raced under a great arch of stone and wrought iron, the entrance a heavily filigreed black arch surmounted by golden two-headed eagles. The horses, now in sight of their stables, surged ahead beneath the snow-packed allée of trees leading to the palace.
The sense of power and opulence only grew as they got closer. It seemed too vast to be practicable as any kind of home. Hawke couldn’t even guess at how many rooms, but it dwarfed a European’s notion of parliaments and museums. And every window was ablaze with light.
“A party?” Hawke asked. “Just for me?”
“A dinner and concert,” Anastasia said. “Five hundred guests.”
“Only five hundred? Cozy.”
“Half of Moscow is here.”
“Really? Which half?”
“The half that counts. The half holding the reins of power. My father means something to this country, Alex. He stands for the New Russia. Strong, powerful, fearless. They revere him here, Alex. He’s like a-a god. Like a-”
“Tsar?”
“That’s not as far-fetched as you might think.”
Hawke looked at her a moment and decided to let that one pass. “Are you as hungry as I am? Near starvation?”
“We’re too late for the Christmas feast, but we can enjoy some of the concert, perhaps. And no, the party is definitely not for you. We’re celebrating Papa’s Nobel award and the coming debut of his new symphony.”
The sleigh careened into a large snowy courtyard, and Anastasia reigned in her three chargers. The trio swerved to a stop at the foot of a wide set of steps, the runners throwing up a great shower of glistening snow. A host of liveried footmen instantly surrounded them, helping both Anastasia and Hawke to step down from the ice-encrusted sleigh and whisking Hawke’s luggage away. Considering its contents, he would have preferred to carry it himself, but it was too late.
Hawke stood for a moment, stomping his boots on the hard-packed snow, trying to get some feeling back into his feet.
Anastasia stood stroking Storm’s mane as grooms covered the other two horses with blankets and led them away to the stables. She was quietly giving orders to a tall bearded fellow, obviously the man in charge. Once they were alone again, mounting the broad stone staircase to the main entrance, she whispered, “I instructed Anatoly to put you in the Delft Suite on the third floor. It adjoins my own rooms with a connecting door. I hope you don’t find that too forward of me.”
“Forward, certainly, but perhaps not too forward.”
She took his hand and hurried him up the steps. Crimson-uniformed servants with gold braid and bright brass buttons swung the double doors open wide. Hawke saw a massive illuminated Christmas tree standing at the center of the gilded and white-marbled entrance hall. The ceiling vaulted four stories above it, upheld by fluted columns the size of grain silos. Two curving marble staircases led to the second and third stories, where piano music tinkled, mixed with the muted laughter of hundreds of guests.
HAWKE ENTERED HIS own room and found it surprisingly and refreshingly small. The walls were entirely covered in blue and white Dutch tiles. Peter the Great, Hawke knew, had been a huge admirer of all things Dutch. Hawke’s room was, so Anastasia had informed him, the very room in which Tsar Peter slept whenever he was a guest of the Korsakovs. A cozy fire had been lit in the tiled Dutch oven in the corner. He removed his ice-coated black greatcoat and quickly shed all of his sour-smelling travel attire, washed himself with hot water from a bedside jug, and dressed.
He’d found a set of perfectly tailored evening clothes laid out on his four-poster bed, and to his amazement, the shirt, trousers, and waistcoat, everything, fit perfectly. Nestled at the foot of the bed was a pair of black velvet evening slippers with the Korsakov coat of arms embroidered in gold thread. Unsurprisingly, they fit.
He saw his Gladstone bag on a settee in a darkened corner. He crossed the room and checked to see that the combination locks were intact and that the bag containing his weapons had not been tampered with. It seemed that it had not; at least, the number combination he always left the two locks set at had not been altered: 222, February 22, his late parents’ anniversary date.
He was, he assumed, an honored guest of this great household. But then again, this was still Russia.
