by Ted Bell
“What law is that?”
“The law of unintended consequences.”
Forty-four
London/Moscow
“All right, Alex,” C said, standing up and walking around his solid mahogany desk. “I will at least consider it.”
A solemn Sir David Trulove went over to one of the many broad office windows overlooking the Albert Embankment and the Thames. He stood gazing out, his hands clasped behind his back like an old captain on the quarterdeck. Hawke knew what the old admiral was thinking. He wasn’t happy about Hawke’s request, but he knew he couldn’t turn it down, either. For all of Hawke’s problems with his irascible superior, the man could usually be counted on to do the right thing.
He turned around and looked at Hawke to find him thumbing through a magazine.
“Fine. Go to Moscow. Just as long as you understand that we are both due in Washington. One week from today we meet with the American president McCloskey and his staff. The United States is pressuring us to take immediate joint action before this computer cyborg, or whatever the hell it is, strikes again.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“After all, Alex, I am sympathetic to your situation. The bastards are after your son, for God’s sake.”
“I appreciate your understanding, sir.”
“I’d be a right bastard myself if I didn’t understand a man’s desire to protect his own son from murderous thugs. That horrific incident in Hyde Park would be enough to push any man to the edge.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s settled, then. Now. These wizards at Cambridge. Have they made any progress regarding the hacker who cracked Dr. Cohen’s AI files?”
“No, sir, not beyond his name. Darius Saffari. Origins unknown. He seems to have erased his tracks. But Congreve spoke again to Dr. Partridge yesterday. They are still using the quantum supercomputer to try to find this man. His application to Stanford lists his home address as San Diego, California. According to local police, no one by that name ever lived there. Same thing with his MIT records in Boston. Phony address in Boston. Then he goes off the grid.”
“According to Partridge, whom I also spoke to at some length this morning, this Darius character could well be behind these hideous attacks in London, Israel, and the States. The most dangerous man in the world, that’s how he described him. But their multimillion-dollar quantum can’t seem to find him. I have little faith in computers, Alex, showing my age, I suppose. But I do have faith in you. And I want you to find this fellow, wherever the hell he is, and put an end to him. Are we clear?”
“Perfectly.”
“All right, go to Moscow. Do whatever’s necessary. Try not to get yourself killed before you save the world, will you?”
“Do my level best, sir.”
Trulove didn’t reply and Hawke knew he’d been dismissed.
“Concasseur?” Hawke said.
“At your service. How are you, Alex?”
“Delighted with your efforts to rattle a stick inside the Tsarists’ nest. Brilliant conception and execution, I must say.”
“And my compliments to the two chaps you sent here to Moscow. Jones and Brock. Quite a pair. Very inventive. A couple of right bastards and tough as stink, the both of them. I wish I had chaps like that here.”
“Despite all your best efforts, however, the Tsarists still don’t seem to be taking us very seriously, do they?”
“The attack on Putin with dirty bombs, you mean.”
“Yes. You got to me in the nick of time on that. Thanks.”
“I’m well paid. I think I can guess why you rang me up. Based on this latest attack, you want to send them an even stronger signal.”
“No. Actually, Ian, I want to obliterate them. Putin can’t do it; he’s politically hogtied, but we can.”
“Take them out completely, you mean?”
“Precisely what I mean. I’m headed your way as soon as I can make the arrangements. Do you have any preliminary thoughts, Ian?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. Your timing might be good. Vasily, my paid informant inside the club, happened to mention the other day that the Tsarists’ annual dinner is coming up shortly. Lavish affair at the mansion. That means they’ll be descending on Moscow in droves, coming in from all over the world. Attendance of around three hundred if I had to hazard a guess.”
“The president of the thing, what’s-his-name—he attends, obviously?”
“Yes. Name is Kutov. Ex-KGB General Vladimir Kutov, the one who found the naked chap hanging from his flagpole. He hosts the meeting. Apparently everyone attending is obliged to stand up and raise a glass. Tell him what a big fucking deal he is. He likes that kind of thing.”
