Tsar: A Thriller (Alex Hawke)

by Ted Bell

  The thing that really spooked her was the gas masks. They all wore black insectlike gas masks pushed back on top of their heads.

  Gas? Then she saw the fat man come in with the two canisters on his back. The baker. The one from the birthday party. The one who’d brought the bomb inside the cake. The baker stood beside the muscular blond guy, another face she thought she recognized from the party, the security guy. He seemed to be the leader. He was shouting orders and threats at the frightened, terrified passengers. People were too shocked to panic yet, but husbands were searching for wives, people were speaking rapidly to each other, considering what to do and abandoning strategies instantly, paralyzed with fear, realizing the utter uselessness of their plans.

  “Attention!” the blond man yelled, raising his rifle above his head and waving it about. “You are now all hostages of the Chechen Liberation Front. Do exactly as you’re told, and no one will die. Disobey my orders, and you all will be killed. We are now flying at five thousand feet. For any one person who disobeys orders or causes trouble, five passengers, chosen at random, will be thrown out of the airship.”

  Oh, Stokely, she thought, feeling her whole body tremble. Oh, baby, where are you now?

  The blond guy, the leader, kept shouting orders, making threats. She remembered his name suddenly. Yuri.

  There was a commotion on the dance floor, where people were moving and sliding against each other, everybody knowing that at worst they were dead, at best they were at the beginning of a long ordeal. A husband and wife were arguing now in the middle of the crowd, and she heard the woman scream at her husband, “Do something, God damn you! Do something!”

  Fancha heard herself saying into the microphone, “Everybody try to stay calm. Do what they say, and we’ll be okay.”

  But the woman who wanted action slapped her husband hard across the face and turned from him, pushing through the panic-stricken crowd on the dance floor, shoving people, trying to move toward the leader. People were slipping and falling, scrambling to get out of her way.

  “Stop right there,” Yuri said, seeing that she was headed for him. He pulled a large .45 automatic and aimed it at her head.

  “Kill me!” she said, shouting at the top of her lungs. “Go ahead and kill me, you fucking bastard!”

  “Stop now, I warn you!”

  “Remember United Flight Ninety-three, asshole? That’s me! That’s who I am!” She looked around at the crowd behind her, her eyes wild, and said, “Let’s roll!”

  She kept pushing forward, ignoring the gun pointed directly at her. When she broke through the perimeter of the crowd and was maybe six feet from the blond guy, one of the nearby terrorists, who couldn’t have been more than twenty, stepped forward with his knife and slashed her throat, almost severing her head, the blood gushing out onto her white evening gown.

  She collapsed to the floor in a heap. The crowd was stunned for a moment but then started screaming in renewed panic, pushing one another out of the way, thinking there had to be some kind of escape, still some way out of this nightmare.

  As Fancha desperately looked around for a way out, shots were fired. She didn’t see who was shot, because right then the lights went out again.

  The leader was screaming at them to get on the floor, now, or they would all be killed. This time, people listened, and she could sense them diving to the floor. In the darkness and pandemonium, her eyes began to adjust. And Fancha saw her escape.

  There was a small backstage area behind the velvet curtains. A door back there led to the kitchen, and from the kitchen she knew she could find her way to the main staircase and down one deck to her cabin. She silently stepped around the musicians, who seemed rooted to their chairs, and slipped through the tiny gap in the heavy velvet curtains. It was totally dark and deserted backstage, but she could see a thin strip of light beneath the door to the kitchen.

  The kitchen, too, was deserted. Maybe the staff had all been gotten rid of, or maybe they’d just fled in panic. She raced down the center aisle, sidestepping pots and pans on the floor where people had dropped them, and came to the swinging door to the corridor. She pushed through it, bracing herself for more armed men beyond, but the hallway was empty, too. Right, left? Which way? She was breathing hard, and her heart was pounding. Disoriented now, she took a deep breath and placed one hand on the wall, willing herself to calm down.

  Think, Fancha.

