Tsar: A Thriller (Alex Hawke)

by Ted Bell

  Fancha stepped through the curtain and into the light to a sudden burst of loud applause. Fancha, wearing a midnight-blue gown, sang “Maria Lisboa.” It was the slowest, saddest, most beautiful song Stoke had ever heard her sing, and when she was finished and stood quietly with her head bowed, letting the adulation wash over her, he got to his feet, putting his hands together for his woman, and he didn’t even see that everyone else was on his or her feet, too, applauding his baby in a standing O.

  A few minutes later, during a lull in the show, a waiter bent and whispered into Stoke’s ear, something about two gentlemen who wanted him to join their table for a cocktail.

  “What?” Stoke said, looking at the white card on the silver tray. It had a big black M on it. Somebody named Putov, an executive producer, it said.

  “Mr. Putov,” the waiter said, indicating the banquette with his eyes. “Miramar Pictures, Hollywood. You are Mr. Levy, no? Suncoast Artist Management?”

  “Is that who they said? Sheldon Levy?” Stoke smiled at Luis. His cover was holding.

  “Yes, sir, they said, ‘Please take this to Mr. Levy at the front table.’”

  Stoke looked across at the banquette, smiled at the two guys. “Ever heard of Miramar Pictures?” he asked Shark out of the corner of his mouth.

  Luis had some kind of weird Hollywood fixation, always reading movie magazines, Variety, and Billboard, left them lying around the office, drove Stoke crazy. Come in Stoke’s office, asking him if he knew how much Spider-Man 4 had grossed over the weekend, Stoke sitting there reading about his beloved Jets going into the tank halfway through the season, have to throw Shark’s skinny ass out of his office and close the door.

  Shark said, “You kidding me? Miramar? They’re huge, man. Ever hear of Julia Roberts? Ever hear of Angelina Jolie? Ever heard of Penelope Cruz? Salma Hayek? Halle—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Halle Berry I have heard of, believe me. What the hell these show-business types want with us?’

  “Not us, boss. Gotta be Fancha, man. Let me paint you a picture, baby. They know you two are an item, maybe, got to be what it is. They think you’re her manager or something. They want an introduction to the next Beyoncé, baby, that’s all they want, using us to get to her.”

  Stoke hadn’t seen the wiry little guy so excited since he’d been in a swimming race with a giant mako down in the Dry Tortugas a couple of years ago.

  “What do you think, Shark? Should we go over there?”

  “Ah, hell, no. What does Fancha need with the two biggest producers in Hollywood, boss?”

  “You’re right. Let’s go see what they have to say.”

  Five minutes later, they were sitting with Mr. Grigori Putov, who didn’t seem to speak much English, and the other guy, Nikita, “call me Nick,” last name unpronounceable, who spoke a lot of English. Grigori, bulked up and handsome, wearing a shiny black suit and a massive gold Rolex, just smiled and drank vodka rocks and smoked cigarettes. Nick, on the other hand, now, he was a total piece of work.

  He was a crazy-looking little bird, two small eyes pinched closed together on either side of a beaky nose. He had a topknot of wild crackly yellow hair and a shiny green silk suit, which made him look a little bit like a parrot that had just been dragged backward through a hedge. His eyes were blazing behind little gold-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose.

  They were both kind of pale, too, for Hollywood types, Stoke thought, but maybe pale was in these days. What did he know from Hollywood?

  “Let me get this straight, Nick,” Stoke said. “A two-picture deal. Now, what does that mean, exactly?”

  “It means money, Mr. Levy. May I call you Sheldon?”

  “Why not, Nick?”

  “Twice as much as a one-picture deal, Shel. Your girl Fancha is going to be a big star, let me tell you that right now. She’s definitely got the chops for it.”

  Nick talked fast, as if he was trying to jam all the words he could into the shortest possible amount of time.

  “Sounds good to me,” Sharkey said, all lit up. He loved this Hollywood crap, that much was obvious. “Are we talking net or gross points here?”

  “Who is this guy again, Shel?” Nick asked Stoke, still smiling.

  “Luis is my attorney,” Stoke said.

  Nick nodded and said, “So, we should contact Mr. Gonzales-Gonzales directly regarding taking a meeting with Fancha?”