“Ian, if you had to identify a single individual in the Tsarist organization who is hell-bent on making my life hell these days, who would that person be?”
“Without any question, that would be Kutov himself. He was the late Tsar’s staunchest ally during the coup that put Putin in prison and Korsakov in power. He knows you killed his beloved Tsar. And he’s one of only two or three people in Moscow who know about your clandestine relationship with Putin. Drives him out of his bloody mind. That’s why you two remain at the top of his shit list. And it’s a very long list indeed.”
“And my son?”
“He knows it was Putin who saved your son and his mother from the execution Kutov himself had ordered at Lubyanka. To him, with all due respect, your son and his mother are simply unfinished business.”
“They’re going down, Ian. All of them. And you and I are going to make that happen.”
“I look forward to it with keen anticipation. The world will instantly be a better place. Let me know when you’re arriving and where. I’ll pick you up.”
“Putin’s well aware of what I’m doing and obviously supports it, given the dramatic events in Portofino. He’s sending one of his planes for me. Day after tomorrow. I’ll be landing at his small airfield near his private dacha outside St. Petersburg. You know where his dacha is?”
“Alex, please.”
“Sorry. I’ll tell him you’re driving me down so he won’t send a car. He told me we’d be doing some wild boar hunting using night-vision rifles. You up for that?”
“You’ve made my day. Seriously, I’ve been bored blind ever since Stokely Jones and Harry Brock left town. What a pair.”
“Done. See you soon. Cheers, Ian.”
Hawke’s plane touched down on Russian soil right on schedule. Three in the afternoon, St. Petersburg time. As the sleek jet neared the end of the runway, he could see Concasseur standing beside a black Audi, waiting for him. Hawke was looking forward to working with his old comrade in arms again. He was as good a man in a fight as you could ask for. He also spoke fluent Russian, which would be important in executing the plan Hawke had been sketching out in his mind on the flight from London.
The two old friends embraced and clapped each other on the back. They’d not seen each other since Hawke had interviewed the man for the Moscow job, running Red Banner.
Hawke had no luggage to speak of, just weapons and extra mags of ammunition in the black nylon carryall he tossed into the Audi’s boot. He wasn’t planning to be here long. He shed his black leather jacket and tossed it in as well. It was warmer than he’d expected.
“How far to the dacha?” Hawke asked, once they were on the rough, two-laned road.
“A good half hour. Is that long enough to tell me your plan? If it’s not, the plan’s too bloody complicated to work.”
Hawke laughed. “Haven’t changed a bit, have you?”
“Have you?”
“No.”
“As the Yanks say, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
Hawke spent the drive time discussing a broad outline of his plan with Concasseur. The man was enthusiastic, to say the least,
and contributed a number of nuanced changes that only strengthened Hawke’s idea. With a little help from Putin, they just might pull this off, Hawke told him.
“Something will go wrong,” Concasseur said. “It always does.”
“Of course it will. It’s what keeps it interesting. The thing that keeps us coming back for more. Am I right?”
“Always right. Sir.”
“I never figured you for a ‘yes man,’ Ian.”
“Damn right. I’m not stupid. Here we are. The first checkpoint. Let’s hope this guard has my name as well as yours.”
“He does, Ian. I told Putin you were coming. Ever met him?”
“Never. We don’t seem to travel in the same circles.”
“Piece of work,” Hawke said, gazing up at the tall evergreens that lined the drive leading to Putin’s dacha. “You’ll see.”
“You two are, what, friends? I can’t believe it.”
“Yeah. We met in prison. Shared a bottle of vodka in his cell. Bit weird, isn’t it?”
“Oh, you have no idea how weird it is, Alex.”
“He likes me for some reason. What can I say?”
“It’s insane is what it is, actually, mate. I seriously doubt that there’s anything more bizarre in the entire annals of espionage. And I include fiction.”
