by Ted Bell
“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.
“Now what?” Hawke said, leaning forward to peer through the windshield.
“Looks like a phone box there, sir. Under the sign.”
“Right. Hang on, I’ll go see.”
Hawke got out of the car and instinctively looked around to see if he’d been followed. He’d asked Stubbs to keep an eye on the rearview mirror, but they’d seen nothing out of the ordinary on the journey from the West End. Still, it didn’t hurt to double-check. The narrow lane that wound down to the bay was empty. Golden-toothed Rastafarians on motorbikes were nowhere to be seen. He walked down the slight incline to the dock.
Mounted on the post was a phone inside a waterproof box. Fastened to the outside cover was a laminated sign: “Restricted Property! Invited Guests Only. Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted. Beware of Dogs. Armed Guards.”
Sounds chummy, Hawke thought to himself, and opened the box. Ah, well, as Pelham had so aptly put it, a hundred clams an hour was pretty good gravy.
Hawke lifted the receiver to his ear.
“Yes?” said a noncommittal Bermudian female voice on the other end.
“Yes. Alex Hawke here. I believe Miss Korsakova is expecting me.”
“Ah, Mr. Hawke,” said the voice, much friendlier now. “Miss Korsakova is definitely expecting you, sir. She’s at Half Moon House. I’ll send the launch over immediately. Should be there in less than ten minutes. A driver will meet you at this end.”
“Thanks,” Hawke said, and replaced the receiver. He walked back up the hill to where Stubbs waited with the car.
“They’re sending a boat. Thanks for your patience, Stubbs. You should go home, it’s been a long day. I’ll make arrangements to get picked up here after my appointment.”
“Yes, sir. It’s been my pleasure driving you, Mr. Hawke. If you need me again, here’s my card.”
Hawke pocketed the card. “Stubbs, what do you know about this Powder Hill? Anything useful?”
“Small private island, sir. Maybe twenty-five acres. Originally, it was an English fortress guarding the approach to the north coast. Then a failed banana plantation. It sat in ruins for years. They tried to make a tourist destination out of it back in the sixties, but it was too difficult to access. There’s a very strong riptide running between the island and the mainland. One day, the tourist boat capsized, and two honeymooners drowned, and that was the end of that.”
“Then what?”
“It just sat out there. In the early nineties, we heard there was some rich European buyer. All very hush-hush. Turned out he was Russian, one of those new billionaires getting their money offshore. He poured millions into the place, kept most of the fort and made a house out of it. Put in a landing strip, a hangar, and a big marina on the western side of the island where he moors his yacht. Also recently erected a big radio and TV tower. No one knows what that’s all about. Some say he’s in the media.”
“That yacht’s not called Tsar by any chance?” Hawke asked, remembering the name stenciled on the hull of the Zodiac that had come for Anastasia Korsakova.
“Tsar, that might be it. Have you seen her, sir?”
“Not yet, but I suppose I will. Here comes my ride. Thanks again, Stubbs. I’ll be seeing you.”
“Pleasure was all mine, Mr. Hawke,” Stubbs said. He waved good-bye, then turned around and headed back up the hill.
Hawke walked to the end of the dock, reaching it just as the gleaming white launch reversed its engines and came to a stop. He recognized Hoodoo at the helm. There was another chap, definitely not Bermudian, wearing crisp whites as well, who leaped ashore with lines and made them fast to the cleats. He kept an eye on Hawke the whole time, and it was hard not to notice the 9mm SIG Sauer MG-110 machine gun slung across his shoulder.
“Good evening, sir,” he said, straightening up. “Mr. Alex Hawke?”
“Indeed I am,” Hawke said, smiling at the young man, Russian by the sound of him.
“May I trouble you for some identification, sir?”
“You must be bloody joking. I’m an invited guest.”
“Sorry, sir. House rules. We’ve had some problems.”
“All right, then,” Hawke said, opening his wallet to reveal the Florida driver’s license he sometimes used. The address listed belonged to Tactics International. It was a company he partly owned in Miami, run by his good friend and comrade-in-arms Stokely Jones. “Happy?”
“Would you mind turning around and putting your hands above your head?”
“Of course not. Would you care to see my Highland Fling? It’s legendary.”
The man ignored this and went over every inch of Hawke’s body with a handheld metal detector.
“Nothing personal, sir. Sorry for the inconvenience. All right, if you’ll step aboard, we’ll shove off.”
“Hello, Hoodoo, I’m Alex Hawke,” he said, grabbing one of the gleaming brass handholds and offering his other hand to the helmsman.
“Sir. Nice to have you aboard. We’ve met before, you say?”
“Just in passing. You probably don’t recognize me with my clothes on.”
Hoodoo, puzzled, smiled and shoved the throttles forward. Stubbs had not overstated the ferocity of the riptide currents roaring through the channel. Powder Hill was a fortress with a very intimidating moat.
