Tsar: A Thriller (Alex Hawke)

by Ted Bell

  “But you were obviously in love with the Brazilian special forces woman we met in the Amazon. Saladin’s sister, Caparina. Now, there was a woman, Harry.”

  “I am in love with her. Love is exponential, Alex. You should know that at your age.”

  “Let’s go, Harry.”

  THE TANK WAS the secure conference room on the second floor. It was in the very middle of the building, accessible only from the third floor by a single private elevator. The lift had a keypad and required a retinal scan to operate. Outside the secure room were cubby holes for all cell phones and BlackBerrys. There was a metal detector at the door and two Royal Marines standing guard on either side. This single room was probably the most secure place on the Atlantic Ocean, Hawke imagined.

  C looked up as Harry and Hawke entered. He smiled, got to his feet, and shook hands, first with Alex, then with Brock. Hawke noticed three other men at the table, plus, of course, Pippa Guinness. He’d also noticed Sir David’s black eye, courtesy of the Jamaicans on Nonsuch Island. It seemed better today but was still visible. Ambrose had been in bed ever since that night, but he was recovering nicely.

  “Welcome, gentlemen. Would you like any coffee? Tea?” Sir David said.

  Brock and Hawke both declined and took the last two seats available at the round table in the center of the small, completely sound-insulated room.

  “I’d like to introduce our friend Professor Stefanovich Halter, just arrived from Moscow,” C said, smiling at a tall, portly man who immediately stood up and shook hands with Hawke and Brock. His face was handsome in a classical way, strong-boned, with sharp, dark eyes. “He’s here to brief you on the current political situation in Moscow and offer further assistance to Red Banner as we redouble our intelligence efforts there.”

  “Please, call me Stefan,” the Russian said, in a pitch-perfect rendition of the upper-crust Oxbridge English accent. Hawke found it impossible not to notice his tattered tweed blazer and the old school tie, unusual here on Bermuda.

  Professor Halter was known to Hawke only by reputation, but the man was legendary inside the British service. Twice posted to England by the KGB on long, deep-cover assignments in London and, later, teaching at Cambridge University, the elegant Russian spy had been recruited by MI-6 whilst at Cambridge. He was now a double agent on C’s payroll and had been working both sides of the aisle ever since, currently serving as a mole deep inside the KGB. When not operating inside Russia, he was a teaching fellow at Cambridge, with several doctoral candidates in Western studies under his tutelage.

  Despite a number of incredibly close scrapes, this large, perfectly urbane and charming fellow had managed not only to survive but to play the most dangerous game at a level even few in it could understand.

  He was currently working for President Vladimir Rostov’s new KGB in a far less esteemed job, having been caught in a compromising position with the wife of a high-ranking KGB officer. He’d been temporarily removed from the operational work he so loved and remanded to the analytical division, where he spent long hours developing and refining reports no one ever read.

  Still, he was a treasured MI-6 asset inside the Kremlin and had been generous in helping Red Banner as it began to re-build a network in that savage city. Many of the former Russian agents who’d secretly played for England’s side were now dead, either of natural or other causes.

  “Can’t help but admire your tie, Professor Halter,” Hawke said with a smile. It had a dark blue background and diagonal light blue stripes with the Eton College heraldic shields between the stripes.

  “Old Etonian, are you?” Halter replied.

  “Not me, my father. But I’m delighted to meet you. My father, in his unfinished memoir, speaks very highly of you.”

  “Thank you, Alex,” the Russian said. “As it happens, I was deeply involved in one of your father’s rather ticklish adventures. That single-handed raid of his on the Arctic Soviet SOFAR installation during the Cuban missile crisis. It is still the stuff of legend, you know. How he survived that dreadful business, no one knows to this day.”

  Hawke smiled, trying hard to remember his father as he had lived and not how he had died, murdered at the hands of drug-smuggling pirates aboard his boat in the Caribbean.

  The Russian spy seemed to pick up on the younger man’s feelings and said brightly, “Well, Alex, Sir David thinks I might be of some help to you when you arrive in Moscow.”

  “Any assistance will be most appreciated,” Hawke said.

