Phantom ah-7

by Ted Bell

  “It’s exactly why it was created, as you well know, Sir David.”

  “So, Hawke, old fellow. Will you be staying for dessert?” Trulove asked, smiling at him.

  “I appreciate the offer, sir, but I think not. If you all will excuse me, I’ll take my leave. It seems I suddenly have a rather pressing engagement.”

  “Good man,” C said as Hawke stood and kissed Diana on the cheek. “You’ll keep in touch with me this time, won’t you?”

  Hawke smiled and said, “Hourly updates, sir.”

  “Not that in touch. I’ve other matters on my platter. Good hunting, Alex. I trust you’ll get to the bottom of this in short order.”

  Hawke put a hand on Congreve’s shoulder. “Ambrose, I wonder if I might impose on Diana’s hospitality. Is it possible that my son and Miss Spooner might remain here at Brixden House until this current assignment is completed?”

  “Absolutely, darling,” Diana said to him. “Don’t be silly. We’d adore to have Alexei with us.”

  Hawke paused, thinking. “One other thing you should all be aware of. Alexei, being the grandson of the late Tsar, has been the subject of death threats from certain elements in Moscow. Gaggle of thugs calling themselves the Tsarists. There was an incident on the Red Arrow train en route to St. Petersburg. Ambrose, would you ask your colleagues at Scotland Yard to send a few chaps out here to keep an eye on things?”

  “I’ll put a call in immediately,” Congreve said.

  “Thank you. I’ll run upstairs and kiss him good-bye and then I’ll be off. Sir David, would you like to accompany me? I promised you a peek at him.”

  “I was going to insist on it.”

  “One final thing. Just thought of it in fact. Ambrose, if anything … bad… should happen to me, I wonder if you would do me the very great honor of being Alexei’s godfather. He has no one else, you see, and-”

  “The honor is all mine, Alex. Thank you for your faith in me. I’m deeply moved.”

  And with that Hawke and Sir David Trulove quickly left the room and headed for the upper reaches of the house. Two men off to save the world once more, Ambrose thought, watching them striding up the staircase, realizing he might never see either of them again.

  He puffed away at his pipe, wondering whether the world would ever again sail with such serenity through space as it seemed to do a hundred years ago.

  C ongreve walked Hawke out to his car, the familiar Bentley Continental he called the “Locomotive,” parked in the forecourt.

  “How can I help you, Alex, get to the bottom of this Russian thing?”

  “Good of you to ask and I may indeed call upon that oversized brain of yours before this is all over. But, for now, I already have a plan as to how to get to the bottom of it.”

  “How, may I ask?”

  “By going straight to the top.”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “I mean I’m going to pay a little visit to my dear friend and former cellmate, Prime Minister Vladimir Putin.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Deadly serious.”

  “And just how do you plan to manage it?”

  “Simple, actually. I’m going to ring him up tonight. I have his private number in my wallet.”

  “You ought to be careful, dear boy. To sup with that Russian you’ll need a very long spoon.”

  “Did I ever tell you he and I got thoroughly pissed? A bottle of vodka in his cell in that awful radioactive prison, Energetika?”

  “I don’t believe you did.”

  “Hmm. It’s true. We got rather chummy.”

  “I must say, Alex, that, after all these years, you still have the power to shock and amaze me.”

  Hawke climbed behind the wheel and the Bentley’s monstrous engine exploded to life.

  He smiled at Congreve.

  “Good. May it always be thus, as your idol Mr. Sherlock Holmes might say.”

  With that, Alex Hawke and his great grey Locomotive roared out of Brixden House’s graveled forecourt and disappeared down the winding drive into a warm summer’s night, pearlescent moonlight and shadows of indigo blue showing the way.

  Seventeen

  Cap d’Antibes, France

  Hawke slept peacefully for most of the short flight from Gatwick south of London to the south of France. He was dreaming fitfully of the last time he’d visited the glittering Cote d’Azur. There was a woman in his dream, a beautiful raven-haired Chinese secret police officer.