“We don’t get many visitors here,” Hoodoo said, smiling at him.
“I imagine not. Few people would have the temerity to drop in unexpectedly.”
Hoodoo’s smile was enigmatic as he put the wheel over and headed for what appeared to be a large boathouse on the distant shore.
Ten minutes of rough water later, they arrived at the Powder Hill dock. At the far end was a block house that was clearly a security office. On the narrow paved road above, there was a dark green Land Rover waiting, the Defender model, all kitted out in brush bars, searchlights, and a siren mounted on the bonnet. Two men sat up front, a driver in khakis and another fellow in mufti wearing a sweat-stained straw planter’s hat.
Hawke bid farewell to Hoodoo, stepped ashore, and made his way up to the waiting vehicle.
“Mr. Hawke,” the passenger said
as Hawke climbed into the small rear seat, “Welcome to Powder Island. My name is Starbuck. I’m the general factotum around here, prune the bougainvillea, keep Miss Anastasia’s place looking good. Miss Anastasia asked me to fetch you and bring you round to her house.” He had a broad black face and a beaming white smile. Hawke liked him immediately.
“This is a working banana plantation, Starbuck?” Hawke asked. They’d been winding up a hill through a dense, well-kept grove.
“Very small operation, sir. But yes, we turn a tidy profit every year. This island is self-sufficient. We grow all of our own vegetables, catch our own fish.”
Hawke smiled. A few minutes later, they emerged from the gloom of the grove. They were atop a hill with great views in all directions. In the distance was St. George’s. To his right, Hawke could see the main house. It was an eighteenth-century British fort that had seen a lot of restoration. There were a few cars parked on the gravel. To the right was the marina, with a very large yacht, more than three hundred feet, moored at the outer wharf.
To his left, the road wound down to a small bay on the far side. There was a two-story house by the water, lovely colonial architecture, enshrouded in bougainvillea. That, he assumed, would be Anastasia Korsakova’s studio.
Between the two descending roads was a wide meadow of manicured grass. In the middle of that stood a steel tower about a hundred feet tall.
“Starbuck, tell me about the tower. For broadcasting?”
“No, sir, Mr. Hawke. That tower is a mooring station.”
“Mooring? For what?”
“An airship, sir.”
“Good Lord, still?” Hawke said. Airships had played a huge role in Bermuda’s early aviation history, but he had no idea any of them still were in operation.
“This is a new one, sir. Built by the owner of Powder Hill. Before that, the last famous ones we had here on Bermuda were the Graf Zeppelin and the Hindenburg, both of which stopped here to drop off mail on the way to the United States. The owner of Powder Hill is building a fleet of airships for transatlantic passenger travel. Here we are, sir.”
The driver pulled to a stop in front of the house, and Hawke climbed out, saying good-bye to Starbuck, who promised to return for him in an hour or whenever he called security.
THE LOVELY OLD house had a wide covered verandah that wrapped all the way around the second floor. Hawke looked up to see Asia Korsakova standing at the bougainvillea-covered rail, smiling down at him. Her dark blonde hair was pulled up on top of her head, and she was wearing a pale blue linen smock spattered with paint.
“Mr. Hawke,” she said, “you did come after all.”
“You had doubts?”
“I thought you’d lose your nerve.”
“There’s still time.”
She laughed and motioned him inside. The wide front door was open, a dark foyer inside lit with guttering candles in sconces on the wall.
“Come straight up the stairway. My studio’s up here.”
The studio was a large space, a square, high-ceilinged room filled with the typical artist’s chaos—easels, brushes, paint pots, and very large canvases stacked against the walls everywhere. Paddle fans revolved slowly overhead. What remained of the day streamed through the opened French doors and the big skylight overhead with filtered shades of rosy, buttery light.
There was a large open-hearth fireplace with a Bermuda cedar mantel. Above it hung a marvelous portrait of an inordinately handsome man in a splendid dress military uniform, standing beside a magnificent white stallion in battle livery. Hawke moved to study the work more closely. The effect was stunning, a powerful subject and a deeply heroic treatment, beautifully painted.
Anastasia appeared from a small adjacent room, carrying a tall drink on a small silver tray. He took it, and it was delicious.
“Welcome to Half Moon House,” she said. “I’m so glad you came.”
“Cheers,” Hawke said, raising his glass. “Lovely painting over the fireplace, by the way.”
“Thank you.”
“Your work?”
She nodded. “I’ve always reserved that spot for the man I love. That’s my father.”
“Handsome chap.”
“Comes from inside, you know. Always.”
She looked even more luminously beautiful than the picture of her that he’d been carrying in his mind ever since that afternoon on the beach.