  Left. The stairs were to her left, at the very end.

  She ran all the way, took the steps three at a time down to the promenade deck. Her cabin was number 22, five or six doors down on the left. Her luck was holding. The corridor to her room was empty. Usually, there were one or two of the beautiful Slavic housekeepers pushing their trolleys up and down the hall.

  Key, where’s the key? It was a card key, and it was still where she put it, in the inside pocket of her black velvet bolero jacket. She pulled it out and slipped it into the slot, praying for green, because sometimes the damn thing flashed red and she’d have to go looking for the steward or a housekeeper to let her in.

  Green.

  She pushed inside, just the sight of her turned-down bed and the lamp glowing softly on the bedside table doing wonders for her. She turned and double-locked the door, falling against it, her forehead against the cool wood, and then just let the tears come. She didn’t make any noise; she couldn’t allow herself that satisfaction, someone might be passing outside, so she just stood there crying silently, her shoulders shaking involuntarily.

  Sweet baby Jesus, she whispered to herself, wiping her eyes, finally done with the tears.

  She sat on the edge of the bed, looking at herself in the mirror over the dresser. And that’s when she remembered the phone, the sat phone Stoke had unpacked and placed on the dresser. He’d left without it, and she’d put it in the top drawer. He’d shown her how to work it once. It was pretty easy.

  She pulled the drawer open, grabbed it, and lay down on the bed, her head propped up on two pillows.

  She could hear it ringing in Miami, once, twice, three times.

  Pick it up! Pick it up!

  “Hello?” It was Stokely.

  “Baby, it’s me,” she said, her voice breaking.

  “Honey? You okay? Talk to me, baby…”

  “Not so okay, Stoke. Not okay at all.”

  “What is it? Tell me what’s happening.”

  “I was singing, you know, and the lights went out. When th-they, when they came back on, the room was full of terrorists. Guns, knives, wearing g-gas masks and—shooting.”

  “Who are they? They identify themselves?”

  “Chechen Liberation, some damn thing like that.”

  “Where are you? I mean now? How are you calling?”

  “I’m in our stateroom. On the sat phone you left.”

  “Oh, God, baby. I’m so sorry.”

  “What do I do? I don’t know what to do, Stokely!”

  “You got the door locked?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And nobody knows you’re in there?”

  “I don’t think so…”

  “Listen, baby. In the closet. On the top shelf. My canvas carry-on bag is up there. I forgot it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “My gun is in the bag, baby. The one we took out to the range together. The Heckler and Koch nine-millimeter. The one I showed you how to shoot at the range, remember?”

  “I do.”

  “I want you to get it down. It’s loaded. All you have to do is chamber a round, just like I showed you. There are two extra clips in the bag with fourteen rounds each. You get a chair facing the door, and you don’t let anyone inside, okay? Somebody comes through that door, you shoot, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Tell me what happened, best you can.”

  She gave him the short answer. Her heart was pounding again.

  “They already killed one hostage?”

  “One that I saw. With a knife. But I heard shots just as I was le
aving the stage. Maybe more are dead now…”

  “Tell me about the leader again.”

  “Blond. Big muscles. He looks familiar.”

  “Yurin? The security guy at the party?”

  “I don’t know for sure, but yeah, I think so. Chechen Liberation Front, that’s what he said.”

  “Chechen? Or Russian?”

  “He said Chechen, but he’s Russian, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Baby, I’m so scared.”

  “You’re going to be okay. Now, what about the baker? Happy? The fat man who brought the cake to the party. You see him?”

  “Yeah, he’s with them. He had two—two, uh, tanks strapped on his back. He had his mask down over his face. For the gas, I guess.”

  “Gas? What about gas?”

  “They’re all wearing gas masks, Stoke. They’re going to gas us? Is that it?”

  “Baby, they ain’t going to do a damn thing. We are working on this right now. I just found out the baker might be aboard. I already told the CIA, the FBI, and the Pentagon. So right now, everybody in Washington is figuring out the best way to save you. The vice president himself is forming a rescue task force. Is his wife okay? I need to tell him.”

