by Ted Bell
They must have been stalking her for weeks. They clearly knew her Sunday schedule and they’d been waiting this morning for Alexei and her to arrive through the Rutland Gate.
Now, they intended to trample them both to death.
She reached into her bag and pulled out the. 45 automatic, at the same time pushing Alexei out the way.
“Run!” she cried. “Run, Alexei! Go to Peter Pan! Go to Peter now! It’s a race! I’ll catch you!”
The riders were upon them and Alexei hadn’t moved. He was transfixed by the sight of the approaching horses, thundering directly toward him.
“Stop!” she cried out. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”
She raised the gun and took dead aim at the man who was in the lead. His path was unswerving. He meant to crush them, you could see it in his eyes. And he had a gun, too, she now saw, fitted with a silencer. The killer leaned forward in his saddle, the reins in his left hand, the gun in his right.
She squeezed the trigger three times, two rounds in the chest, the third to the head. He toppled from the saddle, but one foot was hung up in the stirrup. The horse reared up in panic. The second horse swerved to avoid it. It was headed directly toward Alexei and she had only seconds to act.
She dove for the boy, giving him a violent shove that sent him flying into the hedges.
She was suddenly aware of excruciating pain below her waist, her legs being trampled by the pounding hooves. But she was still alive. She used her arms to roll herself over, pulling the gun free of her body, and getting it up just in time to get off a single shot at the fleeing second horseman.
She’d only winged him, she saw, caught him in the right shoulder. He almost came off the horse, the power of the. 45-caliber round like a sledgehammer at such close range, but he managed to keep his seat and galloped away.
She heard Alexei somewhere behind her, screaming her name, “Spooner! Spooner… bad horsies… bad…”
He staggered toward her, bloodied and bruised.
Spooner opened her arms to him.
And then… all was black.
A mbrose Congreve forked the last of the perfectly prepared shad roe into his mouth, sat back, swallowed, and pronounced it “Extraordinary.” The food at Black’s, Hawke’s private club on St. James, was one of the many reasons he and Hawke often made it their meeting place of choice-especially when invited to lunch by Sir David Trulove. C was not a member but, knowing that Hawke had a personal budget roughly as large as that of MI6, never declined Hawke’s invitation to dine there.
They always chose a corner table in the lounge. It was extremely private, for one thing, and the tall windows provided exquisite lighting, rain or shine. Today the sun lay like golden bars across the ancient Persian carpets. The room’s dark walnut paneling rose magnificently to a white vaulted ceiling, the walls hung with portraits of distinguished members long dead, including the club’s first reigning arbiter elegantiarum, Beau Brummell (who claimed to take five hours to dress and polished his boots with champagne), Horatio Walpole, Edward VII, Randolph Churchill, and the brilliant novelist Evelyn Waugh.
The table was cleared of the luncheon china and as soon as the waitstaff had disappeared into the shadows, Congreve fired up his pipe, expelled a blue plume, and set his eyes on Sir David. It was a rule at Black’s that one did not discuss business, but Congreve still subscribed to historian Sir Michael Howard’s pronouncement in 1985 that “So far as official government policy is concerned, the British security and intelligence services do not exist. Enemy agents are found under gooseberry bushes and intelligence is brought by the storks.”
That being the case, the famous criminalist blithely returned to the matter at hand.
“Sir David,” he said, “please continue. You were saying that the CIA has come up with something that warrants attention. Something that has to do with the recent spate of attacks by some nameless, faceless enemy and apparently with the power to seize control of our own most sophisticated weapons systems and use them against us. As we saw in Israel just last week in the Negev Desert.”
“Indeed, it’s a bloody nightmare and it appears to be spreading,” C said, crossing his legs and adjusting the crease of his chalk-striped navy suit. “Director Kelly and I had a long chat last evening. I think he may have something of interest. The first break we’ve had. I know you’re both aware of the American Nobel laureate who recently committed suicide?”
