by Ted Bell
“My son!” Hawke said, stricken, leaping to his feet.
“Your son suffered minor cuts and contusions, m’lord. But his nursemaid has been gravely injured. If you’ll come with me, the police at the hospital are waiting on the private line.”
Hawke raced from the room, grim-faced and angry.
“Good Lord,” Congreve said, deeply shaken. “The bloody Russians. Another attempt on the boy’s life. This is the third.”
“Chief Inspector. This cannot continue.”
“Indeed, Sir David. We need to find a way to send these people a very, very strong signal.”
“It may be too late.”
“Sorry?”
“One of my chaps in Moscow, SAS officer named Concasseur, code name ‘Wellington,’ has penetrated an organization called the Tsarist Society. A confederacy of ideologues, thieves, and killers for hire posing as a gentlemen’s club. They have a hit list long as your arm. Concasseur has managed to obtain that list through a paid informant inside the club. He reports three names at the top. Putin is number one. The child, Alexei Hawke, is number two. Alex Hawke himself is number three. Revenge murders for Alex’s assassination of their beloved Tsar. With Putin’s assistance, of course.”
“Bugger all.”
“Precisely, Chief Inspector. I suggest we get cracking. I’ll put in a call to Concasseur immediately. See what he can find out from his contact on the inside. We’ll need specific names before we can go after anyone inside that Society of Murder.”
Thirty-two
Miami
Stokely Jones Jr. was wearing mirrored Ray-Ban aviators and a XXXL Vineyard Vines bathing suit with red sharks all over it. He was stretched out on a pink-and-white chaise longue beside the infinity pool at his palatial home on Key Biscayne. His new wife, Fancha, had inherited the gorgeous bayside estate known as Casa Que Canta, when her late, extremely wealthy husband passed away some years earlier. The late and unloved Joey Mancuso had been a Chicago nightclub owner, among other things, and no one ever accused him of being strictly legit.
Fancha once told Stoke that Joey had always claimed to have invented the rum and Coke. The rum and Coke? What else was there to say about the guy?
Emerald-green lawns swept down from the pool to a white sandy beach fringed with palms. Out on the sparkling blue bay, scores of white sails crisscrossed, tacking to and fro in the fresh breeze. The walled estate was on a small private island called Low Key. You couldn’t find it if you tried, so don’t even bother.
Stoke called his new residence God’s Little Acre, although there were actually ten of them surrounding him. The large eleven-bedroom home was a dazzling white palazzo situated atop a small hill surrounded by dense green jungle. The architecture was, Stoke had learned, a blend of Spanish, Moorish, and Italianate influences, built around a tranquil garden courtyard, home to splashing fountains, bougainvillea, and colorful tropical birds.
He even had a cook, a gardener, and a houseman named Charles who wore white jackets with shiny brass buttons and called Mrs. Stokely Jones Jr. “Madame” for short.
He liked it here. It was, well, homey.
It was Sunday morning in Miami and Stokely was reading a long article in the Herald’s sports section about how the Dolphins were poised for a winning season come September. Winning? Dolphins? In one sentence? He put the paper down and sipped his banana smoothie, his brow furrowed in thought.
He had about an hour to kill before Fancha returned from her Pilates class. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to amble down to the beach and go for swim in the turquoise waters of Biscayne Bay or take his new wedding present from Fancha, a beautiful Aquariva Gucci speedboat, out on the bay for a high-speed run over to Stiltsville and back.
Tough call, he said to himself, smiling. Just another beautiful day in paradise. That’s when the phone on the small poolside table rang. Even before he picked it up he knew it was trouble. He knew only women were supposed to have female intuition, but he had it, too.
His CIA buddy, Harry Brock, had once told Stoke maybe he was just a teensy-weensy bit too much in touch with his feminine side for comfort. Stoke offered to put Harry too much in touch with the sledgehammer called his right fist and it shut him up.
Harry had been married once. The nicest thing he could say about her was that she was a woman who, as a young girl, had seen better days. Now Brock was wild and single and claimed he got more ass than a rental car. Funny guy, Harry. A laugh riot. Why he didn’t have his own reality TV show was a mystery to Stoke.
