by Ted Bell
“They could well be playing in here,” she said.
“Playing? How old are they?”
“Twelve. Twins, you see.”
“And their mother? Your mother?”
“She died in childbirth. The boys barely made it. We were lucky they survived.”
“I’m so sorry, Asia. I’d no idea.”
THEY ENTERED THE great Hall, where the ceremonial feast clearly had just taken place. Guests and servants had long since departed, but the enormous baroque room was still full of wonders. The barrel-vaulted hall was stunning in its abundance of mirrors and glittering gold. An unbounded sea of mirrors in gilded frames were reflected in other mirrors, creating a magical, endless space in which hundreds of wax candles still burning in the spaces between the windows and the mirrors gleamed.
“Perhaps they’ve escaped to the kitchens,” Anastasia said. “Wait here for a moment, and I’ll go and fetch them.”
Hawke paused at the table, picking up a spotless crystal goblet and deciding to fill it with blood-red wine from one of the many silver carafes. He sipped and found it delicious. So, too, was the leg of roast duck he removed from a half-eaten carcass and began to gnaw at ravenously.
The table, which stretched to shadowy infinity down the hall, had not been completely cleared. The white linen tablecloths were hung with ribbons of many colors and glorious rosettes. In the center of the table towered a massive construction resplendent with symbolic sculptures, monograms and crowns of various ancient courts of Europe.
The massive carved silver candelabras, which marched down the table into the shadows, were all still blazing with candles. Around the bases were woven Christmas holly and berries, artificial flowers made of red silk. Fresh flowers covered the branches of tiny potted trees or were woven into garlands that hung above miniature fountains, the waters still playing right there on the table.
Candlelight gleamed, reflected in the gold and silver tableware and on the great tureens, whose lids took the shapes of boars’ heads, stags, or pheasants. This magnificent table, Hawke decided, was itself a work of art. And perhaps a political statement as well. Such grandeur would surely reignite for Count Korsakov’s guests the dreams and glories of an ancient Russia that no longer existed but had once reigned triumphant.
This was the table, Hawke decided, not of a mere billionaire nor of a wizard, a genius of science, art, and music.
This was the table of a Tsar.
Did Count Korsakov dream of Tsardom? Is that what Anastasia had been trying to tell him in the sleigh? The restoration of the Tsars was not wildly implausible, Hawke knew. There was vast nostalgia in the country for the power and glory that the times of the Tsars represented.
The last of the Tsars, the Romanovs, were feeble, weak, and wholly incapable of ruling this huge country. But the Korsakovs, based on what he knew and had seen, were clearly powerful enough to do just about anything they damn well pleased.
C had been correct, he mused. He had needed to come here, needed to see all of this for himself. He could sense enormous changes coming in this country, a seismic shift in the balance of—
“Look out!” he heard Anastasia shout.
Something, some fat silver missile, was headed directly for his head.
He ducked and watched the thing go by. It was a flying model of an airship. About three feet long, it had Nazi swastikas emblazoned on the tail, and the red lights on the fuselage were blinking. You could even hear the faint whirr of its multiple propellers as it sailed away.
“What the hell?” Hawke said.
“It’s a race,” Anastasia said, suddenly at his side. “Watch out, Hawke, here comes the Hindenburg.”
Now a second radio-controlled miniature airship came weaving its way between two of the flaming candelabras, the ill-fated zeppelin in hot pursuit of ZR-1, the German airship that had caused such destruction in London.
“Sergei, Maxim, please land your craft and come down and introduce yourselves to Alexander Hawke. He’s our guest, so be polite.”
“Where the hell are they?” Hawke asked, peering into the gloom. He couldn’t see another soul in the cavernous candlelit room.
“Up there,” Anastasia said, pointing to a balcony high above them. It was clearly where the choir and the dinner musicians had entertained during dinner.
Two identical boys leaned over the railing and waved down at Hawke. They were both good-looking, and both had shoulder-length blond hair.
“How do you do, sir?” the twins said in unison and in very good English. “Sorry, we’re racing!” one added.
