Tsar: A Thriller (Alex Hawke)

by Ted Bell

  “Wonders will never cease,” Hawke said, becoming convinced that they would not. He was still alive, for one thing. He was sitting in a dungeon sharing a bottle of vodka with the former prime minister of the Russian Federation. And the new princess of all Russia was pregnant with his child. Wondrous.

  “What’s in there?” Hawke asked.

  “My lead-lined room. Constructed in total secrecy and at vast expense with the help of my jailer. The man who brought you down here is on my payroll. Former KGB assassin who worked for me in East Germany. Looks like a common thug, dumb as a post, but he’s actually quite brilliant.”

  “What’s in it, your secret lead vault?”

  “Hmm. A real bed. Music and DVDs. My books and a few mementos. And a small refrigerator full of good vodka and a quantity of golden Sterlet caviar.”

  “And your plan for my salvation is?”

  “There’s also a satellite telephone. So I might maintain communication with my underground commanders, even now planning my triumphant return to power.”

  “And might I use this telephone? Call in the cavalry?”

  “You are such a clever fellow, Hawke. Yes, you may use it. It’s in the top drawer beside my bed. One call. You’d better make it a good one.”

  Hawke got to his feet. “I might actually get out of here,” he said, smiling at Putin.

  “Vastly preferable to a sharp stake up the sphincter, I assure you, Lord Hawke.”

  THREE HOURS LATER, Hawke was shivering in the yard, crouched in a darkened alcove beneath one of the watchtowers, freezing his butt off. The sky above was shot pink with the approaching dawn. No sound could be heard from the poor devils in the orchard of death. Frozen stiff during the night, if they were lucky. He looked at his watch. He should have heard something twenty minutes ago. Where the hell was the cavalry?

  He heard the approaching chopper before he saw it, the deep thrump-thrump-thrump announcing some helo’s imminent arrival. Harry? Let it be Harry. Please.

  Guards emerged from stations on the wall, machine guns slung from their shoulders. One raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes, tracked the approaching chopper for a few moments, and then signaled okay to his comrades. They immediately retreated back inside the warmth of their tower stations. Okay? Why would they signal that? This was a bloody rescue attempt, wasn’t it?

  No.

  Damn it to hell!

  The helicopter, Hawke saw as it flared up over the yard, did not look remotely like anything Harry Brock would be flying. No, it was a Russian Army Kamov Ka-50 Black Shark, bristling with antitank missiles and 30mm machine guns hung from small mid-mounted wings amidships. A damn Russian military chopper! Where the bloody hell was Harry?

  When the pilot was six feet from touchdown, a typhoon of snow in his downdraft, someone flung open the starboard-side passenger door.

  And inside, beckoning to him, was a wildly grinning Harry Brock.

  Hawke stayed low and bolted through the shadows across the yard, head down, sprinting beneath the spinning rotors. A second door on the right side popped open, and Hawke dove inside, not even waiting for the jet-black combat chopper to land. He caught a glimpse of the guards on the walls, peering out the windows. One or two raced outside and along the parapet, shouting something inaudible, lost in the wind and roar of the chopper’s powerful engines spooling up.

  The helo pilot immediately lifted off, banked hard, and roared out over the wind-whipped Gulf of Finland, heading toward mainland Europe.

  “Harry, you crazy sonofabitch, how did you pull this one off? A Russian Army combat helicopter? These are pretty tough to come by for American civilians.”

  “You think those guards back there would have let me land a Bell Jet Ranger with the stars and stripes on the tail?”

  “No, but I mean, how the hell, Harry? Seriously.”

  Brock hooked his thumb toward the rear of the chopper. “Ask her royal highness back there, boss. Daddy’s little princess gets what she wants.”

  Anastasia, dressed in a fleece-lined Army jumpsuit, was waiting in the rear. Hawke scrambled aft and almost landed in her outstretched arms. She pulled him to her. He was shaking with the cold, and he embraced her, letting her warmth and fragrance begin to wash away the ugly images of the last twelve hours.

  “My poor darling,” she said, holding him at arm’s length. “I was so terrified. I couldn’t reach Papa to tell him about your ridiculous arrest until a few hours ago. He was outraged. Whoever did this to you will be severely punished, Papa will see to it.”