“Hello? Jones residence, whom may I say is calling?” Stoke said with his fake English accent.
“Stokely, it’s Alex.”
“Hey, boss, long time. How are you, my brother?” Stoke could already tell from the sound of his voice how he was.
“Not good. Not good at all. I’m calling you from St. Thomas’s Hospital in London. I’m here with Alexei. Two men on horseback tried to kill him a few hours ago. Nell Spooner killed one of them; the other was arrested shortly thereafter. The police are interrogating him now. Another bloody Russian KGB assassin.”
“Ah, damn it. Again? We’ve got to do something about these dickheads. How is my little buddy? He’s okay, I hope?”
“Facial contusions and a deep gash on his right cheek. They’re keeping him overnight for observation. I wish I could say the same for Miss Spooner. She dove headlong to push Alexei out of the way of the second horse and it trampled her. Multiple fractures in her right leg. She’ll walk, the doctors said, but she’s in for a tough go for a while, I’m afraid.”
“What can I do? You don’t sound good at all. You need me, I’m there.”
“Thank you, Stoke. You always are. I don’t want to disturb what’s left of your honeymoon.”
“Honeymoon’s over. Blown out of the water. Tell me what I can do.”
“As I said, the two men who tried to kill my son are Russians. Hired killers who work for an organization called the Tsarist Society based in Moscow. These people, called the ‘Vory,’ are the top dogs within the Russian criminal hierarchy. They’ve been able to infiltrate the top political and economic strata while taking command of the burgeoning crime network that spread murderously in the post-Soviet era. In order to be accepted into the society, they must demonstrate leadership, personal ability, intellect, charisma, and a well-documented criminal history, including murder.”
“Not exactly the Rotarians.”
“Right. And the Vory have spread around the world—Berlin, New York, Madrid; they’re involved in everything from petty theft, kidnapping, and murder to billion-dollar money laundering. The Tsarists are at the top of the crime food chain and act as arbiters among conflicting Russian criminal factions. Even Putin can’t touch them and expect to remain alive.”
“Well, I can touch them. And I will.”
“One more thing. These guys all bear the same tattoos on the bottoms of their feet. A baby.”
“A baby?”
“Yes. It means ‘prison-born, prison-dead.’ The assassins all have an additional tat, a blue scorpion on the back of the neck. Coroner in Miami told me the uninvited guest at your wedding had one, proving he was a Tsarist. I want the bastards responsible for targeting my son to go down, Stoke. I would gladly go to Moscow and do it myself but I’m not about to leave Alexei alone right now. As it is, I’ve got to make a day trip to Istanbul and I’m even worried about that.”
“What’s in Istanbul?”
“The new Blackhawke. I just got a call from the shipbuilders, a yard called Barbaros. She’s ready for sea trials and delivery. Obviously, I have to go. A week from tomorrow.”
“Man, from what you’ve told me, that’s going to be one hell of a rowboat. When do I get to go for a ride?”
“Good question. Why don’t you come to Istanbul and do the sea trials with me? I could use your input. This thing’s a fighting m
achine, Stoke. I’d love you to see it.”
“Don’t have to ask me twice, boss. I’ll be there.”
“Done. How soon can you be in Moscow?”
“I’m on the next flight out of here. Just tell me what to do.”
“MI6 has a field agent in Moscow operating undercover at our embassy there. Old war buddy of mine named Concasseur. SAS combat vet, hard as nails with fists of stone. By the time you get there, he will have a plan of action for dealing with these people. I took the liberty of telling him you were coming. Sorry, I didn’t want to waste a second.”
“So this is a black-ops MI6 mission, right? Anything goes? All bets are off?”
“Anything goes. Do whatever you have to do to make these people understand who they’re dealing with and back the hell off. Now, listen. It could get a little spicy over there. What’s your mate Harry Brock up to these days?”
