Tsar (18 page)

“Are you crazy? Put me down!” Fancha shouted in his ear, pounding on his shoulders with her fists.

There was a lot of shouting and confusion back on the lawn as Harry leaned on the throttles and the big yacht jumped up on plane and roared away from the dock.

“Go!” Stoke yelled up at Brock, “Hit it! Get us out of here!”

Stoke was in a crouch, moving with Fancha toward the door to the main salon, when the whole world was rocked on its side. The night sky lit with a white flash and then an intense blossoming orange glow that was blinding. Stoke, still cradling Fancha in his arms, dropped to the deck as the shockwave of the massive explosion slammed the big yacht, rolling her over onto her side, nearly broaching her completely. Stoke and Fancha slid down the deck, crashing against the gunwale. He protected her as best he could, but both of them were stunned.

Fado
righted herself, rolling violently. At the top of the tower, Harry, clinging desperately to the wildly careening helm station, managed to hold on and speed away from the scene of horrible death and destruction behind them.
Fado
—intact, it seemed—roared out into the blackness of the empty bay. Stoke lifted his head and looked back at her wildly foaming white wake. In the distance, he could see the point of land protruding into the bay. No lights on, either around the pool or what was left of the house. No one moving, small fires blazing everywhere.

Where the pool had been, nothing but a large black hole. The whole backside of the house was gone, and you could look into the interior rooms of the Russian’s flaming mansion as if it was some kind of oversized, burnt-out dollhouse.

He looked down at Fancha, her head in his lap, staring up at him with those great big beautiful wide-open eyes.

“You okay, sugar? You hurt anywhere?”

“I thought you’d lost your mind, Stoke, grabbing me off that stage.”

“I was just trying
not
to lose you.”

“Oh, baby. I never saw somebody move so fast. I didn’t know anybody could run like that.”

“You watch me run to you next time you call my name.”

She reached up and brushed his cheek with the back of her hand.

“Stokely Jones Jr., I don’t know how to—”

“Shh. You thank me later. I’ve got to go see if Harry and Sharkey are okay, jump on the horn, tell my clients in D.C. what just happened to Comrade Ramzan.”

“Love you, baby.”

“Love you more.”

Stoke shrugged out of his jacket, folded it, and put it beneath Fancha’s head. Then he started climbing the stainless ladder to the top of the tower, moving fast.

Harry Brock was up there, staring at something in the sky through his binoculars.

“Holy shit. Will you look at that?”

“What?”

“Over there. To the west, just coming up over the
Miami Herald
building. Some kind of fuckin’ UFO or something.”

Stoke looked at the thing. “Damn.”

“What the hell is that thing, Stoke?”

“Some kind of new airship, I guess. Doesn’t look like any blimp I ever saw. Military, maybe, looking for go-fast drug boats coming up from the Keys.”

It was massive, whatever the hell it was. Stoke stared at the great silver ship floating over the Miami skyline toward him, a giant round opening where the nose should be. Weird-looking. Scary-looking, almost.

Make that definitely scary-looking.

H
awke, arriving at Shadowlands, found Ambrose Congreve standing at the front door, dressed to the nines, but adamantly refusing to get into the automobile Hawke had shown up in.

“Some car, isn’t it?” Hawke said, grinning. “Absolutely ripping.”

“I simply won’t ride into town in that contraption, Alex,” Congreve said. “I won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Look at it. It’s a deathtrap, for one thing. No doors, no roof. It’s utterly ridiculous.”

“It has a delightful roof. A daffodil surrey roof of fringed canvas, I’ll grant you, and the fringe is a bit outré, but a roof all the same.”

Congreve disdainfully tapped one of the tiny moon-shaped wheel covers with the tip of his walking stick, making a hollow, tinny sound. He looked at Hawke and did not bother to disguise his sigh of frustration.

“Frankly, Alex, I find it astounding that you can transit this island in such a conveyance and keep a straight face. This…car, if one can call it such, looks as if it formerly belonged to a circus clown.”

“Mind your tongue, Constable. And get in the damn thing. C is waiting, and we’re already late.”

“Yes, and this is quite a serious meeting he’s invited us to. We’re taking on the dreaded Russians again, Alex. If Sir David happens to be standing outside the club when we arrive, he’ll think he’s invited the bloody Ringling Brothers to help him save Western civilization.”

Hawke tried not to laugh out loud.

Because of traffic congestion on the small island, every residence on Bermuda was allotted only one vehicle per household. Hawke was driving the car that had come along with his cottage. This tiny vehicle by the noble Italian design house of Pininfarina, was a 1958 Fiat 600 Jolly, and he’d somehow acquired it when he signed his lease for Teakettle Cottage.

It was an odd duck, to be honest, bright sunshine yellow, with seats made, improbably enough, of wicker.

But Hawke thought it quite sporting, and certainly Pelham enjoyed squiring the Jolly around town on his market runs each week. Besides, Congreve was right, there were few places on earth where a man could drive such an outrageous automobile and maintain a straight face. But Bermuda was one of those places.