“Yes,” Hawke said, “Dr. Waldo Cohen, a pioneer in the field of artificial intelligence. Did top-secret work for the American Defense Department looking for ways to utilize AI and quantum computing to leapfrog ahead in twenty-first-century cyberwarfare, to create weapons with the help of some kind of machine with superhuman intelligence.”
Congreve coughed discreetly and said, “Seems to me it’s our frog that’s been leaped.”
“It certainly does,” C said, “and I’m looking to the two of you to find out who the hell that bloody frog-leaper is. We can’t sit back and let the bastards continue these attacks unabated. We’ve got to get to the source. Find out who’s behind this and exactly what kind of technology they’ve developed. That’s your assignment. Understood?”
“Certainly, sir,” Hawke said. “You said Director Kelly mentioned a break in the case?”
“Yes. He attended Dr. Cohen’s funeral in California along with President McCloskey and the secretary of defense. After the service, he had a long and interesting discussion with Cohen’s widow. She’s convinced it wasn’t a suicide. She told Kelly her husband had been murdered.”
“Murdered?” Congreve said. “I read in the Times that he’d shot himself and his dog.”
C continued, “She believes he was acting in some kind of trance. Induced over the telephone, electronically. A call he received just after dinner.”
“You mean, sir, there’s a possibility someone took control of his mind and… used it against him,” Hawke said. “Just like the other attacks.”
“Precisely, Alex.”
“Good Lord,” Congreve said. “Mind control, too.”
Hawke looked at him and said, “Congreve and I will leave for the States immediately, sir. We’ll want to speak with the widow at length. I agree with Brick Kelly’s assessment. This could be a real break.”
“One more thing, Alex. She said she found a note. Not a suicide note, just something he’d scrawled on a pad beside the phone in his laboratory. On it was a single word scrawled in Cohen’s hand: Darius. And beneath that name, an equation. Something to do with the speed of light.”
At that moment a liveried steward appeared at their table, visibly trembling, his face as white as a sheet.
“My lord Hawke. Frightfully sorry to have disturbed you. We’ve just received a call from St. Thomas’s Hospital. I regret to inform you there’s been an accident. In Hyde Park, sir, and-”
“My son!” Hawke said, stricken, leaping to his feet.
“Your son suffered minor cuts and contusions, m’lord. But his nursemaid has been gravely injured. If you’ll come with me, the police at the hospital are waiting on the private line.”
Hawke raced from the room, grim-faced and angry.
“Good Lord,” Congreve said, deeply shaken. “The bloody Russians. Another attempt on the boy’s life. This is the third.”
“Chief Inspector. This cannot continue.”
“Indeed, Sir David. We need to find a way to send these people a very, very strong signal.”
“It may be too late.”
“Sorry?”
“One of my chaps in Moscow, SAS officer named Concasseur, code name ‘Wellington,’ has penetrated an organization called the Tsarist Society. A confederacy of ideologues, thieves, and killers for hire posing as a gentlemen’s club. They have a hit list long as your arm. Concasseur has managed to obtain that list through a paid informant inside the club. He reports three names at the top. Putin is number one. The child, Alexei Hawke, is number two. Alex Hawke himself is number three. Revenge murders for Alex�
�s assassination of their beloved Tsar. With Putin’s assistance, of course.”
“Bugger all.”
“Precisely, Chief Inspector. I suggest we get cracking. I’ll put in a call to Concasseur immediately. See what he can find out from his contact on the inside. We’ll need specific names before we can go after anyone inside that Society of Murder.”
Thirty-two
Miami
Stokely Jones Jr. was wearing mirrored Ray-Ban aviators and a XXXL Vineyard Vines bathing suit with red sharks all over it. He was stretched out on a pink-and-white chaise longue beside the infinity pool at his palatial home on Key Biscayne. His new wife, Fancha, had inherited the gorgeous bayside estate known as Casa Que Canta, when her late, extremely wealthy husband passed away some years earlier. The late and unloved Joey Mancuso had been a Chicago nightclub owner, among other things, and no one ever accused him of being strictly legit.