Suddenly bone tired, he kicked off the slippers and stretched out fully dressed on the vast down-filled bed. The flickering firelight cast cartoon shadows on the underside of the bed’s canopy. It had been a long, uncomfortable voyage from Bermuda, and he was overcome by an overpowering desire to sleep here, now, submerged in all this sumptuous featherbed comfort.
At some point, Anastasia rapped on his door loudly enough to wake him. She was wearing a deeply low-cut gown of midnight-blue silk, her hair in ribbons and her throat wreathed in sparkling diamonds. The deliciously warm scent of Dior wafting up from her pale white bosom was almost overpowering.
“I thought I’d lost you,” she said.
“Mmm,” he said, unable to think of a real word.
He thought perhaps he’d slept a few minutes. A glance at his watch showed he’d been out cold for more than an hour.
“Comfortable?” she asked, stepping inside and taking him into her arms.
“Mmm. Very.”
“White tie becomes you, Alexander. You should wear it more often.”
He kissed her upturned lips, surprised at their warmth and softness. He pulled her to him, crushing her half-exposed bosom against his chest, inhaling the sweetness of her hair, her skin.
“Comfortable except for the bed,” he said, whispering into her ear. “Mattress is a bit firm for my taste. I’d like to try yours.”
“Down, boy,” she said, feeling his erection hard against her thighs. “We have to put in an appearance. I want you to meet my father tonight. I think he’s expecting it. And my brothers are dying to meet you. Come along, now, Alex. Don’t tarry.”
He followed her down the grand gilded staircase and found himself moving in Anastasia’s wake from one glittering room and mirrored gallery to another. They were in search of her two younger brothers, Sergei and Maxim. The sounds of stringed and percussion instruments, clarinets, and French horns, Count Korsakov’s new symphony, could be heard throughout the rooms they passed through. The twins, she told Alex, were not fond of symphonic music. They liked hard Russian rock, a group called the Apples, on their iPods. Nashe, they called this music. It meant “ours.” Western rock was definitely over in the New Russia. Western everything was over.
“They could well be playing in here,” she said.
“Playing? How o
ld are they?”
“Twelve. Twins, you see.”
“And their mother? Your mother?”
“She died in childbirth. The boys barely made it. We were lucky they survived.”
“I’m so sorry, Asia. I’d no idea.”
THEY ENTERED THE great Hall, where the ceremonial feast clearly had just taken place. Guests and servants had long since departed, but the enormous baroque room was still full of wonders. The barrel-vaulted hall was stunning in its abundance of mirrors and glittering gold. An unbounded sea of mirrors in gilded frames were reflected in other mirrors, creating a magical, endless space in which hundreds of wax candles still burning in the spaces between the windows and the mirrors gleamed.
“Perhaps they’ve escaped to the kitchens,” Anastasia said. “Wait here for a moment, and I’ll go and fetch them.”
Hawke paused at the table, picking up a spotless crystal goblet and deciding to fill it with blood-red wine from one of the many silver carafes. He sipped and found it delicious. So, too, was the leg of roast duck he removed from a half-eaten carcass and began to gnaw at ravenously.
The table, which stretched to shadowy infinity down the hall, had not been completely cleared. The white linen tablecloths were hung with ribbons of many colors and glorious rosettes. In the center of the table towered a massive construction resplendent with symbolic sculptures, monograms and crowns of various ancient courts of Europe.
The massive carved silver candelabras, which marched down the table into the shadows, were all still blazing with candles. Around the bases were woven Christmas holly and berries, artificial flowers made of red silk. Fresh flowers covered the branches of tiny potted trees or were woven into garlands that hung above miniature fountains, the waters still playing right there on the table.
Candlelight gleamed, reflected in the gold and silver tableware and on the great tureens, whose lids took the shapes of boars’ heads, stags, or pheasants. This magnificent table, Hawke decided, was itself a work of art. And perhaps a political statement as well. Such grandeur would surely reignite for Count Korsakov’s guests the dreams and glories of an ancient Russia that no longer existed but had once reigned triumphant.