  “Yes, Alex,” C said. “I thought we’d just give Stefan the floor this morning, let him give us a bit of an update, and then I’m sure he’d be happy to take any questions. Does that suit everyone? And let’s keep it informal, shall we? If you have a question, pipe up.”

  They all nodded, and Halter picked up a slender remote from the table. Suddenly, a slide appeared on a heretofore invisible wall-sized screen at the far end of the room. An old photograph of Vladimir Putin filled the wall.

  “Dear Volodya,” Halter began. “Now wasting away at a hideous island prison off St. Petersburg called Energetika. A very bad business, indeed. A sad end, I must say, for a man who did do an enormous service for his country, despite his many flaws.”

  “What service?” Brock said, somewhat aggressively. Putin, in his book anyway, was an ex-KGB tough busy building a police state when he’d been disappeared. Shutting down the free press, arresting dissidents like Kasparov, and throwing them into Lubyanka with no access to attorneys. Among other things.

  “You have to look at it from the Russian perspective. Is he pro-democracy? Not exactly. But—the country was in free fall. A kleptocracy, run by criminals throughout the nineties, thieves who shipped countless billions offshore, bankrupting the country. Humiliated by the loss of the Cold War and what was seen as American arrogance. Putin restored order, gave the people back their pride, put the oligarchs in prison or at least out of the way. That’s a service.”

  “If I may add to that,” Sir David said, “it was Putin who put the final nails into the Communist Party’s coffin as well.”

  “Still, democracy never had a chance,” Pippa said, looking at Stefan for confirmation.

  “Yes, actually, it did, Pippa. But there was no infrastructure to support it, and so, sadly, it led to chaos. And at any rate, as I say, Putin was never a Western-style democrat at heart. He was a professional KGB officer. You must remember the KGB, wherein he grew up, isn’t remotely interested in ideology. It’s interested in power. And law and order. And that, frankly, is what the Russians craved after all those years of drunken disorder inside the Kremlin and blood in the streets. They were shamed and humiliated. That’s why the country has now reunited so strongly against the West.”

  Another slide appeared. The current president, Vladimir Rostov.

  “Our fearless leader,” Halter said. “He’s basically pursuing Putin’s goals but with a much more aggressive anti-Western posture. I assume you’re all familiar with the term irredentism?”

  Hawke, Trulove, and Brock came up with blank stares.

  “Irredentism,” Pippa Guinness said in a sing-song schoolgirl manner Hawke found especially irritating, “the annexation of territories administered by another state on the grounds of common ethnicity and/or prior historical possession, actual or alleged.”

  “I was going to say that,” Harry Brock said, and Hawke smiled at him across the table.

  “Can you use irredentism in a sentence, Harry?” Hawke asked.

  “No. And you can’t make me.”

  Both men laughed out loud, earning a stern look from C, who continued.

  “Miss Guinness is quite correct. I believe Rostov is a determined imperialist who won’t stop until the old borders of the former Soviet empire are restored. Eastern Europe, the Baltics, et cetera. He, too, grew up as a KGB man in the Cold War. All he understands is conflict, the clash of two systems. He doesn’t give a bloody fuck about personal ethics, it’s all about the conflict. You’re either with us
or against us.”

  “Precisely right,” Professor Halter said, nodding vigorously.

  “Revanchist Russia wants a fight, any fight,” Sir David Trulove said. “Witness their recent bullying of independent Ukraine and Georgia, two former vassal states, both desperately hopeful of joining NATO. Rostov also wants to take on the West now, because he sees it as weakened. Win, lose, or draw, Russia is back on stage as a world power. And, because of their vast energy holdings, and the price of oil, they’ve got enormous cash reserves. They can also shut off the flow of energy to Europe at the slightest provocation. They won’t be bullied, I daresay.”

  “Quite true, Sir David. Now, these men,” Stefan said, flipping through slides of various Kremlin personalities, “are called the siloviki. The president’s hand-picked innermost circle. There used to be twelve, but two were recently eliminated for crossing the line. All are former military and KGB cronies of Rostov’s. They are like a brotherhood. A secret fraternity. They look the same, talk the same, think the same. And they now have unassailable control over the levers of power. They control the Duma, the parliament, all the governors and mayors throughout Russia, the legal system, the tax system, and, of course, the military and the KGB.”