  Her dream name was Jet something… Jet Li. Yes, and even in his hotel bed, rolling among the twisted sheets, he sensed something wrong. An aura of threat surrounded her… yes… and at the climactic moment of love, she raised a knife above her head and plunged it into his heart…

  “Fifteen minutes to touchdown at Nice Airport, sir,” he heard the copilot of his G-5 announce over the intercom. He picked up the phone mounted inside his armrest and raised his seat back, blinking awake.

  “Is there any hot coffee left, Charley, or did you two polish it off?” Hawke said, raising his window shade, letting light flood the darkened cabin.

  “Still a few drops in the pot, sir; I’ll step out and bring you a mug from the galley.”

  Hawke normally had an attendant on board, but she’d been vacationing in Ibiza with her new husband and he hadn’t wanted to bother her at the last minute, especially for such a short hop.

  “You fly the plane; I think I can still manage to pour myself a cup of coffee, believe it or not. How’s the weather? It looks beautiful down there.”

  Hawke was peering out the big oval window at the sun-sparkled blue Mediterranean ten thousand feet below his airplane. He found himself smiling. If he had to meet with Putin, he’d much rather it be here in paradise than in Moscow, where every other chap he met might want to kill him.

  “Eighteen Celsius right now, sir, winds light, about five knots, ten percent chance of showers late this afternoon.”

  “Bloody perfect. What mischief are you two up to this weekend, while I’m off saving the world from the Evil Empire?”

  “Thought we’d get a hired car, sir, drive along the coast over to Monte Carlo. Not far, and neither I nor the skipper here have ever been.”

  “Ah, the casinos. Hold on to your wallets.”

  “We might have a go, sir. A few quid.”

  “I’d like to be wheels-up by ten Sunday morning. Back to London, unless my host has other ideas.”

  “No problem at all, sir. We’ll have her topped off and ready for you.”

  A silver chopper was waiting on the tarmac fifty feet away, rotors turning. Judging by the large red star and the blue-and-white Russian flag on her fuselage, she was clearly waiting for him. As Hawke descended the Gulfstream’s staircase, taking deep breaths of the fresh salt air, two men in white strode across the tarmac to greet him. Men who walked with the rolling gait of seamen. Heavily muscled jack-tars who no doubt carried concealed weapons.

  Both wore white gabardine trousers and skintight white T-shirts with a silhouette of a megayacht and the name Red Star emblazoned below it. One stepped forward and extended his hand. He had a wide white smile and blond hair, cut close.

  “Commander Hawke,” he said. “Welcome. I am Yaniv Soha and this is my colleague Yuri. The prime minister extends his warmest greetings and says he is looking forward to having you as a guest aboard Red Star. We are here to provide you with diplomatic security. And anything else you require. Can we help you with your luggage?”

  Hawke had only the old canvas seabag slung from his shoulder.

  “I’m good, thank you.”

  “Do you mind if I look inside the bag, sir? Standard precaution.”

  “I’d be worried if you didn’t.” Hawke smiled, handing it to him. The man picked through the items slowly and carefully, examining each one more than thoroughly.

  “Excellent,” he said, returning the bag. “Very well, if you’ll come this way, it’s a very short flight out to Red Star. She’s ancho
red just off the Hotel du Cap at Cap d’Antibes.”

  The three men started for the Russian military helo, which was spooling up.

  “I saw her on final approach. Magnificent. What’s her l.o.a.?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Length overall.”

  “Ah. One hundred meters, sir. Three hundred feet.”

  “Impressive.”

  T he silver chopper hovered above the yacht’s helo pad, located near the stern. As Hawke emerged from the cockpit he saw Vladimir Putin striding toward him, an honest smile on his face and his hand extended. He was wearing a black bathing suit and a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was in very good shape, much better than the pale skeleton he’d been when the two of them had been inmates at Energetika Prison.

  “Alex,” Putin said as they shook hands.

  “Volodya,” Hawke said, smiling.

  “My old cellmate, we meet again.”

  “Under considerably better circumstances, I would say,”

  “Your pilot waggled his wings as he flew over Red Star. Made me laugh. I admire your style.”

  “I was asleep. My pilot’s the one with the style. What an incredible yacht. Yours?”

