White Death: An Alex Hawke Novella

by Ted Bell

  “Of course. There’s another matter I’d like to discuss—the bizarre murder of a Credit Suisse banker just returned from London. We found his corpse just below this location.”

  “Leo Hermann. I’m glad he was found before he was buried beneath the ice. Leo’s death was no murder, Alex. It was suicide. Leo, although thirty years younger than I, was a close friend of mine. But he caused me worry. I had him followed in London. He met with some very unsavory characters at the Connaught Grill—suspects involved with criminal events we’ve been speaking of. Leo had been selling highly classified information regarding my work for Her Majesty. I’d suspected him for quite some time. The meeting in London was Leo’s undoing.”

  “I’m so sorry about all this. Can you tell me about the circumstances surrounding his death? My friend Chief Inspector Congreve finds himself in a highly unusual situation.”

  “Which is?”

  “Perplexed. For perhaps the first time ever.”

  “I know your friend Congreve by reputation only. I’ll be happy to tell you if it will help you put his mind at ease, Alex. Here’s what happened. I called Leo at the Connaught in London that night and told him I needed to see him here in my office immediately. The next day. I’m sure he suspected the worst, but what choice did he have? He arrived late the next morning looking haggard and depressed. Desperate, I would say. He was in tears.”

  “His life was over,” Hawke said.

  “I suppose it was. He’d admitted everything to his wife. She was leaving him and taking the two children, moving back to Sweden to be near her family. There was really nothing more to say at that point. I picked up the phone to call my pilot, whose helicopter was in a holding pattern waiting to return for the pickup. Leo got up, said thanks for my kindness, and left. My secretary said he’d gone outside to wait for the helo on the ledge.”

  “He didn’t wait.”

  “When the pilot arrived, Leo wasn’t there.”

  Dr. Steinhauser suggested taking Alex on a tour of the vast mountain complex. Honeycombed with brightly lit tunnels and passages leading who knew where, banks of gleaming stainless steel elevators providing service from the secret underwater entrance near the bottom of Lake Zurich. They toured the private residence, three floors with interiors that resembled the Duke of Devonshire’s historic country home at Chatsworth. A grand, sweeping staircase joined the floors, which boasted the same panoramic windows as Steinhauser’s magnificent office.

  There were also separate guest quarters built inside the small peak of a lower mountain. Hawke and his host reached them by a lengthy underground tunnel with a small tram running in both directions on a single track.

  “I call this house ‘Das Kleineberg,’ ” he said.

  “ ‘Little Peak,’ ” Hawke said, smiling.

  “Good for you, Alex. Some of the German I taught you stuck.”

  As they strolled down Little Peak’s wide corridors and peeked into various guest rooms, sunrooms, and a paneled reading room, Hawke, who was rarely impressed, found himself full of wonder.

  “Small and self-contained, more rustic and, to me, more appealing,” Steinhauser said. “Here we are, I wanted you to see this room. Leo Hermann’s room. I haven’t touched it since his death. I was deeply saddened by the pictures of his wife and children in happier times.”

  “May I have a look inside?” Alex said.

  There were two worn leather armchairs facing the windows, and the two men sat down. Hawke looked around at mementos from a life now lost.

  “I can see why it makes you sad,” he said.

  “When a trusted friend betrays you, it is always deeply disheartening. Especially when their betrayal is a result of matters far beyond their control. Leo was a student of mine when I taught economics at New College, Oxford. Brilliant boy, always was. Hired by both Goldman Sachs and Morgan Stanley in New York, shot to the top of both and moved back to Zurich, happy, for all anyone knew.

  “I quickly hired him and put him to work. There were problems as time went by. Sketchy attendance, padded expense accounts, complaints from subordinates, you know how it is. There were rumors that his wife was driving him to make more and more money. The well-known never-enough type of spouse. Leo started drinking heavily, too. Then stealing to try to keep her happy. And, finally, selling information. That’s the ending of that sad story.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you,” Dr. Steinhauser said, rising from his chair. “Alex, it’s been marvelous connecting with you after all these years. I dearly hope you’ll allow me to continue our new friendship. It’s gone eight o’clock. Won’t you join my daughter and me for a light supper? I can arrange to have my pilot snatch you from the ledge at nine? Sound good to you?”