“Please sit over there in that wicker chair. I want to take a few photographs while we still have this beautiful light.”
It was a long wicker chaise with a huge fan-shaped back and great rolled arms. The entire thing was beaded with beautiful shells of every color. There were deep cushions covered in rose-colored silk. It looked like the throne of some Polynesian king. Hawke removed his navy linen jacket, dropped it to the floor, and lay back against the cushions. She leaned in with the camera and began clicking away, shooting close-ups of his face.
“So, you do portraits.”
“Yes.”
“Judging by the one, you’re quite good.”
“Some people think so.”
“Are you famous?”
“Google me and find out.”
“I don’t have a computer.”
“Are you so desperately poor, Mr. Hawke?”
“Why do you ask? Is it important?”
“No. I’m simply curious. Your accent is very posh. Yet you live in this crumbling ruin. With your, what’s the current expression, partner. He sounds a trifle old on the phone. Do you like older men, Mr. Hawke?”
Hawke laughed. “I like this one well enough. We’ve been together for years.”
“Really? What’s his name?”
“Pelham. Grenville is his surname. He’s related to the famous writer somehow. A cousin once or twice removed. Wodehouse, you know, one of my literary heroes. A genius.”
“I prefer War and Peace. Anything at all by Turgenev. Nabokov’s Pale Fire is my favorite novel. But Pushkin, of course, is the grandfather of them all. You know Pushkin? Next to my father, Russia’s greatest hero.”
“Hmm. Well, I guess I must have missed those, I’m afraid. Have you read Wodehouse’s Pigs Have Wings, by any chance? No? Uncle Dynamite? How about Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit? No? Marvelous books, bloody marvelous.”
“Are you an art lover as well as a connoisseur of great literature?”
“Art? I suppose some of it’s okay. I quite admire Jamie Wyeth’s portrait of John F. Kennedy. And that fat pig painting he did. And Turner. I am rather keen on Turner’s watercolors.”
“A lover of the old masters, one would suppose.”
“The old masters? Me? Hardly. I’m glad they’re all dead. I wish more of them had died sooner.”
She looked at him; he just stood there, looking back at her. For a moment, their eyes were locked, and he had the unmistakable sense that both of their hearts had seized up and that neither of them was breathing.
She suddenly moved toward him.
“Stand up, please, and take your shirt off.”
Hawke did so.
“Turn to the right, so the sun hits you full on the face. Good. Stop slouching, and stand up straight. Now, look at me. Not your head, just your eyes. Perfect. God. Those eyes.”
“My late mother thanks you.”
“What do you do? To support yourself?”
“This and that. Freelance work.”
“Freelance. That covers a lot of ground. Trousers off, please. And your knickers.”
“You’re joking, of course.”
“Everything off, come on! I’m losing my light.”
Hawke mumbled something and stripped off his remaining clothing.
It was an odd feeling, standing naked in front of a fully clothed woman like this. It was not completely unpleasant, bordering on the erotic. He felt a distinct stirring below and quickly turned his attention to the portrait over the fireplace. Her father was, Hawke noticed again, fully clothed. No nudes of him around here, one only hoped.
“Happy?” he said.
“I will be happy, Mr. Hawke. Now, turn around so I can shoot your bum.”
“Christ. I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“Too late now.”
“What are these pictures for? I thought this was to be an oil painting. This portrait or whatever.”
“This is just reference. Stuff I can use to work on the portrait when you’re not here in person.”
“How reassuring. And what do you do with them, these naughty photographs, when you’re finished?”
“Post them on the Internet if you’d like.”
“You know, Miss Korsakova—”
“Asia.”
“Asia. You know, Asia, I’m not at all sure I’m cut out for this sort of thing.”
“On the contrary, you’re perfectly cut out for it. Have you never looked in a mirror? All right, lost the light. You can get dressed now. We’re done for the day.”
“That’s it?”
“We’ll start roughing you in on canvas next time. Which do you prefer, check or cash?”
“Check would be fine.”
She went to her desk and opened a checkbook. “Hawke with an e?”
“Yes.”
She handed it to him. He noticed the check was drawn on a very good private bank in Switzerland. Banque Pictet on the Rue des Acacias in Geneva. He knew it. He banked there himself.
“I’m going to paint you lying on that wicker chaise. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I found it in Bali. It was in the royal palace. Perfect for you.”
“This portrait, will it be life-size?”
“Yes, it will.”
“A nude portrait?”
“Of course.”
“My God.”
“My exhibition will be at the National Portrait Gallery at Trafalgar Square next spring. And there’ll you be, hanging amongst all my other beautiful men, in all your glory. Bigger than life!”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Relax, Mr. Alex Hawke of Teakettle Cottage. Come springtime, all of London will be oohing and aahing over you. The gallery staff will have to provide linen handkerchiefs for the droolers.”