by Ted Bell
About ten minutes out from Tsar’s anchorage off the Hôtel du Cap, Putin broke the deadly silence inside Sputnik II.
“Quite an amazing achievement when you think about it, isn’t it?”
“What achievement?” Hawke replied, stirred from a reverie about something else. Like his sudden unease around a man whom he’d come to believe he could trust, despite what all his colleagues had been saying for years now. C had told him, in no uncertain terms, to “watch his front, for when the stab came, it would not be in the back.”
Putin continued his lecture.
“Aside from nuclear fission, isotopes, enriched uranium, which are the most easily detectible weapons ever invented, in Feuerwasser, you have one that is colorless, odorless, tasteless . . . virtually undetectable! Yes, in fact, it resembles nothing so much as the one substance that composes nearly eighty percent of the earth’s surface . . . water!”
“Amazing.”
It came to Hawke rather suddenly, then, an abrupt revelation, an understanding of what this weekend invitation of Putin’s was really all about. It wasn’t about the murder of some decadent and wasted KGB general who may or may not have been a close friend of the president’s. Nor about someone roaming around the planet killing highly placed intelligence officers of various and sundry secret services. No. Not about that at all.
What this was really all about, Hawke now realized, was history repeating itself. What he had just witnessed was something much akin to Harry S. Truman’s “Little Boy” A-bomb moment. It was the bombing of Hiroshima all over again, just without the victims. Truman’s idea was to drop the big one on a major population center to let the Japanese know unequivocally that any further resistance to the Allied advance was useless. Send them an unmistakable signal. But when Little Boy fell on Japan, sixty-six thousand men, women, and children had to die to prove Truman’s point.
Now, Putin had figured out a way to deliver the very same message of terror to his enemies around the world. And all he needed to do so was have one single solitary witness, one who would live to tell the tale.
All he had needed was Lord Alexander Hawke.
Hawke looked over at Volodya’s profile, hazy in the dim reddish light of the instrument panel. He saw the military buzz cut, the stern set of his jaw, the keen focus of those pale blue eyes, the eyes everyone said were so “cold.” He also saw the thin line of a smile spreading across the face of the old fox.
This, palpably, was a formidable enemy. This was a man who was running rings around the American president and half his allies. This was a man invading sovereign nations without batting an eye. This was a man intent on doing whatever he damn well pleased on this planet and God help you if you got in his way.
Because Volodya now had an Armageddon Little Boy weapon of his very own. But a weapon that was virtually undetectable. It could be introduced anywhere, at any time, into any environment with no one the wiser until a distant button was pushed and it exploded.
The big question, then, was why? What the hell did he intend to do with it? At some point before he left France, Hawke had to find out. He now realized fully why Rosow and Brick Kelly had been so adamant about him making this trip. Rumors of a new Russian superweapon had been floating around the American intel community for quite a while. They were making a long-shot bet that Hawke could ferret it out.
And Putin and the Kremlin didn’t need the Enola Gay and a whole goddamn air force to deliver their new doomsday weapon. Hell, he could ship it to you, FedEx! Deliver it at the doorstep of your country in a million goddamn Stoli bottles and you’d never even know it. That is, until he triggered all the little metal screw caps that ignited the fluid. From the mind-blowing destruction Hawke had just seen with his own eyes, it was not a giant leap to the conclusion that a half-gallon of “tainted” Stoli firewater could take out most of lower Manhattan.
Message delivered.
Putin was now utterly secure in the knowledge that Hawke would take his message home, deliver it to the powers that be in the White House, in Whitehall, at Langley and MI6. That message was simple: BEWARE! Don’t stick your fingers inside the Russian bear’s cage. He bites but first he chews your fingernails.
And what then? Well, then would begin the long and arduous process of figuring out how the hell to stop a megalomaniac with a weapon like this. Because there was not a doubt in Hawke’s mind that Putin’s boys were shipping this stuff all over the world . . . and they were doing it right now. Stockpiles being created in Asia, in Latin American, America, Europe. Warehouses stacked to the rafters with this stuff, waiting for his signal to explode.