“Very well, indeed,” Hawke called up to them. “Don’t mind me. Keep racing. Who’s winning?”
“The Hindenburg,” one excited boy said. “She’s about to lap ZR-1! For the third time,” he added, laughing.
Hawke laughed, too, and said, “Come on, now, ZR-1, don’t humiliate yourself!”
Anastasia took his arm, saying, “I’ve located Father by telephone. He’s finished his concert, sadly, but is having brandy in his study. He’s most anxious to meet you.”
And off they went.
44
“Lord Alexander Hawke,” Count Ivan Korsakov said, striding across the Persian carpet, his smile as warm and radiant as the fire in the hearth. “I can’t tell you how delighted I am to meet you. My daughter has told me so much about you, I feel we’ve known each other for years.”
“Count Korsakov,” Hawke said, shaking the man’s hand. “The reverse is also true, sir. I’m honored. Most kind of you to invite me.”
“Has Anastasia shown you around? The two-ruble tour?”
“I haven’t had time, Papa,” she said, moving to her father and putting her arm around his waist. “We’re so sorry to have missed your concert.”
He glanced lovingly at her, and Hawke had a split second to appraise the man. Impossibly good-looking, mid-fifties, the light in his pale blue eyes otherworldly. In this man, the blood of the Golden Horde, the Tatar and the Boyar had mixed to good effect. He was broad-shouldered, tall, and lean, with shoulder-length snow-white hair. He was elegantly dressed for the evening in a nineteenth-century suit of dark blue velvet, with breeches and white stockings. His command of English was flawless, the Russian accent lightly applied.
“Were you brilliant at the keyboard, Papa? Incandescent?”
Korsakov kissed Anastasia’s brow. “I may have missed one or two complete passages, I suppose, but the audience feigned appreciation throughout. Brevity being the soul of after-dinner concertos, eh, Lord Hawke?”
“Alex will do, please, sir, if you don’t mind. I don’t use the title.”
“Those who stand on ceremony seldom deserve the platform.”
“Well said, Count Korsakov,” Hawke said, with a slight nod of the head.
“All right, Alex, what can I get you to drink?”
“Rum would be lovely. Gosling’s if you have it.”
“Gosling’s, of course. Spoken like a true Bermudian.”
He went to the drinks table, poured Hawke a beaker of black rum, and filled his own snifter with brandy from a heavy crystal decanter. “And you, my dear girl?” he asked his daughter.
“Just water, please. I’m not staying. I’ll let you two rivals for my affection battle it out in private. And may the best man win.” Hawke tried to smile at his lover’s father but could not catch his eye.
Hawke had spied a large painting over the mantel and wandered over to inspect it. It was similar to the one in Bermuda, same subject, but the setting was a fox hunt. Count Korsakov sat astride a splendid mount, dressed in a pink jacket, surrounded by his baying hounds. He squinted at the signature in the lower right corner and saw Anastasia’s distinctive swirling initials.
He thought of his own portrait, now apparently complete, which he’d not been allowed to set eyes on. No mystery there, he thought. He’d not be astride a great steed or dressed for the hunt or battle or anything else, for that matter. Bloody hell, what had he got himself into?
She came gliding up behind him, whispering, “Don’t stay up past my bedtime,” into his ear before turning to her father and saying, “Papa, I will see you at our usual breakfast. Perhaps we’ll go riding afterward and let Mr. Hawke sleep. He’s been on a tiresome journey, poor man.”
“Lovely. Sleep well, dear.”
She blew him a kiss, then pulled the ornate doors closed behind her.
Korsakov had taken one of the two leather armchairs on either side of the cavernous fireplace, and Hawke took the other, stretching his feet out toward the crackling logs.
The count raised his glass and said, “For your health, sir!”
“And yours, sir.”
They sipped in silence for a moment, and then Korsakov said, “I owe you an apology, Alex.”
“Really? What on earth for?”
“When I first learned you were seeing my daughter on Bermuda, I was deeply concerned. I’m very protective of her. She’s been badly hurt in the past, and I won’t let that happen again. I’m afraid I had you followed.”