  Hawke was considering how best to respond to this bit of awkwardness when he heard Harry say, “I gotta ask one question. They allowed you an effing phone call from inside that burned-out freak-house?”

  “Not really allowed. It’s a long story.”

  Brock said, “Anastasia was with me when you called my cell phone. We were having a drink at the Metropol bar, figuring out who to invite to your funeral. Short list, you’ll be sad to learn.”

  “Funeral postponed indefinitely,” Hawke said, reaching forward to squeeze Harry’s shoulder. “Thanks, old buddy, I definitely owe you one. Where are we headed?”

  “No rest for the weary,” Harry said, turning around in his seat. “We’re going direct to Ramstein Air Base in Germany. Two FA-18 Super Hornets are gassing up right now to take us to Bermuda. We hook up with Stokely on the ground there.”

  “Why on earth are we going to Bermuda?”

  “Hostage-rescue mission, boss, all I can say. It’s too noisy to talk in here,” he said, casting a meaningful glance at the Russian Army pilot. “I’ll fill you in when we get on the ground at Ramstein.”

  “And what about you, darling girl? Are you coming to Bermuda?” Hawke asked Anastasia, taking her hand and holding it to his cheek. The Gulf of Finland, garlanded with wind-blown whitecaps, was disappearing beneath the chopper at an amazing rate.

  “No, darling, I can’t. I’m returning to Moscow. A gala reception for my father tonight at the Facets Palace inside the Kremlin, and then we board the airship in a day or two for the short flight to Stockholm. For the Nobel ceremony, you know?”

  “I hear he’s the new Tsar,” Hawke said, with a heartiness that rang with terrible falsity in his ears. “You must be very proud.”

  “It’s so wonderful, Alex. Not for him but for my country. Russia will be a great nation once more,” she said, beaming at him. “The first Tsar to receive a Nobel. I am so very proud of him. Promise me you’ll come that night, Alex! Come to Stockholm for the Nobel dinner? I’ll save a seat for you.”

  “Of course I’ll come, Anastasia. If you want me there, I will be there.”

  “Might be a lot of empty seats at that Nobel ceremony,” Harry Brock said, looking meaningfully at Hawke, but neither Alex nor Anastasia had any idea what he was talking about. Hawke let it go. Clearly, Harry had a great deal to tell him. He’d just have to wait and find out what when they landed at Ramstein.

  Alex Hawke spent the rest of the trip staring down at the sea, all the way to the frozen white fields of Germany. He was oddly troubled for a man who’d just escaped a horrible death. Something was stuck in his craw, and for the life of him, he could not figure out what the hell it was. Half an hour later, he had it. An offhand remark Putin had made last night, a simple sentence that had seemed innocuous enough at the time.

  It’s a great irony, isn’t it, that it was his daughter who found you and delivered you to the sacrificial altar?

  Alone on a deserted beach? One of hundreds just like it? No. How could he doubt her love? She’d just saved his life. This marvelous woman who was carrying his child. She was truly beautiful. And true beauty, as she’d told him one afternoon at Half Moon House, came from deep inside.

  He reached over, took her hand, and gently squeezed it.

  “I may not have mentioned this,” Hawke said, whispering into her ear, “but I want to thank you for saving my life.”

  “I had nothing to save until I found you. Now I have
you, I have everything.”

  55

  MOSCOW

  It was snowing.

  A beautiful winter’s night. Anastasia rushed through Cathedral Square to the Grand Kremlin Palace, her long white sable coat trailing behind her in the powdery snow. She was late, breathless, and completely happy for perhaps the first time in her life. Her heart, she knew, was full at last. Every palace window was aglow. Nothing had never looked so dazzling.

  Lofty and majestic, the Moscow residence of the Tsars dominated the southern part of the Kremlin. The windows of the main wing faced the dark Moskva River, brimming with ice floes in mid-December. There were great throngs of people lining the quay and the bridges despite the heavy snow, all eyes gazing up at the glittering palace. All of Moscow seemed aware that this was a truly historic night not to be missed. The city seemed frozen in place; even the traffic had come to a complete stop.