Forty-five
Saint Petersburg/Moscow
“Alex,” Putin said, embracing him heartily after he’d climbed out of the car. “It was a damn close thing in Portofino. Matter of seconds. I could feel the heat of the explosion through the soles of my shoes as we lifted off the deck. A minute later and . . .”
“Meet the man responsible for the timely warning, Ian Concasseur. He’s the hero, not me.”
“Concasseur, eh? Thank you, thank you,” Putin said in English, walking behind the rear of the Audi and pumping Ian’s hand. Ian responded in perfectly accented Russian and Putin, delighted, engaged him in a lively conversation on some unknown topic that showed no signs of stopping.
It gave Hawke a perfect opportunity to indulge his passion. The dacha’s gravel car park was full of fancy cars. In addition to the usual Maybachs, Mercedes AMG sedans, and shiny black Audis, there were scads of Ferraris, an Enzo, an Italia, and the new FF model, Bentleys aplenty, even a Bugatti Veyron in bright Russian red. It was the first one Hawke had seen up close. At $2,600,000, it was the world’s most expensive new car, and there weren’t that many of them around. Even Hawke, who had an extensive automobile collection, found that to be an exorbitant amount of money to spend getting from point A to B.
It had a Russian vanity plate, black letters on white, that read PM. Hawke knew instantly it had to be “Prime Minister” Putin’s car.
“You seem to be having a house party, Volodya,” Hawke said, as Putin and Concasseur rejoined him. Putin began leading them toward a path that led away from the main house and into the deep green forest.
“Yes, my annual wild boar hunt. I invited you to participate, remember?”
“Looking forward to it. As is Concasseur over there. It’s a night hunt, correct?”
“Yes. Night-vision scopes. Lots of vodka beforehand, so keep your wits about you. You kill one of my ministers or generals and we’ll have an international incident on our hands. Since you’re probably wondering, we’re walking down to my private office to talk. You’ll meet all the other guests at dinner, after we discuss our mutually advantageous plans. I won’t use your real names. And I’ll say you’re here on business. An offshore oil deal with BP. Okay?”
“Fine.”
It took about ten minutes to reach an old but very solid, two-story house built of stone with a slate roof. There were two plainclothes security men standing to either side of the door. Hawke was certain the woods were full of them. He was probably standing in the most secure place in all Russia at the moment. A good feeling for once.
Inside, the house resembled a nineteenth-century Russian hunting lodge. It may well have been one, Peter the Great’s, for all Hawke knew. It was certainly grand enough for a tsar. Dark paneling, great mounted animal heads, and huge oil paintings of sporting scenes from an earlier era hung from the walls. They must be pictures that once hung in the Hermitage, Hawke thought, knowing the prime minister’s predilection for “borrowing” from his country’s most famous museum.
Hawke tried to imagine an American president strolling into the Metropolitan Museum in New York and saying to one of the docents, “Wrap that one up and have it sent to the White House, will you please?” Never happen. But then, this was Russia, after all.
A swarthy manservant in a green felt jacket with bone buttons entered the great room and asked the prime minister if he or his guests would like something to drink or eat. Putin responded without querying the guests: vodka and caviar. At one end of the room was a large bay window that went up two stories and was filled with beautiful afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees. There were four large leather chairs, very deep, arranged in a circle around a table that had once been a millstone.
Putin took his favorite seat, propped his boots on the table, and said, “Sit, sit.”
After the frigid vodka and caviar had been served, he sat back in his chair and looked at Hawke with a wolfish grin.
“So, Mr. Hawke, last week you saved my life. Now you come to Russia to exterminate my worst enemies. Are you sure you don’t want something from me?”
Hawke and Concasseur both laughed.
“Only the red Bugatti,” Hawke said.