  “Sounds wonderful, sir. I can’t thank you enough for what you did for me and my grandfather. And all you’re doing now, not only for me personally, but for my Queen and country as well. I’m sure Sir David will put the full resources of MI6 at your disposal going forward. And if there is ever anything that I personally might do to help your investigation, just let me know.”

  They took a smooth and silent tram ride back to Dr. Steinhauser’s residence.

  After a minute, Steinhauser broke the silence.

  “There is one thing you might do for me,” Dr. Steinhauser said.

  “Anything, sir.”

  “I wasn’t going to mention this because I did not know how helpful it might be and . . .”

  “Please tell me. I can use all the help I can get at the moment, sir.”

  “Very well. Recently, since your arrival in Zurich, the hacking attacks on your personal accounts have increased dramatically. It’s the Russians on the receiving end, and they are the worst, as you well know. I cannot prove it yet, but someone living here in Zurich seems to be working with Moscow. Hacking into your less-protected assets.”

  “That’s certainly a big step in the right direction. My friend Ambrose will be delighted to know that. Do you know who it is? Just give me a name and MI6 will personally remove this chap from our list of worries. Permanently. Who the hell is it, Dr. Steinhauser?”

  “Does the name Baron Wolfgang von Stuka ring a bell, Alex?”

  Hawke stiffened at the name, shocked. “You’ve got to be joking. He’s the one helping us solve the case! And by the way, what the hell does he have against me?” Hawke said angrily.

  “Rumors are there’s a woman involved, Alex.”

  EPILOGUE

  Der Hohenzollern

  “More champagne, darling?”

  “Just a splash, Alex. No-no, stop!” Sigrid cried.

  Ambrose Congreve sat back and smiled at the two of them. He could not remember seeing his old friend so happy. At least not in a very long time. All three of them had dressed to the nines for their Christmas Eve dinner. Hawke and Ambrose resplendent in black tie, Sigrid radiant in a plunging sequined gown of bright Christmas red.

  Tomorrow morning, Ambrose and Alex would board Hawke’s Gulfstream for the short flight back to London. But tonight the three friends celebrated where it had all begun.

  Der Hohenzollern.

  All the festive arrangements had been made in secret; Sigrid collaborated with her old co-conspirator in the planning. The two had reserved the small private dining room on the second floor. The hand-hewn wooden room was a masterpiece of nineteenth-century Austrian carpentry. It had a stone fireplace and lead-paned windows with a view of the bustling town square below and the light snow falling softly on this happy Christmas Eve.

  Best of all, a glorious Christmas tree stood in the corner. The top branches of dark green fir brushed the vaulted ceiling; all were decorated with red wooden ornaments, and lighted candles gave the place a golden glow. There were two gifts beneath the tree, one each for Ambrose and Alex.

  Laughter was mixed with tying up a few loose ends from the week
. Wolfie had been arrested by the Stadtspolizei, based on hard evidence supplied by an anonymous source. The case had exploded, reverberating across front pages on both sides of the Atlantic. MI6 and CIA were jointly looking into von Stuka’s criminal networks in both Moscow and Beijing, originating in the former and routed through the latter. Hawke and Congreve were assisting with the ongoing investigations.

  The source was, of course, Dr. Steinhauser. Hawke had insisted that his friend remain hidden deep inside his Bat Cave, his secret work far too valuable to be revealed to the world at large.

  Near the end of the dinner, Ambrose asked about Hawke’s decision not to continue on to the summit of Der Nadel, Alex’s quest to complete the sad search for his grandfather’s bones.

  “Two things,” he’d replied.

  “I know you weren’t afraid, darling, so why stop?” Sigrid said.

  “On the contrary, I was bloody terrified. I think I was in a state of shock going up that Murder Wall. I have no recollection at all of how I bloody did it. Some mysterious part of me took control of my mind and body and got me to the top. It was only laying there on that snowy ledge that I even realized I was safe.”