“The professional Californian? He lives down here in sunny south Florida now. Still CIA, but working out of the Miami station. I even sublet him my penthouse apartment on Brickell Key. Fancha ever kicks me out, I kick Harry out and, bam, I’m back in my penthouse in the sky.”
“Is he available?”
“Just back from a week in Cuba. Checking up on Fidel’s health, making sure it’s still bad. Yeah, he’s available. Good call, boss. Harry’s a true ground-pounder, but he has a way of coming in handy when he puts his mind to it. But I know how you feel about him, so—”
“I’ve come to a conclusion about your friend Harry, Stoke. I think he’s actually a first-class person with an obsessive compulsion to behave like a second-class person.”
“I think you’ve nailed him. So what do you want me to do?”
“Book him immediately. We need him. Concasseur has instructions to provide you both with whatever you need while you’re in Moscow. He has orders from C to ascertain the name or names of whoever inside the Tsarists is ordering these attacks on my family. MI6 will take care of your travel arrangements. Call our embassy in Moscow and get them to book rooms, a hired car if you need one. Use my name. Have you been to Moscow before?”
“Never.”
“Keep your eyes open every second. It’s a police state no matter how they try to dress it up. And the local uniformed police are not to be trusted under any circumstances. Don’t talk to them, don’t even look them in the eye. Corruption is a way of life. If you get in any trouble at all, call me immediately. I have friends in high places there.”
“How high?”
“As high as it gets.”
“Please tell Miss Spooner and little Alexei I said get well soon. And give Alexei a big hug from his uncle Stoke.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks, Stoke. I knew I could count on you.”
“Till the day I die and maybe even after that. Come back as Alexei’s guardian angel or something.”
“You’d be good at it. Still, try to come back in one piece, will you, Stoke?”
“Always do. See you in Istanbul after we straighten things out in Moscow.”
“Bring Brock, too. To Istanbul.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yeah. She’s a fighting boat, like I said, and Harry’s nothing if not a fighter. There may come a day when we’re glad he’s aboard. Might as well have him know his way around the ship in any event.”
Stoke was about to pick up the phone again and call Harry about the upcoming trip to Mo-Town, as Brock called the Russian capital. But then he had a better idea. A much better idea.
Charles brought his 1965 black-raspberry metallic Pontiac GTO convertible up from the ten-car garage and around to the mansion’s front portico entrance, the deep rumble of the huge mill bringing a smile to Stoke’s face. Street-legal, but it could smoke the quarter mile in under seven seconds. Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about, right there. He climbed in and hit the button that lowered the ragtop. It was a beautiful day, perfect for a quick cruise over the causeway to his old stomping ground, Brickell Key in downtown Miami.
Harry’d gotten rid of Stoke’s old dining room table set and put in a pool table. They could shoot a little pool and shoot the shit about killing Commies and religious fanatics for Jesus.
Thirty-three
Moscow
The Hotel Metropol was the last surviving hotel in Moscow built before the Russian Revolution of 1917. A monumental edifice, adjacent to the Bolshoi Theatre and a five-minute walk from Red Square, the place seemed completely unchanged since the Soviet era when it was a KGB apparatchik hangout. Grim and grey, just the way you’d expect it to be. There was never anything lighthearted and colorful about the KGB, that’s what Stoke thought, anyway.
Spooky, too.
Yeah, the whole damn hotel was full of spooks and bad vibes. You could just feel that a lot of very unsavory KGB shit had gone down here. Stoke felt the ghosts of dead spies floating right alongside him as he walked down the endless dark and dreary corridors of the place. He didn’t know how to say “boo” in Russian, but if he did, he was pretty sure he’d hear one of them say it.
Something else about the hotel. It kept him thinking about that old movie The Shining. Elevator pops open and there’s old Joe Stalin with a shit-eating grin and a bloody axe raised above his head:
“I’m ba-a-a-ck!”
Stoke and Harry Brock had checked in late the previous night after connecting through Heathrow en route from Miami. A driver had been sent to pick them up at the airport. Stoke wasn’t expecting VIP treatment or a limo, but he also wasn’t expecting a hulking driver wearing bloodstained camo head to toe. Or driving a beat-up old Volkswagen minibus, either. When the guy opened the back to put their bags in, Stoke saw the space was filled with shotguns, ammo, and dead birds. The guy just tossed the luggage in on top, grunted, and slammed the door.