Congreve sighed one of his immense sighs and settled his rather large person into the wicker armchair bolted after a fashion to the floor. He was shocked to discover that even the dashboard was wicker. He looked at Hawke with dismay. He felt as if he were riding in a ladies’ sewing basket.

He put his smart straw hat firmly on his head and prepared for the worst.

“Not even an airbag?” Congreve said, running his fingers along the wicker dash.

“Oh, I daresay it’s got one now,” Hawke said, engaging first gear. “On the passenger side at any rate.”

“Go, go, go,” the detective said, searching in vain for a seatbelt. “Let’s get this Mad Hatter’s wild ride over with.”

Hawke laughed, popped the clutch, and started off along the gently winding drive that traversed the shaded narrow length of Lady Mars’s Shadowlands estate. They drove the first few minutes in silence, the famous detective somehow maintaining an immutable scowl despite his deceptively innocent baby blue eyes and rakish mustache.

“Looking rather gay for our luncheon with C,” Hawke said finally, glancing over at his friend’s natty attire. Congreve was wearing lime-green Bermuda shorts with navy-blue knee socks, a Navy blazer, a pink shirt, and a pink and white madras bow tie. Tortoiseshell sunglasses completed the look. On his head was a straw boater.

“
Gay
? Really, Alex, you do push me to the brink.”

“As in festive, Ambrose. It was meant as a simple compliment. Shorts are a bit nancy for my taste, but what do I know?”

“De gustibus non est disputandum.”

“Exactly.”

Hawke turned left out of Shadowlands’ bougainvillea-covered stone portals and onto the South Road. They were heading east past the Spittal Pond Nature Reserve on their left. It was another perfect day in paradise, Hawke thought, brightly colored birds darting about flowering woods and tropical gardens on either side of the road. When he came to Trimingham Road, he whipped the little yellow buggy around to the right, coming to the first of two roundabouts that would lead him to the town of Hamilton proper.

Two cruise ships were moored along Front Street, and the charming old town was crowded with automobile traffic, motor scooters, and pedestrians. He looked at his watch. They were already ten minutes late, and C did not like to be kept waiting. He’d sounded very serious when he’d called, wanting Hawke and Ambrose to join him at the Royal Bermuda Yacht Club at noon sharp. He wanted to discuss the status of Red Banner and hear their thoughts on getting the thing up and running.

“Ah! Hold on to your hat, Constable!” Hawke had spied a fleeting opening between an enormous cement truck and a taxi and inserted the little Jolly between them, just catching the green light by so doing.

“I say!” Ambrose said, giving him a stern look.

“Sorry. Look, here we are, and you’re still intact.”

“Shaken to the core by that last maneuver.”

Hawke smiled as he put the wheel hard over, and the little Jolly sailed into port. He pulled into the yacht club’s car park, finding a spot beneath a large ficus shade tree, and they climbed out. The club was at the end of a short street, situated at Albuoy’s Point, right on the harbor. The RBYC was a large, distinguished building, painted what Hawke could only describe as an odd Bermudian shade of plum. Like many things here, it would certainly look strange in London, but somehow it worked on the island.

They passed through the entrance where stood a beautiful old binnacle atop a compass rose in inlaid marble. A portrait of the queen hung to the left of the door leading to the small paneled bar where C had asked Hawke to meet him. It was a charming room of highly varnished Bermuda cedar, filled with ancient silver regatta trophies and faded yacht burgees from decades past. An elderly barman smiled at them as they entered.

C was waiting at a corner table beneath a window overlooking the club docks beyond. He stood up when the two men entered.

“Alex, Ambrose, hullo! Please order a drink, won’t you both?”

He didn’t seem at all aware of the fact that they were fifteen minutes late. Or, if he was, he was certainly nonchalant about it. Bermuda was good medicine for Sir David Trulove. Hell, it was good for all of them, Alex thought.

The beautiful little bar was empty. Still, Hawke thought it a strangely public place for discussing the establishment of a top-secret British counterintelligence operation.

“Don’t worry, Alex,” C said, seeming to read his mind. “We’re not lunching here. My dear old friend Dick Pearman, whose guest house I’m using, has generously offered the use of his yacht
Mohican
for that purpose. She’s just out there at the docks. Lunch will be served aboard.”

“Pearman?” Congreve said. “Is he Bermudian?”

“Sixteenth generation. Why?”

“Had Dick and Jeanne for tea last week. Lovely couple. Did you know he’s the All-England croquet champion, Sir David?”

Hawke smiled at all this benign gentility and turned his attention to the faded yacht burgees hanging round the room. He’d once invited Ambrose to a croquet match at Hawkesmoor and Congreve, who loved only golf, had replied, “Croquet? Do you think I’m a barbarian?”

Congreve and Hawke got their drinks and followed C outside into the bright sunshine, headed toward the club docks.