  “Why didn’t you continue?” Congreve said, “Why didn’t you go on?”

  “I’m not like my grandfather, climbing at age seventy. I’m too old even now. You might be glad to know I’ll never climb another mountain alone.”

  “I’ll drink to that!” Sigrid laughed, raising her glass in a toast.

  They clinked glasses and Hawke continued.

  “That brave old man is going nowhere now. And I have a hell of a lot of living to do. I have my son to take care of, after all. And a certain woman of my acquaintance who badly needs all the help she can get.”

  Sigrid laughed to the point where she almost sprayed them both with champagne. “You said there were two reasons, you sexist pig. What’s the other one?”

  “Tonight,” Alex said. “That was the real reason. I was determined up there that nothing would prevent me from spending Christmas Eve here in this room, with two people I care so deeply about.”

  “Well said,” Ambrose replied with glistening eyes.

  Sigrid clinked her glass with her spoon and got to her feet. Hawke thought she had never looked lovelier than she did at that moment, standing in the warm glow of the Christmas tree candles.

  “Well, we’ve been busy down here, too, your lordship. Haven’t we, Chief Inspector?”

  “Oh, right, I haven’t mentioned that yet, have I? Well, Alex, it seems I have a new employee. Someone who has demonstrated great courage and a keen interest in the work of the criminalist.”

  “Really?” Hawke interrupted, beaming at her.

  “Really. Sigrid has resigned her position with Credit Suisse. She is moving from Zurich to London, where she will live in the old gardener’s cottage at Brixden House in the Cotswolds. There, she will assist me in every aspect of my work during the daylight hours. At night, she will be enrolled at the University of Glouscestershire, having received early acceptance to study criminal law. It is her intention upon graduation to seek employment at New Scotland Yard.”

  Hawke reached across the table and took her hand.

  “How perfectly wonderful,” he said, “How wonderful that is.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that, Alex. I so hoped you wouldn’t feel it was somehow presumptuous of me.”

  “Are you joking, girl? You’ll be right down the road. We can go on picnics by the Thames! You’ll meet Alexei, too. I’m sure you two will become fast friends . . . it is the very happiest news, darling. What a truly wonderful Christmas gift. I’m so sorry I don’t have anything for you and—”

  “There is one thing,” Congreve said, smiling at them both. “My new assistant and I have a lot of work to do tomorrow. I was wondering if you might find room to find a seat for her on Hawke Air in the morning?”

  “You’re moving to London now?”

  “Lady Mars says the cottage is all ready. The shippers will arrive with my things on Saturday, so—”

  “So, we’ll all celebrate Christmas together, Alex.”

  Hawke laughed and said, “I always got to open one present on Christmas Eve. Is one of those boxes under the tree for me?”

  “Open it and find out,” Sigrid said.

  It was.

  A messenger had arrived that day with a framed photograph from Dr. Steinhauser. A grainy black-and-white picture he’d found in one of his scrapbooks.

  A photograph of Alex and his grandfather, their arms around each other, smiling happily in the sunlight. It was taken early on the morning as they began their ascent of Der Nadel.

  “Merry Christmas, darling!” Sigrid said, and kissed him on the cheek.

  Keep reading for an excerpt from

  Ted Bell’s upcoming novel

  PATRIOT

  On sale in hardcover September 2015

  AN EXCERPT FROM PATRIOT

  PROLOGUE

  May 2012

  The sixth-richest man in England ducked his head.

  Pure instinct, it was. A tight formation of four Russian MiG-35s suddenly came screaming out of the blinding sun, thundering directly over Lord Alexander Hawke’s Royal Navy watch cap. Silver wings flashing, thrusters howling, the fighter jets quickly shed altitude and skimmed over his position, their squat air brakes down for landing.

  “What the hell?” Alex Hawke muttered to himself. The British intelligence officer was looking straight up as four fighter jets thundered not a hundred feet over his head! MiG-35s in bloody Cuba? He’d have to alert his superiors at MI6 London straightaway.