Fancha once told Stoke that Joey had always claimed to have invented the rum and Coke. The rum and Coke? What else was there to say about the guy?
Emerald-green lawns swept down from the pool to a white sandy beach fringed with palms. Out on the sparkling blue bay, scores of white sails crisscrossed, tacking to and fro in the fresh breeze. The walled estate was on a small private island called Low Key. You couldn’t find it if you tried, so don’t even bother.
Stoke called his new residence God’s Little Acre, although there were actually ten of them surrounding him. The large eleven-bedroom home was a dazzling white palazzo situated atop a small hill surrounded by dense green jungle. The architecture was, Stoke had learned, a blend of Spanish, Moorish, and Italianate influences, built around a tranquil garden courtyard, home to splashing fountains, bougainvillea, and colorful tropical birds.
He even had a cook, a gardener, and a houseman named Charles who wore white jackets with shiny brass buttons and called Mrs. Stokely Jones Jr. “Madame” for short.
He liked it here. It was, well, homey.
It was Sunday morning in Miami and Stokely was reading a long article in the Herald ’s sports section about how the Dolphins were poised for a winning season come September. Winning? Dolphins? In one sentence? He put the paper down and sipped his banana smoothie, his brow furrowed in thought.
He had about an hour to kill before Fancha returned from her Pilates class. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to amble down to the beach and go for swim in the turquoise waters of Biscayne Bay or take his new wedding present from Fancha, a beautiful Aquariva Gucci speedboat, out on the bay for a high-speed run over to Stiltsville and back.
Tough call, he said to himself, smiling. Just another beautiful day in paradise. That’s when the phone on the small poolside table rang. Even before he picked it up he knew it was trouble. He knew only women were supposed to have female intuition, but he had it, too.
His CIA buddy, Harry Brock, had once told Stoke maybe he was just a teensy-weensy bit too much in touch with his feminine side for comfort. Stoke offered to put Harry too much in touch with the sledgehammer called his right fist and it shut him up.
Harry had been married once. The nicest thing he could say about her was that she was a woman who, as a young girl, had seen better days. Now Brock was wild and single and claimed he got more ass than a rental car. Funny guy, Harry. A laugh riot. Why he didn’t have his own reality TV show was a mystery to Stoke.
“Hello? Jones residence, whom may I say is calling?” Stoke said with his fake English accent.
“Stokely, it’s Alex.”
“Hey, boss, long time. How are you, my brother?” Stoke could already tell from the sound of his voice how he was.
“Not good. Not good at all. I’m calling you from St. Thomas’s Hospital in London. I’m here with Alexei. Two men on horseback tried to kill him a few hours ago. Nell Spooner killed one of them; the other was arrested shortly thereafter. The police are interrogating him now. Another bloody Russian KGB assassin.”
“Ah, damn it. Again? We’ve got to do something about these dickheads. How is my little buddy? He’s okay, I hope?”
“Facial contusions and a deep gash on his right cheek. They’re keeping him overnight for observation. I wish I could say the same for Miss Spooner. She dove headlong to push Alexei out of the way of the second horse and it trampled her. Multiple fractures in her right leg. She’ll walk, the doctors said, but she’s in for a tough go for a while, I’m afraid.”
“What can I do? You don’t sound good at all. You need me, I’m there.”
“Thank you, Stoke. You always are. I don’t want to disturb what’s left of your honeymoon.”
“Honeymoon’s over. Blown out of the water. Tell me what I can do.”
“As I said, the two men who tried to kill my son are Russians. Hired killers who work for an organization called the Tsarist Society based in Moscow. These people, called the ‘Vory,’ are the top dogs within the Russian criminal hierarchy. They’ve been able to infiltrate the top political and economic strata while taking command of the burgeoning crime network that spread murderously in the post-Soviet era. In order to be accepted into the society, they must demonstrate leadership, personal ability, intellect, charisma, and a well-documented criminal history, including murder.”