“The Disciples of Judah are in your employ?” Hawke said mildly.
“For many years, yes. When I first came to Bermuda, many of the Jamaican immigrants worked on my banana plantation. Hardworking, loyal, very religious. Especially old Sam Coale, who was my tally man for decades. He, his children, and a few others eventually joined my private security force. Of late, they have become problematic. There were rumors of drug dealing, arrests, other scandalous misdeeds. You are no doubt aware of the sad fate of Hoodoo, a trusted employee and friend of long standing.”
“I am.”
“I’ve had Sam Coale and his two sons arrested for his murder and incarcerated in Casemates Prison. My friends in the local constabulary are building a strong case against them. The other inhabitants of Nonsuch Island, primarily rabble, have all been evicted. I consider the case closed. But again, I apologize for any inconvenience I may have caused you in the past.”
“Inconvenience? Only if one counts kidnapping, torture, and the destruction of a beautiful old yawl belonging to a friend of mine an inconvenience.”
Dark anger flared in the count’s eyes, but he said only a quiet “I’m so sorry. I was foolish to trust these men.”
“I see.”
Hawke regarded the man in a silence that lengthened to the point of discomfort. He was thinking of bringing up the issue of the Russian arms Hoodoo had stowed aboard the launch. After a moment’s consideration, he said, “You say Anastasia has been badly hurt. I want you to know that I care very deeply for your daughter and would never allow any harm to come to her.”
“I believe you,” Count Korsakov said, his hard, bright eyes never leaving Hawke’s.
“Would you mind telling me what happened? To Anastasia? How was she hurt?”
“She’s strong-willed, as you’ve no doubt noticed. Sometimes, frequently, her heart leads her head. She married a man wholly unsuited for her. I was vehemently opposed. I even threatened to disinherit her. But of course, that old ploy never works when they think they’re in love.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“At any rate, she had a short, unhappy marriage that ended in tragedy, all as I had predicted.”
“How did it end?”
“The man was killed. In a hunting accident.”
“How awful.”
“Yes. I actually saw it happen. We were in Scotland, shooting pheasant and partridge. I have a small shooting estate there, midway up the Spey Valley at the junction with the River Avon. Ballindalloch Castle? Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”
“No, sorry.”
“No matter. At any rate, Anastasia’s husband was accidentally shot by one of my other guests. Shot to the head, died in the field before help could be summoned.”
“Horrible. Still, accidents happen, do they not?” Hawke forced a smile, not at all sure this had been an accident.
“Yes. But come, let’s talk of more pleasant things, shall we? These are precious holidays, meant to be festive. I understand you’ve started a new company on Bermuda. Blue Water Logistics, I think it’s called?”
“Indeed. I’m most excited about it. I’ve two young colleagues in the venture, Benjamin Griswold and Fife Symington. We’ve great aspirations, at any rate.”
“But your primary interests remain in London. Your family interests?”
“Yes. A large, diversified holding company. I’m trying to ease my way out of those responsibilities and have hired some splendid managers to remove most of the day-to-day burden. Blue Water allows me to live as I please on Bermuda with a new business challenge to occupy my mind.”
“You’re ex-military, are you not?”
“You seem to know quite a bit about me.”
“Does that surprise you? Given the circumstances?”
“Not really, no.”
“You were a Royal Navy man. A pilot? Held the rank of commander, I believe.”
“Yes. I flew Harriers. Saw some action in the first Gulf War.”
“And now?”
“Now?”
“You’ve severed your military connections?”
“Yes.”
That little three-letter affirmative hung in the air for a seeming eternity. Hawke and Korsakov seemed content to stare into the fire in silence, sipping their drinks, thinking their separate thoughts. Suddenly, Korsakov slapped his right knee and spoke up.
“I may drop by Blue Water one day, when I return to Bermuda. If that suits you.”
“I’d be delighted.”
“You know about these computers of mine? The Zeta machines? Popularly known as Wizards these days?”
“I daresay the whole world knows of them. You’re rather the Henry Ford of the computer era, you know.”
