Phantom ah-7

by Ted Bell

  “Good Lord.”

  “Professor Partridge,” Hawke said, getting to his feet. “You’ve been enormously helpful. On behalf of the Secret Intelligence Service, MI6, and Scotland Yard, Chief Inspector Congreve and I express our deep appreciation for your service to your country. We thank you for your time.”

  Partridge regarded him thoughtfully.

  “Time? What is time, really? The Swiss manufacture it. The French hoard it. Italians want it. Americans say it’s money. Hindus say it does not exist. Do you know what I say? I say time is a crook.”

  “Could not agree more,” Congreve said heartily. “Brilliantly put, Professor.”

  As they closed the door behind them, Hawke whispered, “Could you possibly have been any more obsequious back there?”

  “What? Me?”

  “No. The other chap in the rather hectic lemon-yellow tweed shooting jacket.”

  Forty-one

  Portofino, Italy

  The fisherman slipped his long oars into the black water as smoothly and silently as his long fillet knife sliced into the silver bellies of his livelihood. Then he heaved back on the oars’ rough wooden handles, and the small fishing boat’s prow slid forward, making barely a ripple. He wasn’t being paid two months’ wages in one night to make haste; he was being paid to make himself and his boat invisible, or at least go unnoticed.

  The three men who were his passengers kept their heads below the gunnels. Two were stretched out full length, heads in the bow, one to port and the other to starboard. The third was the lookout, raising his head just enough to check their progress every five minutes or so. He didn’t know much Italian, but it was enough for Giancarlo Brunello to understand which way he wanted the boat pointed.

  “Diretto, diretto,” the man whispered, just loud enough to be heard. “Straight ahead.”

  “Si, comprendo, signore.”

  It was a dark night. No moon, no stars. His boat, Maria, named for his wife, had very little freeboard. And she was painted a dark blue. It was just what they wanted, they’d told him at the dock late that afternoon: a dark boat with a low profile. He was to meet them on the docks at this exact location at midnight. For that much money, he said, he’d meet them anywhere, anytime. They were going scuba diving, they said, to dive on a wreck about three or four miles at sea, out beyond the mouth of Portofino’s famously picturesque harbor. They planned to do some nighttime marine photography, the guy told him, for some magazine in Milano that Giancarlo had never heard of.

  And sure enough all three had arrived wearing black wet suits, carrying their fins, tanks, regulators, and black waterproof satchels with their equipment hung over their shoulders. Cameras and lights, the lead guy said, stepping carefully down into the boat.

  Giancarlo thought it was strange that they had to do this photo shoot in such secrecy, but he kept those thoughts to himself. These guys were nothing like the typical fashion photographers from Rome who descended on Portofino to shoot the beautiful models from all over the world. He worked the shoots sometimes, renting Maria as a prop for five hundred lire per hour and sometimes even modeling himself, rowing these gorgeous babes in skimpy bathing suits around the harbor and getting paid for it!

  But tonight paid even better, and he and Maria, with a baby on the way, could certainly use the extra money.

  “Okay,” the lookout guy whispered, “we’re getting close. You see that big yacht anchored out there? The one farthest out? About half a mile.”

  “Hard to miss it, signore. That’s Red Star. She belongs to the Russian oil billionaire, Khodorkovsky. All the tourists want to come out and see her, but the security is very discouraging about people getting too close.”

  The thing was enormous. It practically blotted out the sky. It had to be over three hundred feet long and it dwarfed the other megayachts anchored nearby.

  “We’re almost over the wreck. I think the best place for us to go down is behind that yacht there, the nearest one to our right. Duck in behind her and heave your anchor. We’ll be down on the wreck for about half an hour. If you want your money, you’ll be here when we return. If you manage not to attract any attention, I’ll pay you a bonus.”

  “I’ll be here, signore, do not worry yourself.”

  In a matter of minutes the three divers had slipped over the side and disappeared. Giancarlo had no idea what they were up to, but he was pretty damn sure it wasn’t fashion photography. There was something sinister about them, not that he gave a damn-money was money. He made himself comfortable, lit a cigarette, and pulled the cork on his wine bottle with his teeth. Giancarlo Brunello was a happy man.

  T he three divers swam toward the huge megayacht at a depth of fifty feet. They were wearing German-made Drager rebreathers. The machines recirculated the spent oxygen so there were no telltale bubbles on the surface to mark their progress toward Red Star.

  They operated using hand signals. When they were directly beneath the Russian behemoth’s keel, Dimitry Putov, their leader, raised a flat palm to halt them. He then pointed to himself and then the center of the keel. They would take the bow and the stern. They signaled that they understood, and all three began surfacing slowly beneath Prime Minister Putin’s toy.

  Each man had a limpet mine in his black satchel. The mines were shaped like a discus, about thirty inches across and eight inches thick. They had powerful suction cup adhesion on one side, and on the other a det cord attached to a timer. Once the mines were attached to the hull, and the timers synchronized, the divers would simply swim back to rendezvous with the fisherman and make their way back to the harbor.

  The three mines had been created especially for this special-ops mission. Based on the modern Italian VS-SS-22, which utilized the conventional explosive Semtex, they had been converted into what is commonly known as nuclear “dirty bombs.”