The man upon whose doorstep this clearly insurmountable problem would ultimately be dumped?
Well—unless he was badly mistaken—that would be none other than Alex Hawke.
Back into the bloody fray with you, Lord Hawke. And it all started right now. Here we go again.
Alex Hawke, saving the world, one madman at a time.
CHAPTER 34
McLean, Virginia
State Route 123 winds through the rich green Virginia horse country just outside of Washington, D.C. The sleepy little town of McLean, in Fairfax County, lies at the heart of things in this quiet corner of the world. Rolling green hills traced with gleaming white picket fences, long winding driveways leading to gracious brick homes in the Georgian manner.
Sleek thoroughbreds gambol inside the fences, sometimes keeping pace with a vintage convertible on the road as it accelerates briskly out of a sweeping turn and up a steep incline, braking at the hilltop for a school bus just beyond Hickory Hill, the old Kennedy place, where Ethel and Bobby had raised their boisterous brood.
Old money speaks softly in this neck of the woods. And the really old stuff, the woman at the wheel of the genteel old station wagon thought, that kind of money rarely speaks above a whisper. She’d chosen the car carefully at the used car dealer in Tyson’s Corner a few days earlier. She’d had her hair cut and dyed, pinned up in a chignon. She wanted to blend in. She wanted to be invisible.
Still, it was odd on that late summer afternoon to see a lovely old wood-sided Chrysler Town & Country station wagon doing over sixty in a speed zone marked for thirty. Witnesses said later the woman at the wheel was early middle age, very well dressed and coiffed. Some folks remembered good pearls and gold bracelets on the long tanned arm dangling nonchalantly out the driver’s window, a cigarette pinched between her fingers.
“She did seem like a lady who was in a mighty big hurry,” said a horse trainer who’d paused in the field to watch her whiz by.
Her name was Crystal Methune. And she was definitely not from around here.
But, to her credit, she certainly looked like any other well-to-do mother of two you might see strolling the aisles at Saks over at Tyson’s Corner Mall. Late thirties, attractive if not downright beautiful, surely the product of Miss Porter’s or the Madeira School followed by Barnard or Vassar. Even the car was perfect. McLean people didn’t drive BMWs or Escalades; no, the car of choice would be that faded old station wagon that had been in the family since the ’50s.
The sky-blue-and-white Town & Country slowed to a crawl. Crystal pulled off the road and onto the verge and stopped. For some reason she checked her lipstick in the rearview mirror, glanced at her newly done nails, took a very deep breath, composed herself. Then she accelerated back onto the two-lane highway.
Just around the next bend in the road she would come upon Burning Tree Farm, Virginia’s answer to the legendary Calumet Farm in her hometown of Lexington, Kentucky. Burning Tree Farm was the home of America’s Triple Crown winner, the prize stallion War Admiral, out of the Smart Strike mare Eye of the Sphinx, who had once commanded a $50,000 stud fee.
The sprawling horse farm was also the family home of Patrick Brickhouse Kelly, the current director of the CIA. The farm was certainly convenient, she thought, just down the road a piece from the CIA headquarters at Langley. Brick Kelly’s great-grandfather, Ambassador Flynn Kelly, ha
d seen Burning Tree through the glory years in the middle of the last century. His beloved but troubled father, who had “health issues,” had presided over its subsequent demise, finally filing for bankruptcy. But it was young Brick himself who had brought the old family place back to its rightful and proper place at the very top of the equestrian world.
Crystal had done her homework. She had a complete and thorough understanding of the daily schedules and workings of the farm. She knew when the owner left for his office and when he returned. But she also knew when the horses were fed, when the fields were mown, when the mail and milk were delivered. She knew the daily comings and goings of everybody and anybody who had anything to do with the stud farm. She even knew the Kelly dog’s name.
Captain.
She rounded the corner and saw Captain trotting down the long and stately allée of maples that was the entrance to Burning Tree. Good boy, she thought, good boy! He was right on schedule, she knew, looking at her watch. It was just turning six thirty in the dusky gold of evening.