  “Have I met you guys somewhere?” Stoke said, not able to shake the feeling that he had.

  “It’s possible. But let’s talk about Fancha’s back end.”

  “Talk about what?” Stoke said, not liking the sound of that.

  “He means distribution of profits at the back end of the picture,” Sharkey said. “By the way, I just want to make sure we’re going to be above the line, right, guys?”

  Nick smiled.

  “Of course, Luis. Now, what Mr. Putov here would like to suggest is that we schedule a screen test at our offices here in Miami. We are about to go into preproduction on a project Mr. Putov, as executive producer, has just green-lighted, a picture called Storm Front. Romantic action adventure. Think Key Largo meets Perfect Storm, right? Bogie, Bacall, and a fuckin’ hurricane. The male lead has committed. I can’t give you his name, but think George Clooney. We’re looking for the female lead. Mr. Putov and I think your Fancha is perfect for the part.”

  “Wait a minute,” Stoke said, smiling at Nick. “You guys are Russian. You were at that birthday party.”

  “I beg your pardon, Shel?” Nick said.

  “Yeah, that’s it. You remember. The big blast in Coconut Grove last Friday night. You gotta remember that party. I saw you getting out of a yellow Hummer right before the cake went off.”

  “Ah, of course. Mr. Ramzan’s last birthday. Yes, I was there, now that I recall. He was an investor in Storm Front. A great tragedy. He will be badly missed.”

  “Really? Well, how about that? I give you my card that night, Nick? I’m wondering how you know my name.”

  “No, no. I saw you with Fancha and asked who you were. Yuri Yurin, one of the host’s personal security guys, he gave me your card.”

  “Security guys that night out looking for work now, I imagine,” Stoke said. “Thing like that happens to your boss. That was one serious breach of security.”

  “Whoo! You can say that again, boss!” Sharkey said.

  Nikita and Putov just looked at him.

  “Let’s get back to the back end, Nick,” Sharkey said, all business. “We’ll want full participation in the soundtrack album, of course.”

  “Yeah,” Stoke said. “We’ll want that, all right. That and a whole lot more.”

  “Tell you what,” Nick said. “I like you, Shel. I’ve got some skin in this deal myself, and I think we can do business. The owner of Miramar Pictures is going to be here in Miami in a day or two. I’d like you and Fancha to join us aboard his private aircraft for a luncheon cruise down to the Keys. Does that sound doable?”

  “What about me?” Shark asked.

  “Of course! We can’t do business without the attorney, can we?”

  Nick’s cell phone rang, and he whisked it out of his inside pocket. It was one of those diamond-studded Vertu phones, natch. And Nick was one of those guys who wanted everyone in on his private conversations.

  Nick said, “You’re talking to him. Hello? Maury? How are you, babe? Good, good. I’m in Miami, back in L.A. Monday. No, I can’t do lunch Tuesday, Tuesday is no good. When? How about never? Is never good for you, Maury?”

  He smiled at them, slipped the phone back inside the pocket of his shiny green silk suit, and took a sip of his martini, like a bird dipping his large beak into a very small birdbath.

  “Old friend?” Stoke said.

  “Naah, just some putz from RKO. A nobody.”

  When he smiled, he looked just like the damn cuckoo bird on a box of Cocoa Puffs.

  23

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Arriving from Bermuda aboar
d the British military transport flight, Alex Hawke found his prearranged D.C. taxi waiting in the rain at Andrews Air Force Base. His first stop was the Chevy Chase Club, where he’d drop off his luggage. The venerable club was located in the heart of a Maryland suburb just outside the D.C. line. It was a fine old place, full of sporting art and graceful period furniture. Pulling up under the portico of the genteel main clubhouse always put him in mind of arriving at some sleepy Southern plantation.

  Bradley House, a two-story stone residence reached by covered walkway, had become Hawke’s home away from home ever since he’d sold his house in Georgetown.

  Hawke had told the cabby to wait under the portico while he went inside to leave his bag. Five minutes later, he returned and asked to be taken directly to Old Town Alexandria’s city marina on the Potomac.