  Each limpet mine now contained an enormously powerful combination of dynamite and the radioactive material cesium. The cesium had been secretly obtained by demolition operatives of the Tsarist Society posing as cancer patients. Cesium was the material used in radiation treatment for such patients. It was easy to obtain and a source that the Tsarists had ensured would be completely untraceable.

  The explosion of the three dirty bombs would cause far more damage than the radiation, making it the ideal weapon for an assassination of this type. The bomb makers in Moscow had assured the team that there would be nothing left of Putin’s megayacht bigger than what could fit inside a teacup.

  The bombs attached and the timers set, the three divers swam away from Red Star and headed directly to the rendezvous point.

  The bedside telephone jangled. Hawke, suddenly wide awake, rolled over and squinted one eye at the illuminated clock. Three-bloody-thirty in the morning. He sat up, let his head clear for a second, reminding himself that this was his private line at the house in London. He picked up the receiver.

  “This better be good.”

  “It isn’t. Alex, it’s Concasseur, ringing from Moscow. I’ve just gotten a piece of information from my paid informant. Putin is to be assassinated.”

  “When?”

  “Within the hour. It’s possible he’s already dead. A great deal of planning has gone into this. He won’t survive the attempt. Nor will anyone else aboard the yacht.”

  “Ian, tell me, is he aboard Red Star?”

  “Yes. Anchored off Portofino. Along with President Medvedev and the American vice president, David Rosow. A top-secret powwow about getting the hell out of Afghanistan with as few casualties as possible.”

  “Good God.”

  “You have his private mobile number?”

  “I do. I’ll call immediately.”

  “According to my source inside the Tsarists, they all need to get off that boat as fast as humanly possible. And as far away from it as possible.”

  “Thanks, Ian. Let’s hope we’re not too late.”

  “Good luck, sir.”

  The line went dead and Hawke punched in Putin�
�s cell number, reading from his bedside address book. He heard the man click on but remain silent. He never spoke until spoken to.

  “Volodya?”

  “Depends. Who is this?”

  “It’s Hawke. Listen carefully. You have to get off the boat immediately. I have good human intel coming out of Moscow. An assassination attempt within the hour. No idea how long you’ve got left, but you need to get out of there now. Is your helicopter aboard?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I know you have important visitors. Get them into that chopper and into the air. Every second counts. Best of luck, Volodya.”

  “Alex, I appreciate-”

  “Don’t talk, run.”

  Putin disconnected and rang the bridge.

  “Captain Ramius, two things. There’s to be an attack on the vessel within the hour. Perhaps within the next five minutes. You need to give the order to abandon ship. First, you call my helo pilot and tell him to start the engines and be ready to take off in two minutes. I’m departing now. Have the stewards awaken President Medvedev and Vice President Rosow immediately and escort them immediately to the helo pad. Just tell them I’ve declared an emergency.”

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  “There’s no time to argue. I want you to meet me at the helicopter. You’re going with me. Get the entire crew off the boat and tell them to get as far away from it as quickly as they can. Use all the launches. Get moving, Captain Ramius; I’ll see you in a few moments.”

  Putin pulled on a pair of trousers and a wool sweater and was out the door of the owner’s stateroom and racing up the aft stairs to the pad as fast as he could. He emerged on deck and was relieved to see the main rotor blades and tail rotor on his helicopter already spinning, the powerful engines spooling up. He raced up the staircase to the pad and sprinted to the aircraft, leaping inside. His pilot, though stunned, had been trained for moments like this and was surreally calm and collected.

  “Three more passengers,” Putin said breathlessly. “We’ll give them sixty seconds.”

  Medvedev appeared moments later followed by Vice President Rosow. Both men were in pajamas and robes. Putin looked at his watch. Thirty seconds. Twenty.

  “Get Captain Ramius on the intercom,” he shouted at his pilot.

  Ramius’s voice came over the speaker. “Sir, I have never disobeyed a direct order in my life. But I cannot leave my ship without making sure my crew has disembarked to the last man. I apologize, sir.”

  “He’s gone,” the pilot said.

  “So are we,” Putin said. “Go! Go! Go!”

  The silver chopper nosed down a few degrees as the pilot grabbed the cyclic.

  “Maximum lift force,” Putin shouted and it was a good thing because just as the chopper rose into the air his yacht began blowing up right under his feet. The explosion rocked the aircraft violently sideways but not out of the air.

  The shock wave actually shoved the helo upward, so that it barely stayed above the rising mass of flame and debris. The pilot, realizing he had less than a second to act before flying metal destroyed his aircraft, turned steeply, then used every ounce of thrust the powerful engines had to send his aircraft flying just above the surface of the water, away from the disintegrating Red Star at full throttle. When they were over the coastline, they climbed to a few thousand feet and returned to the scene where the fiery skeleton of Putin’s beloved yacht lit up the night sky with great plumes of orange, red, and yellow.

  Putin felt a hollow feeling somewhere between his lungs and his stomach. He pulled out his mobile and punched in a number.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me. Red Star is no more. I owe you one.”

