by Ted Bell
“Most impressive.”
“Want to have a go?”
“Good Lord, no. I’m exhausted just watching you. I could use some air. Shall we have a nice walkabout on the grounds and then repair to the bar for a small beverage to celebrate?”
After a long and tiring (for Ambrose Congreve) ramble about the hilly and sometimes rock-strewn grounds, the two old friends went to the small walnut-paneled bar for the restorative cocktail. Congreve sipped his single malt, Macallan; Hawke, his Gosling’s Black Seal rum, neat. The two deep leather chairs they sat in had served other gentlemen’s backsides well for innumerable generations.
“How can you drink that stuff anyway?” Hawke asked Congreve. “Tastes like liquid smoke.”
Ambrose bristled. “I’m a man, sir, who is simply fond of his scotch-the drink, mind, not the nationality.”
Hawke smiled at this riposte, enormously glad to be back in dear old Blighty (as the Americans were wont to call it) again, and had been bringing Congreve up to speed on their mutual friend Stokely Jones, his almost deadly wedding in Florida, and his nearly catastrophic honeymoon.
“Torpedoed, you say?” Congreve murmured, getting his pipe going. “Extraordinary.”
“Hasn’t hit the media, but yes. Stokely saw the trails of two torpedoes moments before they struck the ship. He was lucky to get his new bride up to the muster station and into a lifeboat before the panic began. A lot of people ended up in the water, and a couple of lifeboats overturned in the heavy seas.”
“Where is Stokely now?”
“Back in Miami, trying to save his marriage, I imagine.”
“No one has claimed responsibility for the sinking?”
“No. But these torpedoes were sophisticated weapons. One of them, magnetic, exploded directly beneath the big ship’s keel, breaking her back. It’s why she went down in less than forty-five minutes.”
“Stokely say how many casualties?”
“Bad, but he said it could have been far worse. Fortunately, an American sub was in the vicinity. She surfaced and picked up most of the survivors in the water.”
“Extraordinary. C is joining us for dinner this evening, you know. I’m sure Sir David will have a great deal to say about this.”
“How is the old bachelor? I haven’t seen him since my return from Russia. I know he’s been on holiday, believe it or not. Sardinia, I believe.”
“Well, Alex, he was not at all pleased with you going off the reservation, I can tell you that much. Perhaps he’s had time to cool off a bit. All those lovely beaches and gorgeous Italian women work wonders.”
“Nude beaches there, I’ve heard.”
“Ha! You know who goes to nude beaches?”
“Not a clue.”
“People who should never go to nude beaches.”
Hawke laughed and sipped his drink. He was looking forward to dinner. C was a crusty old bastard but he was smarter than any man Hawke knew, save present company. A monument of unaging intellect. And Diana always served rack of lamb when he was invited, and something very old and delicious from the vast cellars of Brixden House.
“And speaking of nude beaches, how was your month in the south of France?”
“Cannes? Diana was bored to tears. Ennui, you know.”
“Really? France? That mighty horde, formed of two tribes, the Bores and the Bored?”
“Don’t even think you get credit for that one, Alex.”
“No? Who does, then?”
“A certain poet named Lord Byron.”
“Whatever. If you say ‘ ennui ’ one more time, I shall throttle you within an inch of your Francophilic life.”
“One must credit the French for coining a word for that awful yawn that sleep cannot abate.”
“If you insist.”
Congreve, who seemed to have paused in his own conversation, reached into his breast pocket, withdrawing a small rectangular package, wrapped in gold foil and tied with a royal-blue ribbon.
“Almost forgot something,” he said, handing the thing over to his friend. “A little something I picked up for you in town the other day. You’re going to love it.”
“What is it?”
“Don’t ask. Open,” the man said, twirling the waxed tips of his moustache.
“Nothing’s going to pop out at me, is it? Or explode white powder in my face?”
“Alex, do try to show a little appreciation for my thoughtfulness. I know this doesn’t come naturally to you, but give it a decent shot anyway.”
“You’ll recall that the last Christmas gift you gave me was that yellow golf sweater with all the red golf tees on it.”