  Hawke paid the taxi driver and walked through light rain down to the docks. He quickly located Miss Christin, a typical tourist day cruiser, boxy and double-decked. Fifteen minutes before she sailed, most of the passengers, families and groups of noisy schoolchildren, seemed to be aboard. On this cold and rainy mid-December day, most had chosen to sit inside the enclosed lower deck.

  Hawke boarded the vessel as instructed by C and climbed the aft stairs to the rain-swept upper deck. Not a soul up there. Despite the weather, he was looking forward to the downriver trip. He’d never seen much of the Virginia and Maryland countryside, really, and certainly not from the river. Nor had he ever visited General Washington’s home at Mount Vernon. He took a bench seat near the starboard rail and settled in for the peaceful river journey.

  “If I was a bad guy, you’d be dead now, Cap.”

  That Southern California drawl could belong to only one person: Harry Brock. Hawke hadn’t even heard his approach.

  He turned and saw his old friend. Harry was wearing a trench coat with the collar up and a black watch cap pulled down low and wet with rain. Harry stuck his hand out, and Hawke shook it with real affection. A year or so earlier, Hawke had been imprisoned by Hezbollah forces down in the Amazon, and this man had risked his life to save his bacon.

  “Agent Brock, reporting for duty, sir,” Harry said with a mock salute. Hawke was taken aback and took no pains not to show it.

  “You? You’re my Red Banner guy?” He’d had no idea whom the Americans would choose as his Red Banner counterpart, but still, Brock was a surprise choice.

  Brock was bit of a rogue, charming at times, tough as nails, a classic Yank piss artist, habitually dodging an army of red-faced superiors whilst building castles of imminent success in the air.

  “You?” Hawke said again, as Brock slid in beside him.

  “Looks like you lucked out. Anyway, you’re stuck with me again, boss.”

  “I can’t believe I didn’t make you. Which stairway did you come up? The one forward?”

  “That one at the stern. Must be my clever disguise.”

  Hawke looked him up and down, noticing his brilliantly shined shoes. If twenty years in the Marine Corps had taught Harry anything, it was how brilliantly one could shine his shoes.

  “Christ, Harry, you mean to tell me the Joint Chiefs trust the two of us to run this damn thing all by ourselves? I assumed they’d send me some goddamn four-star. Some flinty-eyed general looking over my shoulder, always pointing out the errors of my foolish ways.”

  “Nope, you got me to point those out for you. By the way, I’m not working for the Joint Chiefs anymore. I’m back at Langley. I guess the sixth floor didn’t know what the hell else to do with me, so they gave me to you.”

  “Well, by God, I’m glad they did something right for a change!” Hawke said. “Come on Harry, let’s go below and stroll out on the bow. I want to watch the approach to Mount Vernon. The general is a great hero of mine. I’m very much looking forward to seeing his old homestead.”

  “You’ve never been?”

  “No. C’mon.”

  They walked quickly forward to the prow and descended a staircase leading to the chained-off bow. One of the ferry crewmen, apparently recognizing Harry, opened the chain and let the two men move forward to the “Crew Only” section.

  “Why the star treatment, Harry?” Hawke asked.

  “I’m kind of a regular.”

  Moments later, they saw the beautiful old colonial house high on the hillside loom up out of the mist and rain.

  “Lovely,” Hawke said. “Just the way I’ve always imagined it.”

  “Did you know Washington was the architect?”

  “I did not.”

  “Designed the whole damn thing himself. Not as elegant as Jefferson’s Monticello, maybe, but I like it better.”

  “Me, too. What’s in the bag, Harry?”

  Brock held up the large dark green plastic shopping bag he was carrying. “This? Top-secret spy shit. I’ll show you later.”

  THE TWO MEN climbed a steep footpath that led up the hill through the old Virginia woods. Far above them to the right, Hawke could see the red rooftop and the white cupola of Washington’s home. The dirt path was strewn with rocks, slippery with mud, and fairly hard going. Hawke noticed that none of the other passengers aboard the Miss Christin had chosen this difficult route to the top.

  “Are you sure we’re going the right way?” Hawke asked after a few minutes’ climbing. “The house seems to be the other way.”

  “Trust me, okay? I’m a professional.”