Captain was in his prime, a handsome purebred black Lab. Since the Kelly mailbox was located across the road from the property, Captain would pause, look both ways, and then race across the macadam. He would position himself beside the mailbox to wait for his master. He did this every day of the week, rain, sleet, snow, or hail. She knew. She’d watched him do it in every kind of weather.
And, today, she’d timed it perfectly, she thought, depressing the accelerator to the floor. Oh, yeah, Crystal thought, she had nailed it all right.
Captain was just halfway across the road when she clipped his hindquarters with her left front bumper. The dog was thrown some thirty feet into the air before landing in the tall grass beside the road. He hadn’t even seen her coming, she thought. And there had been no one behind her, no oncoming traffic, no witnesses.
She pulled off the road, slammed on the brakes, and jumped out, sprinting to where the injured dog lay writhing in the grass. She knelt down to check his injuries. There was a lot of blood, but she had not killed him. She certainly could have, just by arriving a few seconds later. But that had not been her intention. Racing back to the station wagon, she opened the rear, pulled out an old woolen blanket, and hurried back to the animal she’d just run down in cold blood.
Somehow, Crystal managed to get the dark green blanket under Captain and gather him up into her arms so she could put him in the way back of the old Chrysler wagon. Once it was done, she backed up, and turned right into the unmarked entrance of Burning Tree Farm. She left a billowing wake of chalky dust behind her as she followed the snaking drive toward the main house with the dying dog whimpering in pain behind her.
THE ENTRANCE TO THE ANTEBELLUM house was suitably imposing. Columns, pediments, a true Palladian masterwork. A winding brick walkway through manicured hedges of boxwood and blooming white azaleas. Tall Corinthian columns and a massive front door in gleaming mahogany. Potted topiaries to either side of the door, perfect green obelisks. Crystal raised the door knocker, an old bronze horse’s head, and rapped smartly three times. Less than thirty seconds later, an elderly black woman in a starched white apron and cap swung the door open.
The housekeeper’s white smile was so radiant it almost burned Crystal’s eyes. But it fell away when she saw the blood-soaked blanket in the stranger’s arms.
“Oh! Oh, my Lordy, what’s happened, child?”
“Someone ran over him,” the stranger said, crying real tears, “They didn’t even stop!”
“That’s not Captain, is it? Oh, no . . . please say it’s not.”
“I don’t know his name. But he was hit out in the road right by your mailbox so I just assumed—”
“Hurry! Bring him inside quickly . . .”
“He’s still alive,” the stranger said, hurrying into the cool shade of the house.
The older woman turned and headed through the entrance hall and then into a beautifully appointed library. All leather furniture and illuminated English sporting pictures of horses and jockeys. Smelled of wood, old books, and wax furniture polish, Crystal thought, sniffing the air.
It was all she could do not to pause and admire a stunning oil portrait of the Kellys’ famous 1937 Triple Crown winner, War Admiral, over the fireplace.
“Quick, child! Put him on that big leather sofa,” the woman said, and Crystal did so, being as overtly gentle and caring and sad as possible. The dog was making a lot less noise now, just very rapid breathing and small cries . . .
“Ma’am, I just have to ask you . . . Why in God’s holy name did you not take him directly to the Emergency Pet Hospital in town?” the housekeeper said as she pulled the blanket away and looked at Captain’s horrific injuries for the briefest moment before turning away in horror.
“I—I’m not from around here, you see. I live in Kentucky. In Lexington, near Calumet Farm. I brought him here because I just didn’t . . . you see, I just didn’t know what else to do! I couldn’t just leave him out there, could I? Or stand by the road and wait for help?”
“No, no, of course not . . . oh, Lord, both his back legs are broken. Wait here with him, I need to get something.”
She dashed into what looked to be a small powder room off the library and returned with fluffy white towels.
“Here, press this down on the wound in his hip to stop the bleeding. I’ll try to stabilize his legs and—”
Crystal pulled her cell phone out of her bag. “Shouldn’t we call the vet? I can do that, here let me show you . . . do you have a number for—”
“Yes, yes, ma’am. You stay with him. I have to run upstairs and get the phone number for the vet from Mrs. Kelly’s address book. Are you sure you can handle this?”