“It’s yours,” Putin said, digging into the pocket of his faded jeans. He pulled out a key on a red leather fob and tossed it across the table. “Take it, my friend. I’m serious. I don’t even use it that much. Just to go from here to the airstrip and back.”
Hawke picked up the key, examined Ettore Bugatti’s black initials on the red cloisonné emblem, and tossed it back to Putin. The Russian PM snatched it deftly out of the air like the highly trained athlete he was. Returning the key to his pocket he said, “So you two gentlemen have a plan? I am most anxious to hear it. I want to be rid of these Tsarist horseflies once and for all.”
Hawke spoke first.
“Volodya, as you well know I’m in the midst of a violent blood feud with these damn Tsarists. They are responsible for imprisoning, torturing, and threatening to murder the mother of my son. They have made two failed attempts to assassinate my son. I’m sure there will be more. They want me dead and they want you dead. All this by way of saying it’s time for the mailed glove to come off and reveal the mailed fist inside. I want to take these bastards out. Not one at a time. All at once.”
Concasseur said, “Prime Minister, there’s to be a dinner next week at the Tsarist mansion. Their annual celebration, according to my sources. At least three hundred attendees from all over the world.”
“The host, of course, will be the chief Tsarist himself, General Kutov,” Hawke added. “That utterly charming man to whom we both owe our meeting in Energetika Prison, Volodya.”
“There are words for this pig Kutov that only Concasseur here would know the meaning of, Alex. I won’t waste my breath. So you have some way of taking out Kutov?”
“We have a way of taking them all out, Volodya.”
“No? The whole damn lot?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me and then I will pour more vodka.”
Hawke, with the help of Concasseur, outlined their plan in great detail.
When they finished, Putin was stone-faced.
After a few very, very long moments, he burst forth into loud and sustained laughter, his eyes watering, totally helpless with mirth. Hawke got up and poured him a glass of water from the carafe.
When Putin finally got himself under control, he said, “It’s brilliant. What do you need from me?”
Hawke handed him the list of necessities he’d made on the p
lane.
“This is going to work,” he finally said, scanning the list. “What could possibly go wrong?”
“Everything,” Concasseur said, raising his glass. “But Hawke and I will muddle through somehow. We always do.”
The Tsarist Society’s club in the heart of Moscow was all aglow, lights blazing from every window of the imposing mansion. There was a line of limos stretching from the covered entrance all the way around the corner and into Pushkin Square. Instead of a naked fat man hanging from the flagpole, tonight there was a great red banner with a golden two-headed eagle emblazoned upon it. Hawke and Concasseur would not be using the main entrance. They entered through the kitchen, a beehive populated by buzzing white bees.
It was a madhouse.
“Organized chaos,” Ian whispered to Hawke, who thought Concasseur looked completely ridiculous in his tall toque blanche and spotless white chef’s uniform with two rows of brass buttons gleaming on his chest. He also wore a full reddish-blond beard to complete the disguise. “Over there, that’s the head chef and his sous-chef. Follow me. I’ll do all the talking.”
“I certainly hope so. I’m just a mute saucier, remember?”
There were five other men with them, all splendidly decked out in haute cuisine kitchen apparel. It was hard to believe they were members of Putin’s handpicked security force at the Kremlin. Each of them was carrying a large aluminum box, the bulky container caterers use to bring precooked food to an affair.
“Dimitry,” Ian said to the head chef in Russian, “it’s me, Nikolai.”
The big bearded man, who was drenched with sweat and tossing an amazing number of blinis into the air with a huge frying pan, looked over at Ian, frowned, and said, “Who?”
“Nikolai. The pastry chef from Parisian Caterers. We worked that gala at the Bolshoi opening night, remember?”
“No. But I’m a chef, I don’t have time to remember people. Where is Ivan Ivanovich? I asked Parisian expressly for him tonight.”
“Quite sick, I’m afraid. Food poisoning, ironically enough. Parisian sent me instead. This is Vlad, my saucier, and those guys over there washing up are mine, too.”