  “A one-party system?” Hawke asked.

  “Exactly. Two-party politics is finished in Russia. The Kremlin now has unchecked power. They’ve got all the instruments at their disposal, and it is a very, very dangerous situation. Washington-Moscow nuclear tensions are at the highest levels seen since the end of the Cold War.”

  “What’s Moscow’s current attitude toward the U.S.?” Brock asked, “I mean specifically.”

  “Are you familiar with the Russian word nashe, Mr. Brock?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  “Roughly translated, it means ‘ours.’ As in ‘ours’ versus ‘yours,’ meaning American. Nashe is a buzzword in Moscow these days. Anything nashe, anything Russian, is good, anything American is bad. Music, politics, culture, what have you. It’s all about Russian pride reasserting itself.”

  “So, negative feelings toward America.”

  “Extremely negative. Within both the government and the general population. Everyone in Russia feels betrayed by America. The media is full of anti-American propaganda, of course. Day and night, because all media is state-run now.”

  “What are they saying?” Hawke asked.

  “That the Americans are stupid, greedy, and the cause of more instability around the world than any other nation. That they rubbed Russia’s nose in it at the end of the Cold War, but now Russia is strong and rich once more. And now the revanchists shall have their revenge.”

  “Revenge?” Hawke asked. “Revenge for what?”

  “For kicking their bloody arses in the Cold War, Alex. And then having the cheek never to let them forget who’s boss,” Stefan said.

  “And do we have any idea how they intend to exact that revenge?” Hawke asked.

  “No. Exactly what they intend, we’ve no idea. We’re hoping that Red Banner will help us find out.”

  “The Pentagon doesn’t see them starting a shooting war,” Brock said. “They’re in no position to do that now. Someday soon, perhaps, but not now.”

  “What about the so-called Third Man?” Hawke asked.

  “Now you’re getting to it, Alex,” Stefan Halter said. “You’re referring to the three chaps Yeltsin met with at that Belarussian hunting resort. The vodka-fueled meeting where they unilaterally decided to abolish the Soviet Union. There was Kravchuk from the Ukraine and Shushkevich from Belarus. And a third man, as you say, who has never been identified.”

  “But who has long been rumored as the power behind the throne,” C said. “A virtual Tsar who rules but is never seen or heard. A man who destroyed the old Soviet Union so that he might one day reign over the New Russia.”

  Stefan Halter smiled at the group assembled. “He’s called the Dark Rider by the KGB.”

  “Stefan,” C said, “perhaps a brief explanation of the Dark Rider concept would be helpful.”

  “Certainly. Historically, two types of leaders rise to the pinnacle of power in Russia. In my country, we call these two types pale riders and dark riders. The pale rider is a benevolent soul, weak-willed, concerned more about the well-being of his countrymen than the welfare of the state. The last Tsar, Nicholas II, who forfeited his entire empire to the Bolsheviks in 1917, is a good example.

  “A more recent example would be Yeltsin, a corrupt, good-hearted drunkard. A dark rider always comes on the heels of a pale rider. He is tough and single-minded, interested only in consolidating power and in the security of the state. The power of the state to enforce its will on the people is his raison d’être. He will sacrifice all, including personal ethics, honesty, and human lives, for the good of the state. Putin was a dark rider. But not quite dark enough for some. That’s why they got rid of him.”

  “And Rostov?”

  “So, too, is Rostov, a few shades darker. But rumored to drinking heavily lately and getting long in the tooth, I think. The natives are restless, from what I gather.”

  “And the Third Man?”

  “The darkest of the dark. It would save a great deal of time if I could tell you his identity. Unfortunately, I cannot. It’s the most closely held secret in the Kremlin.”

  “Where do we start looking?” Hawke asked. “Russia is a sizable country.”