  “I think so. She was when I left.”

  “So, all you have to do is stay out of sight until the rescue, baby. And shoot anybody tries to come through that door. Can you do that?”

  “Rescue how? They said if a plane or boat came within a radius of fifty miles, they’d start throwing people out the door, one at a time.”

  “When we come, they won’t know what hit them, honey. Trust me. I am going to get you out of this.”

  “Are you coming?”

  “You damn right I’m coming. You hold on, okay? I’ll be there before you know it.”

  “I told you I didn’t want to come on this damn trip without you.”

  “I know you did. You were right. I’m sorry.”

  “I need you, Stokely. We all do. You never saw such a scared bunch of people in your life.”

  “I’m coming.”

  “I’m going to hang up now, Stoke. Get the gun. But you answer the second you see this phone ring. You’re all I’ve got to hold on to.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you more.”

  “No way.”

  “’Bye, baby. Be strong.”

  “’Bye.”

  51

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  President Jack McAtee said good-bye to the British ambassador, hung up the phone, shook his head wearily, and looked at the crisis team he’d assembled in the Oval Office. Those present included the vice president, Tom McCloskey; the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Charlie Moore; the secretary of state, Consuelo de los Reyes; the new director of the National Security Council, Lewis Crampton; FBI Director Mike Reiter; and the director of the CIA, Patrick Brickhouse Kelly, better known as Brick.

  His team.

  The mood was tense. They had an American city in ruins, and the evidence pointed to a Russian terrorist as culpable. If that were true, and McAtee found out the Kremlin was even remotely involved, military confrontation with Russia was back on the table for the first time since Kennedy had stared down Khrushchev over Cuba fifty years earlier, sitting at this same desk.

  And now there was news coming out of the Salina investigation that an airship carrying hundreds of VIPs and Nobel laureates, not to mention the vice president’s wife, might be a target for the same terrorists who had murdered Salina’s mayor and her family and destroyed the town. A key suspect had been seen in Miami just before the airship departed.

  “You guys ready for this one?” the president asked, trying to smile.

  McAtee was tired and looked it. He saw events spiraling out of control and knew he was powerless to stop them. All he could do now was try to learn as much as he possibly could about exactly what the hell was going on and make the very best possible decisions he could under the circumstances.

  The only good news was that his White House team had been in crisis situations before, maybe not as bad as this one, but they’d weathered the storms, come through well enough. It they were all smart, kept their heads and wits about them, they might get through this one, too. But it was a bitch, no doubt about that. The Russians seemed out of control—and they still had thousands of nuclear warheads aimed at America.

  “What is it, Mr. President?” Brick Kelly said.

  McAtee said, “That was the British ambassador. He says he just got a WTFIGO cable from London. Anybody know what that stands for?”

  “What the fuck is going on?” Lew Crampton said.

  “Bingo, Lew. He says the MI-6 intel currently coming out of Moscow is going from weird to completely insane. One, the president, Rostov, just died in a helicopter crash. Clear weather, military chopper, very suspicious. Two, the Duma is in emergency session, locked down, no media, rumors flying. Three, one of the British service’s top operatives, an old friend of Brick’s and this office, was just arrested coming out of the Bolshoi ballet.”

  “Not Alex Hawke?” Brick Kelly said.

  “I’m afraid so, Brick.”

  “Jesus. The KGB’s got him? Not good.”

  Brick Kelly said, “As you well know, he’s gone undercover, sir. A new division of MI-6 called Red Banner. Designed to counter the resurgence of Russian intelligence. Hawke is in Moscow because—”

  “He’s in Moscow because I sent him there, Brick.” The testiness in his voice bore witness to the tension in the room. “I was fully briefed on Red Banner by Sir David Trulove when he last visited the White House.”

  “Sorry, Mr. President, I should have assumed that. At any rate, one of my agents is liaising with Hawke and Red Banner. He’s in Moscow now. Harry Brock. I’m sure he can help.”