  “I’d never admit it publicly, but yes. The sea has become my sanctuary. Come on, I’ll give you a short tour. Just enough time for a tour and a cocktail before lunch. We’re going ashore to the Hotel du Cap. I hope that’s suitable. If not, my chef can cook anything you like.”

  “You just happened to have picked one of my favorite hotels on earth. Fifty quid for a Salade Nicoise with a teaspoon of tuna is pushing it a bit, but still.”

  Putin laughed, clapping him on the back. “Follow me. We’ll start on the bridge. You’re difficult to impress, but I think you will be. You still have Blackhawke?”

  Putin walked very quickly and Hawke matched his stride as they headed forward along the starboard deck.

  “Yes, but I’m building a new one in Turkey. Sail, not power this time.”

  “Tell me about her. I’m new to yachting and have become fascinated with them.”

  “Well, she’s basically a twenty-first-century clipper ship. Three carbon fiber masts, each one about twenty stories tall. Extreme, I suppose.”

  “The more extreme, the better. How long is she?”

  “Three hundred twenty l.o.a., forty-two-foot beam, and she draws twenty feet. The naval architect, a Turk named Badi, told me that if she were anchored in New York harbor her mastheads would reach up to the level of the tablet carried in the arm of the Statue of Liberty.”

  “Good God, Alex.”

  “You only go around once in life, right? You know what all megayacht owners love saying to each other? ‘Mine’s bigger.’ ”

  Putin laughed. “Good one. I’ll have to remember that.”

  “My idea for the new one was to have all the attributes of a classic sailing ship, teak decks, varnished cap rail, et cetera, but with the overall appearance sleek, metallic, ultramodern. She looks a bit foreboding, to be honest. Darth Vader’s intergalactic yacht, the architect calls her.”

  “I hope you’ll invite me aboard sometime. She sounds magnificent.”

  “Done. I’m going to Istanbul for her sea trials in a month or so. I’ll let you know.”

  They entered the bridge, and all the officers and crewmen snapped to attention.

  “Captain Ramius,” Putin said to Red Star ’s skipper, “I’d like you to meet our guest, Alex Hawke. He’s just built a new yacht in Turkey. He’s been admiring our beautiful ship, but he has something he’d like to tell you, don’t you, Alex?”

  Hawke grinned at the captain.

  “Mine’s bigger.”

  Eighteen

  Putin’s security insisted the two men dine inside the hotel’s Eden Roc restaurant rather than at a table overlooking the sea. Hawke noticed that the prime minister did not argue. He knew that the man felt safe only two places in the world: inside the Kremlin walls and on board Red Star. Countless men wanted him dead, a lot of them with good reason. For all his star power on the world’s stage and celebrity, he was virtually a prisoner.

  Upon entering the Eden Roc restaurant and being shown their table, in the corner, overlooking the sea, Hawke immediately noticed that someone was already seated at their table. A large fellow in a navy blazer sat with his back to them, but the man was instantly recognizable to Alex Hawke.

  Good God, Hawke thought, it’s Stefan Halter.

  Putin being Putin, but there was nothing for it. He’d laid a small trap for his British guest. He’d be watching the two of them closely, looking for any sign of recognition. Stefan, an MI6 officer who’d been at Cambridge with Congreve, had been burrowed deep within the Kremlin, a mole for over three decades. He was far and away the most valuable asset Six had inside Russia.

  Over the years, the two men had become good friends. Hawke steeled himself for the coming trial of that friendship as Halter rose to his feet and turned to greet them.

  “Ah, Stefanovich, you’re early,” Putin said, beaming. He turned to Alex, introducing him. “You know Lord Hawke, no doubt.”

  Putin smiled quizzically, foxlike, waiting to pounce.

  Stefan looked at Alex, his eyes mercifully blank as he stuck out his hand. “Only by reputation, I’m afraid.”

  “It’s his reputation that makes you afraid, isn’t it?” Putin said with unforced joviality, and both men smiled at the prime minister’s flash of wit.

  Did we pass that test? Hawke wondered.

  Drinks were ordered, and the luncheon seemed, to Hawke anyway, to go off without a glitch. He and Halter engaged in meaningless small talk, saving the serious stuff for their host.