“Not exactly the Rotarians.”
“Right. And the Vory have spread around the world-Berlin, New York, Madrid; they’re involved in everything from petty theft, kidnapping, and murder to billion-dollar money laundering. The Tsarists are at the top of the crime food chain and act as arbiters among conflicting Russian criminal factions. Even Putin can’t touch them and expect to remain alive.”
“Well, I can touch them. And I will.”
“One more thing. These guys all bear the same tattoos on the bottoms of their feet. A baby.”
“A baby?”
“Yes. It means ‘prison-born, prison-dead.’ The assassins all have an additional tat, a blue scorpion on the back of the neck. Coroner in Miami told me the uninvited guest at your wedding had one, proving he was a Tsarist. I want the bastards responsible for targeting my son to go down, Stoke. I would gladly go to Moscow and do it myself but I’m not about to leave Alexei alone right now. As it is, I’ve got to make a day trip to Istanbul and I’m even worried about that.”
“What’s in Istanbul?”
“The new Blackhawke. I just got a call from the shipbuilders, a yard called Barbaros. She’s ready for sea trials and delivery. Obviously, I have to go. A week from tomorrow.”
“Man, from what you’ve told me, that’s going to be one hell of a rowboat. When do I get to go for a ride?”
“Good question. Why don’t you come to Istanbul and do the sea trials with me? I could use your input. This thing’s a fighting machine, Stoke. I’d love you to see it.”
“Don’t have to ask me twice, boss. I’ll be there.”
“Done. How soon can you be in Moscow?”
“I’m on the next flight out of here. Just tell me what to do.”
“MI6 has a field agent in Moscow operating undercover at our embassy there. Old war buddy of mine named Concasseur. SAS combat vet, hard as nails with fists of stone. By the time you get there, he will have a plan of action for dealing with these people. I took the liberty of telling him you were coming. Sorry, I didn’t want to waste a second.”
“So this is a black-ops MI6 mission, right? Anything goes? All bets are off?”
“Anything goes. Do whatever you have to do to make these people understand who they’re dealing with and back the hell off. Now, listen. It could get a little spicy over there. What’s your mate Harry Brock up to these days?”
“The professional Californian? He lives down here in sunny south Florida now. Still CIA, but working out of the Miami station. I even sublet him my penthouse apartment on Brickell Key. Fancha ever kicks me out, I kick Harry out and, bam, I’m back in my penthouse in the sky.”
“Is he available?”
“Just back from a week in Cuba. Checking up on Fidel’s health, maki
ng sure it’s still bad. Yeah, he’s available. Good call, boss. Harry’s a true ground-pounder, but he has a way of coming in handy when he puts his mind to it. But I know how you feel about him, so-”
“I’ve come to a conclusion about your friend Harry, Stoke. I think he’s actually a first-class person with an obsessive compulsion to behave like a second-class person.”
“I think you’ve nailed him. So what do you want me to do?”
“Book him immediately. We need him. Concasseur has instructions to provide you both with whatever you need while you’re in Moscow. He has orders from C to ascertain the name or names of whoever inside the Tsarists is ordering these attacks on my family. MI6 will take care of your travel arrangements. Call our embassy in Moscow and get them to book rooms, a hired car if you need one. Use my name. Have you been to Moscow before?”
“Never.”
“Keep your eyes open every second. It’s a police state no matter how they try to dress it up. And the local uniformed police are not to be trusted under any circumstances. Don’t talk to them, don’t even look them in the eye. Corruption is a way of life. If you get in any trouble at all, call me immediately. I have friends in high places there.”
“How high?”
“As high as it gets.”
“Please tell Miss Spooner and little Alexei I said get well soon. And give Alexei a big hug from his uncle Stoke.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks, Stoke. I knew I could count on you.”
“Till the day I die and maybe even after that. Come back as Alexei’s guardian angel or something.”