“I used to be an E.R. nurse,” she lied.
“Praise the Lord above! I’ll be right back.”
She rushed out of the room through the open double doors, and Crystal could hear her footsteps in the hall, then her huffing and puffing, pounding all the way up the curving staircase.
Crystal sat down on the sofa beside Captain and spied three crystal decanters on the bar. One of them had to be bourbon, she knew. Getting to her feet she went over and poured herself a stiff drink.
Calmer now, she considered her next move. After a few long moments, she got up from the couch and followed the housekeeper’s steps up the stairs to the upper floors. She’d shed her heels and was walking on tiptoe to prevent the old wooden steps from creaking. She had a small, nickel-plated .38 automatic in her right hand, a silencer fitted to the muzzle.
HALF AN HOUR LATER, CRYSTAL heard the sound of a car on the gravel drive out front. She looked at her watch. Perfect. He was right on time. She rose and went to one of the tall library windows to see a black Audi A8 slow to a stop. The driver, young, clean-cut, and unbelievably fit, was clearly Secret Service. He climbed out, looked around, spoke into the hidden mike in his sleeve. Then he went around the back of the car and pulled the rear door open.
She got her first good look at the director of the Central Intelligence Agency as he climbed out of the car and stood talking to his driver. One of them must have told a joke because they both were laughing. Even more attractive than his file pictures, he was. Tall, lanky, wavy dark red hair going slightly grey on the sides. He wore the Agency uniform, navy suit, pressed white shirt, red tie. It was Brick Kelly all right.
Goddamn, he was good-looking, which was too bad.
She sipped her bourbon, letting her eyes enjoy the view.
BRICK PATTED THE BEEFY YOUNG agent on the shoulder before the man got back behind the wheel of the Audi and pulled away from the house. A flash of chrome in the setting sun must have caught the director’s eye. That’s when he spotted the station wagon parked under the dark green maple trees some fifty to sixty feet away.
Odd, Brick thought.
They weren’t expecting any visitors, at least that he was aware of. Jane had left yesterday morning, taking the three children down to Nags Head, North Carolina, to stay
at her mother’s beach cottage for the coming long weekend. He took another look at the car. It wasn’t a car he recognized . . . but that wasn’t saying much. Jane had a ton of friends and they were always coming and going. Ladies’ luncheons, book parties, bridge, whatever mischief they got up to.
But Jane wasn’t home.
It gave him momentary pause, but something about that lovely old blue-and-white car was reassuring enough that he brushed the feelings off. Probably some lonely widow neighbor, he thought, right, some bridge friend of his wife’s, knowing Jane was out of town for a few days and come to call. She’d be dropping off a spicy Mexican casserole for the lonely weekend bachelor. Even now probably out in the kitchen with Hildy, telling her how long it should remain in the oven.
It wouldn’t be the first time, he thought. And he resumed his walk up the mossy brick walk with a smile, remembering something his grandfather had said.
“Son, never let yourself stand in the way of a lonely widow with a casserole and an available bachelor.”
CHAPTER 35
As Brick Kelly made his way up his brick walkway, the front door suddenly swung open. Expecting to see Hildy, he was mildly startled. Instead of his housekeeper of many years, there was a tall and very attractive blonde of early middle age. Big blue eyes and a pink Chanel suit that hugged her lush figure. The only sour note was her perfume. It may well have been expensive, but something about the smell was off-putting.
“Hello,” Brick said, smiling. “I’m Brick Kelly.”
He was off balance. He thought he pretty much knew all Jane’s friends, but he couldn’t for the life of him place this woman. She was extremely good-looking. He would have remembered this one, had he met her, wouldn’t he?
“I’m terribly sorry to startle you, Mr. Kelly,” she said in an accent that could only come from the Deep South. She stepped back into the house so he could enter the foyer. “I’m Mrs. Methune. I’m afraid there’s been a terrible accident.”
“What happened?” Brick said, setting his bulging leather briefcase on the console table atop all the mail. He looked around, suddenly on edge for some reason.