  “My lack of an answer constitutes my single greatest failure as a counterintelligence agent, sir. I have no earthly idea. But I can tell you this. Rostov may be strong and tough, but he comes with strings attached. He is still a puppet. Perhaps one of the siloviki is pulling his strings. Or an outsider we know nothing about. But working in the Kremlin as I do, I sense a rising tide of anxiety inside the walls.

  “Maybe the military has gained the upper hand and will attempt to seize power. Maybe there will be some preemptive Russian strike against the West. That revenge motive we discussed is very powerful right now. I simply do not know. But if you can learn the identity of the real power behind the throne, you will gain critical understanding of what is going on within the Kremlin walls. That knowledge is vital to Red Banner’s mission. Key to it, in fact.”

  Hawke thought for a moment, then looked directly at Halter.

  “Stefan, have you heard of a man named Korsakov? Count Ivan Korsakov?”

  “Of course. Korsakov is one of the most interesting figures in modern Russia. Not so much beyond our borders, as he is a very private individual. An absolute genius, from an ancient family rich beyond measure. Beloved across the width and breadth of the country for his philanthropy, his kindnesses to the poor. But you won’t find his name on any schools or hospitals. Always anonymous.”

  “What’s his background? Is he political?”

  “Not at all. First and foremost, he’s a scientist and inventor. Recently nominated for a Nobel. But he’s a great businessman. A poet, a gifted composer as well. As I said, he’s a descendant of one of Russia’s oldest, most powerful families. The Korsakovs rose to the heights of power around the time of Peter the Great, who in 1722 made them barons and later counts. They conquered Siberia, for one thing, brought it under the control of the Tsars.”

  “I see.”

  “Why are you so curious about him, if I may ask?”

  “His daughter, Anastasia, has recently become a friend of mine. She has invited me to visit their country estate outside St. Petersburg. I was thinking of going for a few days’ visit before my arrival in Moscow. I was wondering if it would be worth the time. Her father will apparently be there.”

  “Alex, if you have the opportunity to meet and gain the confidence of Count Korsakov, you will have advanced the cause of Red Banner enormously. No one knows more about what really goes on inside Russia than that man. He is privy to the darkest secrets imaginable. He may even be able to lead you to the Dark Rider.”

  C had lit one of his poisonous black cheroots. He inhaled, expelled a cloud of smoke, and s
aid, “Just how close are you and the count’s daughter, Alex?”

  “She’s invited me for some Christmas house party, that’s all. They have some kind of winter palace out in the countryside. Why?”

  “Just curious. If you have a relationship with her, it could be very helpful to the cause.”

  Hawke stared at his superior angrily but said nothing. C hadn’t put him in this position. He’d brought it on himself.

  Pippa smiled at Alex. “She’s a painter, isn’t she? Anastasia, I mean.”

  “Yes. She is.”

  “I’ve seen her work at a small gallery over on Front Street. Male nudes. Some figure studies that looked vaguely familiar, Alex. Quite exciting. There was one large one that I almost thought could have been—”

  Hawke’s eyes blazed.

  “Pippa, may I speak with you privately for a moment?” Alex said. “Outside?”

  “Of course,” she said, following him to the door.

  “My apologies, gentlemen,” Hawke said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. “I’ll be back momentarily.”

  “Fucking hell, girl,” Hawke said to her when they were safely outside the sound-proofed room and away from the Marine guards. He had to restrain himself from slapping her face.

  “What is it, Alex?” she asked, an innocent smile flitting across her face. “Have you fallen in love with this little Russian princess?”

  “Damn it, Pippa.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed, darling. You know I’d recognize your—I mean, you—anywhere.”

  38

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The president’s trim, blonde secretary, Betsey Hall, walked quickly down a short hallway to the small White House reception room, where the secretary of state and her security entourage had just arrived.

  “Betsey, good morning!” Consuelo de los Reyes said, standing to embrace her good friend. The two single women often spent time in each other’s company. Dinner once a month at 1789, long one of Georgetown’s popular restaurants, and sometimes an evening of ballet viewed from the secretary’s private box at the Kennedy Center. They never talked politics. They talked men, and they were seldom complimentary.