“Well, you flatter me, of course. But TSAR, my company, does ship millions of these things all over the world from our factories here and in China. Perhaps the Zeta might be of interest to your new logistics firm?”
“It certainly would.”
“I wonder. Have you any written material on your new enterprise? Any brochures or things like that I could peruse?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. I’ll give them to you first thing in the morning.”
“Excellent. And now, I must confess, I’m a bit tired. It’s been a rather long evening. You could do with a bit of rest yourself after your travels.”
Count Korsakov got to his feet and raised his arms over his head, unable to stifle a surprisingly noisy yawn.
“I could sleep for a week,” Hawke said, rising as well, though in truth, his one-hour nap had completely refreshed him. Naps were the secret of life, as his hero Churchill had discovered during the war.
The count put his arm around Alex’s shoulder, and together they moved toward the door.
“One curious thing, Alex,” he said, pausing in midstride. “Speaking of shooting in Scotland. You’re a sportsman, obviously. I wonder. Do you ever visit the island of Scarp? Up in the Hebrides?”
“I do. I’ve an ancestral hunting lodge there. I do a bit of stalking now and then. Why do you ask?”
“My older brother Sergei, you see, was a great one for stalking. Tragically, he disappeared while on such a hunt. On Scarp, as a matter of fact.”
“On Scarp? Surely you must be mistaken. It is a very small island, mostly uninhabited. Only a few crofters and farmers. I’m sure I would have heard of his disappearance.”
“Oh, no, this was years ago, Alex. Back in the drear dark days of the Cold War.”
“How did he come to choose Scarp, of all places? Most forbidding place on earth.”
“Sergei was a Soviet intelligence officer, on leave from the military, and had sailed his small sloop to the island for a day’s stalking. We never saw him again.”
“Really? What year was this?”
“Oh, I hardly remember. Let’s see, October 1962 or thereabouts. We were impossibly close, my brother and I, and I miss him dreadfully. We were both away at a scho
ol in Switzerland, you see, just the two of us. Le Rosey, perhaps you’ve heard of it. The dormitory caught fire one night when I was about seven years old, Sergei was eleven. The old wooden building burned to the ground. Only the two of us boys survived. Sergei was badly burned saving my life. I owed him everything, and his loss haunts me to this day.”
“I’m terribly sorry.”
“Your father was a British naval intelligence officer, I believe, wasn’t he?”
“He was.”
“Probably did some stalking himself, I’d imagine, used the family lodge on Scarp from time to time?”
“He may well have. He was a great one for the outdoors. I was only seven when he died. I don’t recall hearing much about Scarp. There was a great stag he mentioned once or twice, a big red stag. That’s about all I remember.”
“Not called Redstick, was he? This red stag?”
“No. Monarch of Shalloch, he was called, I’m sure.”
“Hmm. Fascinating. Extraordinary to think that their paths might well have crossed at some point, isn’t it? Two Cold Warriors?”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“Well, off you go, then. Sleep well.”
He pulled open the tall walnut doors. There was a man waiting in the hallway, looking as if someone should put him to bed. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked a bit unsteady on his pins. Frowning, he looked Hawke up and down and said, in furry English, “You’re the Englishman.”
“One of them, at any rate, sir. There are millions of us, you know.”
“Hmpf,” the man muttered, unamused.
“Vladimir, my very good friend,” Korsakov said with a forced smile. “Come in and have a drink.”
“Aha! There you are,” the man said angrily to Korsakov. “I’ve been looking all over for you. I’ll have a word, if you don’t fucking mind.”
“What did you say to me?” the count said, the words seeming to come from another being.
Hawke looked at Korsakov, astounded at the raw animalism in the man’s face. For the tiniest instant, his hard blue eyes flashed with the glint of incalculable malice. He’d caught only the briefest glimpse of what lay hidden beneath the polished veneer, the genteel mask of the philosopher king. But he had seen a monster, sacred and profane, a strange, arrogant, terrifying glimpse of evil at full throttle. Hawke believed that had he made a sudden, threatening move at that moment, Korsakov, like a dog, would have bared his teeth in a furious snarl.