  For the first time in more than ninety years, Russia had a Tsar. Bells were ringing loudly from every church tower, and in some places, crowds had gathered and were singing ancient Russian folk songs, passing bottles of vodka to stave off the chilly night air.

  The Grand Kremlin Palace overshadows all other Western European palaces of the period in terms of sheer size and ornateness. It was only fitting, she thought, that her father’s greatest triumph should be celebrated in such a glorious setting. She hurried up the white marble staircase leading to the State Parade Chambers on the second floor. This entrance was closed to the public tonight but, tonight, Anastasia was not the public.

  She was the princess.

  Two guards in their most festive regalia stood at attention on either side of the ancient wooden door in the huge east wing of the palace. The door was fifteen feet high, a masterpiece of nineteenth-century Russian carpentry, made from the wood of nut trees without using a single nail or any glue.

  A chain of halls named for the old Russian orders lay behind this door: the St. George, St. Vladimir, St. Catherine, St. Andrew, and St. Alexander Halls. Anastasia paused at a cloak room just inside the entrance and gave the attendant her sable coat, hat, and muff. Also her furry boots, which she exchanged for the pair of heels in her bag.

  Then she hurried through the vast octagon of St. Vladimir Hall, her heels clicking on the parquet floors. One of the arches opened onto a passage leading directly to the largest and most festive hall in the palace, St. George Hall. The dimensions of the lovely cloister vault were gigantic, nearly two hundred feet long and sixty feet wide. At the far end was the orchestra, and she noted with pleasure that they were playing, not Tchaikovsky or Rachmaninoff, but her father’s new symphony, Light of Dawn.

  She pushed through the sea of beautiful gowns and splendid uniforms toward her father. Above the crowd, six massive gilt chandeliers lit with more than ten thousand electric candles cast a lovely glow. She saw him! He was standing with a small group on a raised podium just in front of the orchestra, in one of his most splendid white uniforms.

  She hurried toward the new Tsar, her eyes shining.

  “Father,” she said, embracing him. “I’m so sorry I’m late. You look wonderful.”

  “My dear girl. I’ve just asked for a waltz. Will you join me out on the floor?”

  “I should be honored, Papa.”

  He took her outstretched hand and stepped down from the podium. As they made their way to the center of the floor, a lovely Strauss waltz began, and the crowd parted magically, every eye on the new Tsar and his beautiful daughter in her shocking crimson gown. She looked at her father, dazzling in his uniform, and remembered something Alex had said to her that night in the troika.

  Don’t look now, but we’re living in some kind of bloody fairy tale.

  It was true, she was. As she’d made her way through the palace’s many halls, she’d heard the words whispered over and over as she passed. “The princess! Do you see her? How beautiful she is!”

  And then her father was waltzing her around the suddenly empty dance floor, the crowd having moved to the sides of the hall, leaving the Tsar and his daughter alone to bathe in the adulation of all of Moscow. And no one in the ballroom that night would ever forget how heartbreakingly beautiful the new Princess of Russia had looked, waltzing with the Tsar.

  “Oh, Papa, isn’t it magical?”

  He pulled her close and whispered softly into her ear. But his words were a cruel shock.

  “How dare you?” he hissed. “How dare you?”

  “What?” she cried, pushing away so that she could look up into his face. “How dare I what, Papa?”

  She had never seen such anger as flashed in those eyes, and she tried to shrink back, but he held her tightly around the waist with one hand, the other hand cruelly squeezing her fingers. And so they danced on, the enraptured crowd blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding before their eyes.

  “Betray me, of course,” he said, his voice low but full of menace.

  “I? Betray you? Never!”

  “Ah, and now you lie. You little bitch.”

  “Tell me, then! Tell me what I have done.”

  “This fucking Englishman. The one you invited into our home. You think he loves you? Ha! He is only using you to spy on me. He is an agent of MI-6! I had him arrested and sent to Energetika, where he so richly deserved to be. Only to find out that he has been rescued! And not by his comrades, no! By my very own daughter!”

  “Papa, what are you saying? It was you who had Alex arrested? Because earlier, when I told you he’d been taken, you said it was all a mistake. That you would have him freed!”