“Yes, the one I caught you red-handed with, trying to rid yourself of it at the Harrods Returns window.”
“I don’t play golf. If I gave you a red Ferrari baseball cap to wear about town, would you do it?”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“The defense rests.”
Hawke untied the ribbon and removed the wrapping. It was a black box emblazoned with the name of a shop in the Burlington Arcade that he vaguely remembered. He lifted the lid.
“Ah! How awfully kind of you, old hound. What is it?”
“What is it? Just the latest thing, that’s all.”
Hawke pulled the latest thing out and examined it more closely. “I never know what the latest thing is, Ambrose, so, please, just tell me.”
“It’s an electronic cigarette.”
“Ah! An electronic cigarette! Splendid, why didn’t you say so!” he said, leaning forward with an arm on his knee, just like a picture of a cowboy he’d once seen as a child. He twirled the white tube between thumb and forefinger and added, “What does it do, precisely?”
“Do? Why, you smoke it, of course.”
“Smoke it? It’s plastic. Have you ever smelled burning plastic, Constable? Seriously.”
“You don’t light it, Alex, you flip that little switch. Then you can smoke it.”
“Like this?” Hawke said, following instructions. He took a pull, felt something moist and vaguely disgusting filling his mouth, and quickly expelled it, trying not to retch.
“Lovely.”
“You like it?”
“Love it.”
“So… now you just smoke that instead of all those bloody Sobranie black-lung cigarettes you brought back from Russia.”
“I do?”
“Yes! Of course you do! All of the flavor, none of the carcinogens. Ideal, really, for someone like you. An addict.”
“I’m touched, really quite touched, Ambrose. Thank you.”
“Pleasure.”
“You mean to say you actually see me, oh, say at the Long Bar at Black’s, pulling out a fake plastic cigarette, a battery-powered cigarette, and, saying, ‘Look here, lads, it’s the latest thing! Have a puff, you’ll taste the difference.’ Could be an ad campaign, that. ‘Have a puff, you’ll taste the difference!’ ”
“It’s your life, dear boy,” Ambrose huffed, and sipped his drink, sulking. “Do what you bloody well like with it.”
Hawke slipped the damn thing into his breast pocket, deep within the folds of his handkerchief. He was about to return to the far more serious topic they’d been discussing when Miss Spooner appeared in the doorway with little Alexei in her arms, who was gurgling in delight at the sight of his father.
“There’s our big boy,” Ambrose cried, turning in his chair to smile at him. “There’s our little Superman!”
Hawke leaped from his chair and ran to his son, taking him into his arms. Alexei laughed as his father threw him high into the air, caught him, and threw him again and again.
“What did you do this afternoon, young man?” Hawke asked, tickling him under the chin.
“We read a book,” Spooner said, “didn’t we, Alexei?”
“A book?” Hawke said. “Well, we certainly approve of books around here. Which one?”
“One of yours. He picked it out himself. We brought it along from Hawkesmoor. Goodnigh
t Moon.”
“Ah, one of my favorites. Did you like it, too, Alexei?”
“We read it five times, sir. I’d say yes.”
“I liked it very much, Daddy,” Alexei said.
Hawke smiled and kissed his boy’s forehead, whispering to him, “I see the moon, the moon sees me. The moon sees the somebody I’d like to see. God bless the moon and God bless me. God bless the somebody I’d like to see!”
Alexei smiled with delight.
Spooner said, “Time to say good night, I’m afraid. He’s had his supper and his bath and now it’s his bedtime.”
“Good night, little hero,” Hawke said, kissing his cheek and handing him back to Spooner.
“Yes, good night indeed,” Ambrose called from his chair. “Sleep tight and don’t let the bedbugs bite!”
Alexei stared over Spooner’s shoulder, gazing at his father all the way down the long hallway to the foot of the staircase where he disappeared.
“Time for dinner, I should think,” Hawke said, turning to Ambrose and wiping something from the corner of his eye.