  They eventually came to a tiny open area in the woods, paved with mossy stone. A small brick structure with black wrought-iron gates stood against a thick backdrop of barren winter trees.

  “What’s this?” Hawke asked.

  “Washington’s Tomb. Not very grand, is it?”

  “Grandeur wasn’t his style, from what I’ve read.”

  “First time I came here, I was nine years old, and this place was completely overgrown with ivy. Nobody around, just an old guy standing at that gate there, gazing inside, tears running down his cheeks. I asked him why he was crying. Said his name was Timonium. Said he was descended from slaves Washington freed in his will. He said this was the grave of his true father.”

  Now, instead of weeds and overgrown ivy, the area was manicured and well kept. There was even a small security booth off to one side of the tomb. An elderly black man in uniform was standing inside. He waved at Brock and stepped out to greet him, raising a small black umbrella over his head.

  “Mr. Brock, a pleasure to see you as always, sir.”

  Harry shook his hand and said, “Come say hello to my friend Alex Hawke. He’s from England. Came all this way to pay his respects to the general. First-time visitor.”

  “Pleased to have you with us, sir,” the old black man said with a shy smile.

  “Pleased to meet you as well. What’s your name, sir?” Hawke asked.

  “Timonium, sir. And welcome to Mount Vernon. Let me open up the general’s vault for you, Mr. Brock. I know you’re most anxious to pay your respects.”

  Timonium had a big brass ring of keys, and he used one large black one to open the heavy gates. Hawke saw a simple white marble sarcophagus in the middle of the small dark vault and felt a sharp chill run up his spine as he gazed at the final resting place of perhaps the greatest leader of men who’d ever lived.

  “Let’s go inside,” Harry said quietly.

  Hawke followed him into the dark tomb. There were two crypts inside. The plain white one to the left was the resting place of Martha Washington. The adjacent one, with a carved eagle crest, belonged to the general. Hawke felt another shiver up his spine and knew it wasn’t the damp and cold.

  “I’ll only be a moment,” Harry said. “You can stay if you like.”

  Harry bent to one knee beside the white marble crypt and opened the bag he’d brought along. Inside was a beautiful wreath of fresh olive branches. He placed the wreath atop Washington’s sarcophagus. Timonium stood watch just outside the gate, his umbrella folded, his head bowed in reverence.

  Harry whispered a few inau
dible words, his right hand reverently placed on the marble. Hawke found himself so moved by the sight that he, too, lowered his head. Placing his hand on the cold white marble, he found his own words of thankfulness come quite easily to mind. He was, after all, American on his mother’s side, and here lay an American hero for all time.

  Harry rose to his feet and moved to the front of the crypt, peering into the gloom. There in the shadows, Hawke saw a leather courier’s portfolio resting against the base of the tomb’s rear wall. Hawke finally understood why Brock had brought him here. The Yanks were using Washington’s Tomb as a dead drop.

  “Thank you for that, Harry,” Hawke said, visibly moved, as they walked out into the misty rain.

  A few feet outside the vault was an old iron bench, placed there for quiet meditation. Hawke and Harry Brock sat there now, quietly watching Timonium lock up Washington’s Tomb before heading back to his station.

  “Your orders?” Hawke asked, looking at the courier’s pouch resting on Harry’s knees.

  “Yours and mine, Alex. There’s a fat Langley envelope in here for you, too. From the director, no less.”

  “If you know what’s in it, tell me now, Harry. I’ll read the rest later on the plane.”

  “Bottom line, we’re likely to be going to war with Russia again. Not now but soon. I’m sure you know most of this. We’re both going to have to scramble to rebuild our espionage network operations, and fast. Back to levels we had at the height of the Cold War. Lot of spade work ahead, old buddy.”

  “Time to invoke your old ‘Moscow Rules’ again, eh, Harry?” Hawke asked with a smile, knowing how much Harry Brock loved rules of any kind.

  The list of famous Cold War CIA survival stratagems had been developed by American clandestine operatives trying to stay alive for one more day in an extraordinarily hostile environment. The most famous of the rules, “Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee,” had been borrowed from Muhammad Ali.

  “Fuck the Moscow Rules. There are no rules in Moscow. Not anymore. The only rule that will work now is, ‘We win, they lose. Period.’”