  “This was a matter of state security. It is not incumbent upon me to confide to you in matters of state.”

  “Papa, Alex is not a spy. He’s much too gentle a soul for that kind of work. Besides, I would never betray you. I thought you wanted his freedom. So I took it into my own hands. He’s the man I love, Father. The man I want to marry. I wanted him to meet you because I love you, too. And I am so proud of you both that I wanted to—”

  “Silence! You don’t know what you are talking about, you silly little fool. Listen to me carefully. I never want you to see him again. Ever. ‘Smert Shpionam,’ Anastasia. Remember that. ‘Death to spies.’ And anyone who conspires with them. Understand me?”

  “And now you threaten me? Your only daughter?”

  “I care only for the state.”

  “Father, please, I beg of you. Can we not discuss this later? At some quiet place and not here in front of all Moscow?”

  “There is nothing more to discuss. You are the daughter of the Tsar. You are the Princess Anastasia. One day, you will be Tsarina and sit upon the throne. I will find you a suitable husband, don’t worry. But I will have an heir worthy of my legacy. Do you understand me?”

  “Papa, I am already carrying his baby. I am pregnant.” Her voice broke, and the tears came.

  “You’ll just have to get rid of the little bastard.”

  “Oh, Papa.”

  “Stop this blubbering! What will people think?”

  “I’m sorry, Papa, I cannot help it. I-I don’t know what to do now. What am I to do? I love him with all my heart. And he loves me. I want to have his baby, Papa. You must let me have his baby.”

  “Never!”

  “Oh, God. Oh, God,” she sobbed, and her father quickly saw that she was nearing hysteria. He held her tightly to his chest and whirled her about, whispering feverishly into her ear.

  “Listen, my darling. Perhaps you are right. We should talk about this later when there is not so much attention focused on me. After the ceremony in Stockholm, we will go away somewhere for a few days. Like we used to do. A father-and-daughter vacation. Perhaps on the fjord in Sweden. Our old summer place at Morto. There we will try to resolve this unfortunate affair in a way that is acceptable to both of us. How does that sound?”

  “Oh, Papa, you must believe me. I would never do anything to hurt you. Yes. Thank you for trying to understand. We will talk later when we are both not under so
much pressure. I understand what you are saying. I will try to make you happy with me again.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  “I love you, Papa. I know you will make a wonderful Tsar. Wise and kind. The father of our country.”

  He released her then and bowed to her, deeply, from the waist. The crowd burst into long and sustained applause.

  “Her imperial majesty, the Princess Anastasia!” the Tsar cried out, and then the crowd went simply mad. She smiled, turning so that she might gaze into the gathered faces, waving at them all, saying “Thank you, thank you” in a small voice that no one could hear but everyone understood.

  “Thank you for the dance,” her father said coldly as they walked back to the podium.

  Russia’s new princess couldn’t stop her tears. But she kept her smile.

  56

  AT SEA

  Alex Hawke had the best seat in the house. He was just aft of the pilot. Under normal circumstances, his was the Weapon System Officer’s seat. Hawke’s WSO position, the Yank flyboys called it wizzo, was slightly elevated above and behind the pilot, so he had a good view ahead over the pilot’s helmet. The WSO who normally resided here was the air navigator, involved in all air operations and the weapon systems of the aircraft. The plane was an American Navy F/A-18 Super Hornet, the two-seat F model that flew its first combat missions in 2002.

  But these were not normal circumstances. There was no need for any wizzo on this flight. This F model had been heavily modified and was one of a small number of twin-canopied fighters built by the Navy for black ops missions like this one.

  Two Super Hornets were streaking wingtip-to-wingtip just above the wave tops at 1,360 miles per hour, flying beneath any possible enemy radar, the heaving blue Atlantic a blur fifty feet below the aircraft. Off Hawke’s starboard wingtip was an identical, heavily modified fighter aircraft. Harry Brock was riding wizzo in that one. The two fighter jets, having arrived on station, were operating approximately fifty miles due north of Bermuda. Suddenly, in tandem, both aircraft hit the afterburners and, pulling serious g’s, went into a steep climb.