Bang on the hour of eight all the house clocks struck, chiming in unison. Moments later the dinner gong sounded, and a rich bass note reverberated throughout the house. The two old friends made their way down the hallway toward the white-and-gold-paneled dining room, a room imported lock, stock, and barrel from Madame de Pompadour’s dining room at Chateau d’Asnieres.
Sixteen
Lady Diana Mars, emerging into the hall from the drawing room, intercepted Hawke and Congreve making a beeline for the dining room. She was radiant. All emerald silk, bare white shoulders, and diamonds, her lustrous auburn hair swept up and held in place with jeweled combs. She was beautiful as always and Hawke told her so. He took her hand to kiss it, happy to see that the engagement ring Ambrose had given her was still in place. Hawke had a vested interest in that ring. He’d almost died diving a wreck off Bermuda trying to find it.
“Alex, you darling boy, listen,” she said. “Sir David arrived about ten minutes ago. He seems a bit… agitated. Clearly something on his mind. He’s out on the terrace now, smoking his cigar. He asked if he might have a quick word in private before we go into dinner. Do you mind awfully?”
“Would it matter?” Hawke smiled. “I’m still in his employ, last time I checked.”
“The old seafarer’s just out there, through the drawing room door. I’ll call off the turtle soup until you two guests of honor arrive at the table.”
Hawke strode through the room and pushed through the tall door out into the cool evening. Trulove had his back to him, standing stiffly at the low granite balustrade that overlooked the formal gardens and the Thames below, a ribbon of silver in the moonlight.
“Sir David,” Alex said quietly as he approached, not wanting to startle the man.
The director of MI6 turned and regarded him with a smile, not a warm smile exactly, but certainly friendly enough under the circumstances. Trulove, whom Hawke considered one of nature’s immutable forces, was a former Royal Navy admiral and a great hero of the Falklands War. He was a tall, well-built fellow, imposing with his close-cropped white hair and weather-beaten face. His intense blue eyes were clear, seeming to have escaped all the wind and salt and rain earned during decades on the bridges of various Royal Navy warships.
“Alex, good of you to come out here. I felt what I had to say was best said in private.”
“Indeed, sir. I-”
“I may owe you an apology. I was utterly beside myself when you went AWOL without a word to me. But… now that I have an inkling of your reasons, it’s becoming rather clear to me that you felt you had no choice but to act as you did.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Indeed, had you come to me with a request to venture alone into what was, to me, so obviously a KGB death trap, I would never have agreed to it. Never. It looked a suicide mission, frankly.”
“That was my thinking, sir. Were I in your position, I most certainly would not have allowed it either.”
“My God, Alex, what were you thinking? We both know these Russian bastards want your head for killing their beloved Tsar. And yet you decide to go waltzing into their top-secret training facility in the middle of Siberia? Based upon some Kremlin-generated rumor?”
“I had no choice, Sir David. It was worth my life to learn the truth, whether or not the Tsar’s daughter, Anastasia, and our child were still alive. And, if they were alive, and held captive there, I was determined to bring them out. Whatever it took. If not, well-”
“Yes. And whether it was raw courage or sheer foolhardiness, it’s not for me to judge. I’m just glad you made it out in one piece, Alex. The service would be greatly diminished without you. No one is irreplaceable, including me, but you… you come close.”
“I appreciate that, sir.”
“Lady Mars tells me you were able to bring your son out? Is that true?”
“Yes, sir. Alexei is sleeping upstairs as we speak.”
“How marvelous. Do you think I might catch a glimpse of him?”
“Well, we could peek in after dinner, I suppose. But if we wake him, Miss Spooner will have our heads.”
“I believe they’re waiting for us. Shall we go in to dinner?” C said.
“Delighted, sir. I was quite sure I was coming out here to have my head handed to me. Thank you for letting me retain the use of it.”
C laughed and put his arm around Hawke’s shoulder as they started for the door. Startled, Hawke realized it was the first time Trulove had ever done anything remotely like this unmistakable show of affection.
He’s actually glad to see me, Hawke thought, somewhat astounded.