  “Ah, yes, Harry Brock. Well, that’s reassuring, Brick, knowing you have a man of that caliber inside the enemy camp.” The president’s sarcasm was not lost on anyone.

  “He’s different, I’ll admit, sir. But he’s damn good in the field. I’ll contact him and the American ambassador when this meeting’s over. See if we can’t get Hawke released as quickly as possible.”

  “Good. Thank you, Brick,” McAtee said.

  The president rose from his desk, walked to his favorite armchair to the right of the fireplace, and sank down into it.

  “Anybody got any ideas?” he said.

  As usual, no one in his government agreed with anyone else about what the hell they should be doing at the moment. That’s why he’d assembled his team this morning, to try to make some wise collaborative decisions about how best to proceed through the current minefield.

  “The primary card the Russians hold right now is energy,” the secretary of state said, shifting her weight around on the sofa. “One, the petro-rubles make them immune from certain threats. And two, if pushed, they can throw the switches at Gazprom and Rozneft and turn out the lights in all of Europe.”

  “Not to mention the Baltics, East Ukraine, et cetera,” the vice president added. “Bastards. They think they’ve got us in a corner. Rule one: Never corner a rat or the American military.”

  Tom McCloskey, the former Colorado rancher, was smart and tough, and he could focus. That’s why McAtee had put him on the ticket, a decision he’d never regretted once.

  The president looked at Kelly. “You’ve got human assets inside both Gazprom and Rozneft, isn’t that right, Brick? Deep cover?”

  “Yes, sir, we do. Three Russian engineers manning the on/off switches are on our payroll. Unnumbered accounts in Geneva.”

  “Could these guys actually stop this thing? If the Kremlin tried shutting everything down in Europe? Or the former Soviet republics?”

  “Stop, no. Delay, yes. At least, they could buy us valuable time in a crunch. That’s why they’re there.”

  McAtee smiled. “Well, good news at last. We’re on a roll. Anybody else?”

  General Moore leaned forward, looking at his boss. “I
ordered our overhead capability rerouted this morning. All sixteen of our low-level birds are now operating over the Russian mainland, Mr. President. Total satellite coverage.”

  “Good work. We’ll need—”

  “Mr. President?” Betsey Hall said, interrupting. McAtee’s secretary had cracked the door and stuck her head inside.

  “Yes, Betsey?”

  “An urgent call for you. From Moscow.”

  “Who is it?” McAtee asked, looking at the blinking light.

  “Someone named Korsakov. I believe he’s the late President Rostov’s successor.”

  “Turn on the tape, Betsey,” McAtee said, returning to his desk, punching a button, and picking up the receiver.

  “This is President McAtee,” he said.

  “President McAtee, I am Ivan Korsakov. I’ve just been selected by the Russian Duma as the new leader of our government. You are the first person I’ve called.”

  “Well, I’m glad you called. Congratulations, President Korsakov.”

  “Actually, I’ve been proclaimed Tsar.”

  “Tsar, is it? Well, that is interesting. Historic, one might say.”

  McAtee covered the phone and said to his team, “They’ve got a Tsar now. Holy Christ.”

  “Mr. President, I’m delighted we have this chance to speak,” Korsakov said. “And I look forward to working with you. Striving to build a better world.”

  “I’m so glad to hear you say that, given recent troubling events.”

  “Mr. President, the people of my great country are relying on me to restore Russian pride and honor. All Russian people, whether they are in the Baltics, in Estonia, Lithuania, East Ukraine, wherever, they are all relying on me to restore the cohesion of the Russian nation.”

  Restore cohesion?

  McAtee paused a moment to gather his wits and then said, “I’m sure over time, we will be able to work through your issues and still develop a plan that will retain the current integrity of Europe.”

  “Mr. President, I am not entirely sure of your meaning, but let me tell you what we feel we must do to reunite our citizens in the Baltics and East Ukraine.”