  “Yes, Volodya; I’m glad you’re safe.”

  Putin looked down at the sea below, ablaze with flaming oil and fuel. No one could have survived this. No one.

  The force of the three simultaneous nuclear explosions, heard for miles, knocked out windows all through the little port town of Portofino, including those in a little late-night bar called Ruffino where the three Russians were in the act of toasting their success with sloshing glasses of vodka.

  Forty-two

  London

  A typically wet evening in London. The ceaseless patter of rain on the streets of Mayfair gleaming black and silver. Outside the Dorchester, doormen tried to whistle taxis up out of the darkness. Traffic was crawling through the narrow streets like one long glistening centipede with countless haloed eyes. Stuck in the middle of all this was an old grey Bentley. In the rear, Alex Hawke and Nell Spooner gazed out the rain-streaked windows at the rushing passersby huddled beneath their big black umbrellas.

  It was Friday night. Their first “date.”

  They seemed to have run out of conversation.

  Hawke was drumming his fingers impatiently upon his knee.

  “Henry,” he said, leaning forward to speak to his new driver, “I think if you take a left here on Audley Street, it might be a bit quicker.”

  “Of course, sir. Sorry about the traffic.”

  “Not your fault. It’s the bloody rain; it brings everything to a screeching standstill. I’ve never understood the concept. I just don’t want to lose my reservation. Taboori only has about eight tables.”

  “I’ll do my very best, sir.”

  Nell said, “Alex, how many blocks is it from here? Taboori?”

  “I’d say five or six. Why?”

  “I’m game for walking, if you are.”

  “Walking? You’re barely off your crutches, Nell.”

  “I think it would be good for me. I’m desperate for strength and balance exercise. And, besides, I love walking in the rain.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Henry, sorry, could you pull over? We’re going to hop out and walk the rest of the way.”

  “Of course, sir,” he said, and pulled over to the curb. “At what time should I collect you?”

  “Tenish would be good, thanks. See you then.”

  They started walking up Audley Street in the direction of Grosvenor Square. The rain was misty now, but blowing into their faces beneath the umbrella Hawke held above them. He took her hand, squeezing it.

  “You’re trembling,” he said. “Are you cold?” He put his arm around her shoulders, pulled her closer.

  “If I’m trembling, it’s not weather related.”

  “Sorry,” he said, quickly removing his arm.

  “I did rather like the arm, though.”

  He wrapped it once more around her shoulders and pulled her into him, the two of them cocooned beneath the big black umbrella.

  “How do your legs feel?”

  “Happy.”

  “And you?”

  “Happy, too.”

  “Do you mind if we lose the umbrella? I think I might like walking in the rain, too. My mum used to say rain won’t hurt you unless you’re made of sugar.”

  “Be brave. Go for it and see.”

  Hawke paused on the sidewalk, collapsed the umbrella, and turned his face up into the gently falling rain.

  “See? She was right, your mother. You’re not melting.”

  They wandered on, blending into the Friday night crowd, hearing the music and laughter that wafted out of the opened pub doors. Hawke pulled her even closer to him.

  “I-like you, you know,” he said.

  “I know. It’s very nice.”

  “Not far now. A few more blocks.”

  “Tell me about your mum, Alex. Is she still alive?”

  “No. She died when I was seven. My father as well.”

  “How horrible. Accident?”

  “Murder.”

  “Oh, Alex. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

  “Nobody does. It’s not something you can explain. Things happen. She left me a gift. She made me strong.”

  Nell’s eyes glistened as she said, “ ‘The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not br
eak it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of those you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.’ ”

  “Ernest Hemingway.”

  “Yes. A Farewell to Arms.”

  A small table for two in the back. A flickering candle cast a glow on Nell’s face, while at his elbow an unintelligible waiter poured from a bottle of sparkling wine. Hawke had so many words bottled up inside he was afraid to open his mouth. He stared at her until she lowered her eyes, and then he stared at her lashes. The smells from the tiny kitchen intruded, strong and pungent.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” he said, immediately regretting the pitiable triteness of the remark. The waiter arrived back at the table with the menus and saved him. Nell smiled and raised her glass. She said, “What shall we drink to?”

  Hawke considered a second.

  “Liking.”

  “Liking?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, you mean liking, ” she said with a smile of recognition, and Hawke felt somewhat redeemed. “Yes, here’s to liking, Alex Hawke. Two people so desperately in like, they can barely speak to each other.”

  Hawke laughed out loud, feeling the dam burst at last, and he reached across the white linen for her warm hand. What was it about her? Incredibly confident, with a way of moving and speaking that quietly declared she had no need of being told she was beautiful or worthwhile. She knew those things for herself, and that kind of self-possession drew him inexorably toward her.

  Dinner was a blur.

  He went first, telling her everything, with all the honesty he could muster. His life in short, his emergence from childhood tragedy, his vow of revenge against those who had taken his parents, revenge a violent emotion that transformed itself into his boyhood desire to make some kind of hero out of himself: a small boy beating back the tide on the playing fields in the crisp autumnal twilight, bruised and weary, but hearing from afar the thunder of cheers… the war in the desert… women… his brutally short marriage… finding his son. All of it.