  These MiG fighters were the most radical thing aloft these days; their mere presence here on the island of Cuba confirmed one of Hawke’s worst suspicions about his mission: the Russians were no longer fooling around playing, the unconvincing role of “advisors” to the aging Castro brothers. Despite Cuba’s impending and highly problematic “detente” with America, the Muscovites had clearly returned to this island paradise to stay. And they meant business.

  The plain and simple fact was that his imminent mission, if successful, would soon bring about a head-on political collision between Britain, America, and Russia. The true facts about Cuba’s double-dealing would soon flare into stark relief, both in the espionage community and on front pages of newspapers around the world. Welcome to sunny Cuba! Welcome to Planet Tinderbox.

  And welcome to realpolitik 2012, Hawke thought to himself.

  His four-man stick, or assassination team, and their Cuban guide were crouched in the heavy tangle of verdant jungle encroaching on the airfield. His current position was a scant hundred yards or so from the wide white airstrip. In the recent past, he’d noted on his mental pad, all the cracks in the cheap concrete had been patched, crisscrossed with slapdash splashes of black tar, and the uneven surface mostly cleared of choking weeds and overgrowth.

  This very long tactical runway had been chopped into the top of the mountain by the Soviets more than a half century earlier, and it certainly looked its age. One famous legacy the Russians had left behind on the island, seriously crappy concrete.

  One after another, the fighter planes scorched the far end of the runway. Puffs of bluish-white smoke spurted from the blistered tyres as, with jets howling, the four aircraft landed in sequence. They then taxied in single file to the far boundary of the field. Maneuvering adroitly, the Russian fighter pilots nested wing to wing in the shadows of a few rusty Quonset hangars overarched with climbing vines. An antiquated control tower, also built by the bloody Sovs during a brief warm spell in the Cold War, provided little in the way of shade.

  Commander Hawke motioned to his squad as he rose to his feet, squinting against the high hard dazzle of the sky. “Move out,” the Englishman said softly, and he and his men melted back into the protective cover of the dense jungle canop
y encroaching on the field. He wanted to get closer to that tower. The MiGs were interesting, but they were not what he’d come all the way from Britain to see.

  Ten minutes and a few hundred yards later the commandos had relocated; they were now nearly in spitting distance of yet another Russian airplane, albeit one vastly less sophisticated than the four gleaming MiGs. The first new arrival, having landed a scant few minutes ahead of its fighter escort, was now parked on the tarmac, broiling under the intense Caribbean sun.

  The nearby control tower, almost completely enwreathed in cascading flowering vines, loomed above the airplane but provided no shade at all. The fact that all the tower windows were either shattered or completely missing and that there were no controllers present up there seemed to be of little concern to the five Russian pilots recently arrived.

  Hawke raised the Zeiss binoculars to his eyes and studied this aviation relic from another century. Unlike the four silver MiG 35s, this was a very old number indeed. It was a dilapidated twin-engine Ilyushin 12 transport, at once a venerable and veritable blast from the past. Hawke caught a sudden glimpse of garish color out of the corner of his eye and quickly shifted his focus left.

  A vintage Cadillac limo, painted a ripe old shade of lavender, now rolled to a stop a few feet from the starboard wingtip of the IL 12. A small aluminum ladder was hung down from the opened cabin door aft of the wing. One of the uniformed crew, looking very much like a yachtsman in white trousers and a blue blazer, appeared at the aircraft hatchway.

  This chap, clearly DGI, the Cuban secret service unit under the control of the KGB, was shielding his eyes from the fierce sunshine and carrying a serious submachine gun. He climbed down the ladder, circled the faded and rusting limo, and bent to examine the driver’s paperwork. Apparently finding everything in order, the armed steward called up to another man still aboard the airplane. A big chap in full jungle camo was now standing in the opening in the fuselage. Hawke smiled. He knew the Russian army officer by the nickname given him by his German father. But he had made his real reputation fighting rebels in Chechnya: a savage butcher.