T he dinner, Alex thought, had been splendid. The lamb was cooked to pink perfection, redolent of garlic and rosemary from the garden, and the wine, a 1959 Petrus, was beyond belief. Even C had been relaxed and cheerful during the meal. Now that he and Hawke understood each other once more, it was back to business as usual. Both men were glad they’d cleared the air.
Hawke was seated next to Diana, whom he adored. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why she and Ambrose had yet to wed. Clearly they were madly in love. But, as the old saying went, unless you’re under the tent, you have no earthly idea what’s really going on in a relationship.
The dinner dishes were cleared. The candles still flickered on the happy faces around the table and Cole Porter floated in from a turntable in the drawing room. Coffee was served. Ambrose fired up his pipe, Sir David his cigar, and Alex his electronic cigarette. As long as you didn’t inhale the bloody vapor, he discovered, you could manage it. Besides, he saw Ambrose smiling at him with approval.
Hawke saw C push back from the table, all the jollity flown from his face. Whatever was coming was deadly serious and, in all likelihood, it would be aimed directly at him.
“I’d like to raise a glass to our lovely and brilliant hostess for an absolutely smashing dinner party. Wonderful food, wonderful wine, and, of course, wonderful company.”
“Hear! Hear!” everyone said, raising their glasses toward the hostess.
“But now the party’s over, isn’t it, Sir David?” Diana said with a laugh. “We now turn to the affairs of men.”
“Good God, I hope not,” Congreve said, unable to contain himself. Hawke and Diana laughed out loud. C didn’t even crack a smile.
“I want to talk about this recent unprovoked attack by the Nevskiy, a Russian submarine, on an American cruise ship. I received a call from Brick Kelly, the CIA director, a few hours ago. Apparently two torpedoes were fired. The ship went down in less than an hour. At least seven hundred innocent people lost their lives. It would have been worse had not an American sub been in the immediate vicinity, surfacing to pluck many survivors out of the water. Alex, your man in Miami, he was aboard that ship. He actually saw the torpedoes approaching?”
“That’s correct, sir. Stokely Jones and his new bride were beginning their honeymoon. He happened to be o
n deck when they were launched, saw their wakes, and warned the captain.”
“And SSN 75, the U.S. nuclear submarine Texas, was shadowing Nevskiy just prior to the attack. The American commanding officer avers that he has sonar confirmation of the Russian sub’s screw signature, the sound of her outer torpedo doors opening, tubes flooding, and two torpedoes launched. This evidence is incontrovertible. The Russians sank that cruise ship, period.”
Congreve said, “What do they have to say about it? Knowing the Kremlin, they deny it, of course.”
“Except for the presence of the Texas, yes, they would, certainly. Putin called the White House immediately. Deepest regrets. Insisted the Kremlin had no prior knowledge of this attack. The sub is returning to her home port at Sevastopol. The captain will be arrested and interrogated by the KGB. So the question is this: Was this a skipper gone rogue? Was this an accident? Or was this a deliberate attack on America by the Russians for reasons as yet unknown? Answers are vitally important because the West finds itself in the midst of a dangerous diplomatic firestorm.”
“What was President McCloskey’s response?” Congreve asked C.
“He told Putin that, based on the U.S. sub’s report, he was immediately taking all American air, sea, and land forces to DEFCON 3. Depending on what explanations he hears back from the Kremlin within the next forty-eight hours, he will go to the next highest state of readiness, DEFCON 2. That’s one level shy of all-out war.”
“The Russians can come up with a lot of excuses in forty-eight hours. We need proof of what really happened on that sub,” Hawke said.
“Absolutely,” C said. “Right now, U.S. Navy divers are sifting through the debris field on the ocean floor. They will examine every last scrap of those two torpedoes looking for evidence of either a misfire or a deliberate launch. Not much to go on but at the moment it’s all we’ve got.”
“Next steps?” Hawke said, already having a pretty good idea where all this was heading.
“The CIA and the NSA are all over this, naturally. But they’re stretched pretty thin at the moment and they’ve asked for our help. Kelly specifically mentioned you, Alex. And your Russian counterintelligence operation based in Bermuda, Red Banner. Since you are already working in tandem with the CIA, it’s a good fit for something like this.”