When the three men were comfortably seated at the semicircular banquette on
Mohican
’s lovely stern, C looked at both of them while stirring his soup. Luncheon had been served, chilled cucumber soup and a lovely piece of Scottish salmon.

Trulove said, “First, I’m extremely grateful to both of you for agreeing to this scheme. I predict Red Banner will one day prove critical in our dealings with this former foe, now reinvigorated.”

“Alex and I are deeply gratified by your confidence in us,” Ambrose said.

“Indeed, sir,” Hawke said. “I’ve been reading the dossiers Miss Guinness provided. I think your assessment of a renewed Russian threat to her neighbors is well founded. We’d both appreciate some sense of how you see Red Banner coming together to combat it.”

“Yes,” C said, forming a temple with his fingertips and resting his prominent chin on it. This was, of course, his subject, the one true love of his life, and he warmed to it quickly and with enthusiasm.

“First things first, lads. Let’s touch on the status of our adversary for a moment. Russia is, of course, our old enemy, and from all appearances, she still regards us as such. It will no doubt come as a shock to you to learn that the firm’s recent intelligence indicates Russia is again contemplating some future war with the United States and NATO. We know this because we have intercepted her new military doctrine, replacing the one published in 2000. Doctrines, as you both well know, let military commanders know what they should be preparing for.”

“Old habits die hard,” Hawke said.

“Yes. Russia clearly still sees herself and her former client states as under siege by the U.S. and NATO and a target for domination by the West. This is the result of seven decades of Communist insecurity and paranoia regarding the West. When East European nations began joining NATO and the European Union, well, this got the Russians extremely peeved. They liked their old borders. My guess is they’d like to have them back.”

“Understandable,” Hawke said. “Were I in their shoes, I might feel exactly the same way.”

“Fair enough. At any rate, the Kremlin fired off all manner of nastygrams and sent them westward. They were not happy about losing the Cold War, Alex, and they are still clearly nervous about aggression from Western Europe, especially Germany and France, both of which have invaded Russia in the past two centuries.”

“Germany, I understand,” Hawke said with a wry smile, “but France?”

“The French recently invaded Oman at the behest of the Chinese, as you should remember, Alex.”

“I can understand Russia’s residual anger at having lost the Cold War,” Congreve said, “but this level of paranoia is perplexing, if not downright ludicrous.”

“It is, indeed, from a Western perspective. But it’s our job to understand what makes this new Rostov regime tick, and that will be a big part of Red Banner’s mission.”

“Sir David,” Alex said, leaning forward, “how do you envision Red Banner from an organizational point of view?”

“Ah, that will be your primary responsibility, Alex. I myself see Red Banner, or RB, as a straightforward OPINTEL organization. Operations, supported by intelligence. Basically, here on Bermuda, a real-time watch floor and support organization. One that will provide instant information and support during covert operations vis-à-vis the Russians.”

“Similar structure to America’s NSA for SIGINT support to OPS?” Alex said, slipping easily into the jargon he so abhorred but felt obligated to use in these situations.

Sir David smiled. “Exactly. We want to create a highly compartmental group within MI-6, outside of SIS, but you’ll be using all of their intelligence sources, as well as additional people from our other intel organizations. Players normally associated with a compartmented cell will include ops, intel, comms, logistics, and specialized assistance from respective areas depending on specific mission.”

“Sounds good, sir,” Hawke said. “And how do you see the U.S. component’s involvement?”

“I’ve set up a meeting in Washington for you to discuss that issue precisely. It’s next week, Friday, to be exact. I’ve arranged military transport for you to and from Washington. But briefly, I see the CIA component as supplementing and integrating within Red Banner. You might well decide to incorporate special operations from other coalition military organizations, Joint Special Operation Command, et cetera. Field intelligence units you’ve worked with previously, Alex, Centra Spike, Torn Victor, and Grey Fox.”

“Good,” Alex said, warming to the task. He was certainly not going to want for resources.

“Jolly good, every bit of it,” Congreve said. “But tell me, Sir David, what will be Red Banner’s primary focus?”

“It could well change, of course, depending on events. But if you ask me for an answer today, I would say this. Terrorism has changed how we look at military threats forever. Thus, we won’t be concerning ourselves with, say, disarmament infringements, Russian warhead counts. No, we’ll be looking at threats to our food and water supplies. Nuclear reactors. Harbor attacks and biological outbreaks, electronic attacks and EMP. And, of course, the Butterfly Effect.”

“A new one on me, sir,” Hawke said.

Congreve looked at Sir David. “May I?”

“Please, Ambrose.”

“The Butterfly Effect, Alex, is a phrase that encapsulates the more technical notion of sensitive dependence on initial conditions in theory. Small variations of the initial condition of a nonlinear dynamical system, say, may produce huge variations in the long-term behavior of the system. Do you follow me?”

Hawke smiled at Ambrose’s typical pyrotechnic display of scientific erudition and said, “A ball placed at the crest of a hill might roll into any of several valleys depending on slight differences in initial position. Right?”