  The three tables surrounding the Russian leader had been reserved for nine bodyguards. And Hawke was certain there were Russian security officers scattered all over the beautiful gardens and lawns of the magnificent old hotel.

  Hawke, for his part, was glad he was in a hotel so accustomed to celebrity guests that there was zero chance he’d be surprised by paparazzi. The last thing he needed was a big color photo of him dining with Vladimir Putin in Britain’s Hello magazine. They had just finished their Salade Nicoise when Dr. Henry Kissinger stopped at the table on his way out. He greeted the Russian leader warmly and graciously recognized Hawke when Putin introduced the two men.

  Then the old American warrior bent and whispered something in Putin’s ear. Volodya nodded carefully, excused himself from the table, and walked with Kissinger past the maitre d’ and into the sunshine. Hawke could see them through the window, walking arm in arm through the tall pines, deep in conversation.

  “Stefan,” Hawke said, leaning toward Halter and in a voice low enough not to be overheard, “I shall never be able to repay you. I knew you took a chance, telling me the Kremlin rumors.”

  “I haven’t heard a thing. You’re still alive, thank God.”

  “They are alive,” Hawke said, his eyes glistening with gratitude.

  Halter had a difficult time maintaining composure.

  “Alive. So it was true.”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t tell me you managed to get them out.”

  “Just my son.”

  “Oh, Alex, how utterly marvelous.”

  “You’ve no idea. His name is Alexei. Three years old.”

  “And Anastasia?”

  “Wouldn’t leave. Out of fear and-commitment. She married Kuragin out of gratitude. I was angry of course, at first. But in hindsight I can see the sense of it. I’ve forgiven her and-”

  “She thought you were dead, Alex.”

  “She did. And she felt great compassion for-here comes our host. To be continued.”

  “W ell, Alex,” Putin said, taking his seat and a sip of his vodka, “I’m fairly certain you didn’t request this meeting because you’ve finally decided to take me up on my offer. But don’t worry, there’s no deadline. I’m sure one fine day you’ll come to your senses.”

  Hawke smiled a
t the two Russians. “I’m sure you two gentlemen know why I’m here, Volodya.”

  “That fucking submarine. It’s why I invited Stefanovich to fly down from Moscow this morning and join us. He’s been looking into the damn mess for me personally.”

  Hawke said, “What in the hell really happened? This was a blatant provocation that has put the world in an extremely delicate situation. As you well know, American military has gone to DEFCON 3 readiness for war. MI6 is not buying the ‘accident’ story, nor is CIA. Nor, frankly, am I. One torpedo, possibly, but two? For the life of me, unless this commander went rogue or simply insane, I am mystified.”

  “As am I, Alex,” Putin said. “First of all, I will save you the embarrassment of asking a stupid question. No, the Kremlin had no foreknowledge of this action, nor did anyone in my government have the slightest hand in this tragedy.”

  “Thank you. That’s very helpful.”

  Halter added, “The Nevskiy ’s captain, Lyachin, is currently in Moscow. KGB officers are interrogating him. As you know, they do not share the West’s delicate sensibilities when it comes to extracting information from enemies of the state.”

  “So,” Hawke said, “what does this Lyachin have to say for himself? How can he possibly exculpate himself from responsibility?”

  “He’s far more worried about how to exculpate himself from a firing squad, believe me.”

  “His explanation, then?”

  “It is so ludicrous as to defy belief. I hesitate to even tell you lest you think my top military commanders are all taking hallucinogens. But this is his story and he isn’t budging. By the way, he made sure the crew got their stories straight. Every single officer and crewman aboard that sub swears the captain is telling the truth.”

  “And that is?”

  “Explain it, Stefanovich. I can’t stand to hear myself repeat it one more time.”

  “The Nevskiy was in the midst of a typical firing drill. The cruise ship happened to be chosen as a phony target of opportunity, simply because she was there. It was to be a dry fire exercise, period. And then, in the middle of the drill, the entire submarine, according to Lyachin, was taken over by some mysterious ‘force.’ That’s the exact word he used. ‘Force.’ All controls, including helm, diving planes, ballast controls, and, most unfortunately, her weapons systems, were wrested from the hands of the captain and crew.”