“Is it me, or is this whole limo deal pretty weird?” Stoke asked Harry as they pulled out of the airport. Harry had been here on business before. A lot.
“It would be weird anywhere else in the world. But here? Par for the course.”
Welcome to Russia, Comrade-o-vich.
Stoke was going to ask some tourist questions, but the driver hadn’t said word one and didn’t seem up for chatty conversation with the big black Amerikanski. Clearly, they’d interrupted his hunting trip and he wasn’t happy about it.
The first thing Stoke noticed upon arrival at the hotel was how smoky the hotel lobby was. It was huge, with high ceilings, and yet it was filled with smoke. You could barely see the bulbs in the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. While waiting with Harry for their luggage to appear, Stoke walked over to a group of people sitting in a circle drinking vodka and all smoking like paper factories.
“Any of y’all ever read the Surgeon General’s warning?” he asked. They all looked up at the giant black man with blank faces. “No? Well, you should. Seriously scary shit in there. I’m just sayin’.”
Even the people manning the reception desk were a little spooky. Grimmer than the grimmest flight attendants in the unfriendly skies over America. Not a smile to be seen. Like, so unfriendly it was almost as if this were some kind of Roach Motel. Which, Stoke thought, had probably been true. A whole lot of guests who’d checked in here had probably not checked out.
Emerging from the elevator on his floor, Stoke found all four walls hung with black-and-white photos of famous guests. Stoke made the circuit. Completely random. Hanging next to Stalin? Michael Jackson, who else? And there was Lenin rubbing shoulders with Walt Disney. Stoke had a hard time imagining Walt Disney staying in this hotel. One night, tops.
Harry assured Stoke his room would be bugged, and Stoke had no reason to doubt Russian spooks were eavesdropping on his every word. He’d asked Fancha once if he talked in his sleep and she’d said no. Didn’t hurt to check, though, so he swept the room. Usually the bugs were in the bedside lamps. But the lamps in Stoke’s room lo
oked like busted umbrellas and had no bulbs—no bugs either, that he could find, anyway. Only bugs he found at the Metropol were in the bed.
Russia, Stoke decided pretty quickly, had a slightly nutty quality to it. And slightly scary in a weird, time-warp, ice-pick-in-the-side-of-your-neck way. And he didn’t scare easy. And he hadn’t even left his hotel room yet.
They went sightseeing the next morning. First stop was Red Square. Stoke was surprised at how beautiful it was. The trees, the flower beds, the amazing onion-domed churches. But the best was when Harry told him it wasn’t called Red Square because it had been home to the Commies in the Kremlin. It was called that because the word red, in Russian, meant “beautiful.” That kind of insider info could be worth a jackpot on Jeopardy! someday.
At five, they were sitting in Trotsky’s, a small, smoky bar just off Red Square, waiting for Hawke’s pal Concasseur to arrive from the British Embassy. There were two uniformed Moscow militia bully boys drinking at the bar, but they seemed stone drunk and didn’t even seem to notice when the two Americans walked past to their table.
“I gotta say this whole town sorta weirds me out, Harry,” Stoke said, staring back at all the people who were openly staring at him. Weren’t a whole lot of black folks in Moscow, he’d noticed. All the brothers who’d visited had decided once was more than enough. He hadn’t seen a single black man since he got here. And certainly none of them “the size of your average armoire,” as Hawke always said about Stoke.
“You get used to it,” Harry said, drinking his coffee with a shot of vodka on the side.
“You spend a lot of time here?”
“Yeah,” Brock said, and then dropped his eyes and shut up. Whatever career paths he’d gone down in Russia in the old days, he didn’t want to talk about. He changed the subject.
“So, newlywed, how’s it going with Fancha? Good?”
“I dunno, Harry. Woman complains a lot. Just the other night she told me I give her the wrong kind of orgasms.”
