by Ted Bell
The other young crewman who’d pulled sentry duty was Lieutenant Sam Kennard, a plainclothes counterterrorist warrior with long brown hair, dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, zipping around the harbor surrounding Blackhawke on a Jet Ski like an off-duty sailor after a few beers.
U.S. Navy security personnel ashore were also heavily involved in preparations. Some would be on board and on duty for the duration of the big yacht’s brief layover at Key West. Teams of armed and uniformed U.S. Marines patrolled the docks and secured the land-side approaches. The main gate to the air station, and all other entrances, had been secured. While Hawke’s boat was moored at NAS, no one was allowed within a thousand yards of her docks without official government ID and signed documents stating their reason for being there.
At noon on the day before they would sail their boat into harm’s way, Alex Hawke, his son, Harry Brock, and Stokely Jones were en route from the ship to the Key West International Airport. A second government vehicle trailed right behind them. Inside were Alexei’s new protector, Tristan Walker, and Archie Carstairs, the new bodyguard.
Stoke was at the wheel of a blacked-out U.S. Secret Service Chevy Suburban, armored, with blacked-out windows. Brock was up front with him, cuddling Alexei’s beloved dog, Harry (named after him, maybe?), and staring out the window at the endless mangrove swamps.
Alexei and his father sat in the rear; the dog Harry was in the way back. Alexei had jumped out of bed very excited about a ride in his dad’s new airplane, and Hawke wanted it that way. He knew his son was being extraordinarily brave about not having his dad around to protect him right now, and only the prospect of a great adventure had kept his spirits as high as they were.
At home in England, dear old Pelham Grenville would make the little boy feel loved and safe again.
“Alexei, are you listening to me, son?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“What did I tell you to do the minute you get back home to England and Hawkesmoor?”
“Find Pelham. Tell him I missed him. Hug him.”
“No. Those are the next things you do. The first is to show Tristan our house. Show him where everything is. Your room. His room, Archie’s room, Pelham’s room, things like that. The kitchen. The attic. The gardens and the big lake. It’s his home, too, now. His and Archie’s. They’re both your new friends now, am I right?”
“Archie is my best friend. And I’m his best friend, too. He’s funny. He showed me a comic book about him when he was just a kid. His best friend’s name was, Jughead!”
“He is funny. Well. Good. We’re all clear on that subject, are we, sonny?”
“The kid’s all over this, boss,” Stoke said, “nothing to worry about.”
Harry Brock, in his own little world and hoping to see an alligator cross the road, looked over at Stoke and said, “Does anyone else beside me think this new Scotland Yard babysitter, Tristan, is secretly gay?”
“Shut up, Harry,” Stoke said. “Seriously, man, stuff a sock in it.” Glowering angrily, he added, “There’s a little kid sitting back there, remember?”
Hawke had already leaned forward, grabbed a handful of Harry’s left shoulder, squeezed, and said, very softly, “One more stupid remark like that, especially in front of my very young and very impressionable son, and I will stop this car and make you get out of this car, out of my life. Do you understand, Harry? Say no if you don’t. Right now.”
“Sorry,” Brock said. “Jesus, I didn’t mean anything by it. I like gay people.”
“Says it like he means it, doesn’t he, boss? Man doesn’t even know the meaning of the word ‘sorry.’”
“There are countless words Mr. Brock doesn’t know the meaning of, Stoke. But if he says even one of them, stop the car.”
“Aw, shit,” Harry said.
“Watch it, Brock; you’re only one more word shy of a long walk under a hot sun on a bad road.”
That shut him up for about five minutes. As they neared the town of Key West, Harry lowered his window and said, “You know it’s hot outside when you stick your hand outside and it’s hot.”
“Shut up, Harry,” Stoke said.
They rode the rest of the way to the Key West Airport in silence.
CHAPTER 61
The sleek, navy blue Gulfstream 650 that would ferry Alexei, Detective Inspector Tristan Walker, and Sergeant Archie Carstairs across the Atlantic and home to England was fueled and ready on the baking tarmac at the private aviation FBO. Stoke drove the Suburban through the gate and out to the waiting airplane, parking twenty feet from the port wingtip of the bossman’s pride and joy, gleaming in the tropical sunshine.
Hawke emerged from the rear of the Chevy Suburban, carried his son up the steps to the plane, and quickly ducked inside to the cool cabin air.
“Welcome aboard, sir,” his chief pilot, E. B. “Smitty” Smith, said. “We’re all set, whenever you’re ready. How’s our young passenger this morning?” The former Montana sheriff reached over and playfully tousled the boy’s curly hair.
“Alexei, you remember Captain Smith, don’t you?”
“Hullo, Smitty,” Alexei said, thrusting out his chubby hand.
“Good morning yourself, Hawkeman! I’ve an idea for you today, if it’s all right with your daddy. How’d you like to sit up front? Sit in my lap and fly the plane?”
“Can I, Daddy, can I fly the plane? Please!”
“Why not? I was allowed to do it by my father . . . And, Smitty, these two fine gentlemen just boarding are Detective Inspector Tristan Walker and Sergeant Archie Carstairs, both from SO14, Scotland Yard Royalty Protection. I e-mailed you about them last week.”
“Nice to meet you, gentlemen,” Smitty said with a tip of his black cowboy hat. “I’ll give Alexei a tour of the cockpit until you’re ready to go. There’s no rush . . . what’s your puppy’s name, Alexei?”
“Harry. Like the man who Daddy just told to wait in our car. Harry said something bad and everyone is mad at him.”
Hawke looked away, an embarrassed smile on his face. “Let’s go aft,” he said to Walker and Carstairs.
The three men took seats in the richly paneled aft seating area, three large overstuffed armchairs in dark navy velvet. Hawke had decorated the airplane in a very nautical way, a teak and holly cabin sole, blue upholstery with white piping, framed pictures of eighteenth-century warships starring the Royal Navy. It was a bit unusual, he would admit. But he liked it, and that was that.
His go-to London interior designer was the lovely Nina Campbell, whose clients included the Duke and Duchess of York, Ringo Starr, Rod Stewart, and Hawke’s club in New York, the Brook.
“Tristan,” Hawke said, hooking one long leg over the arm of the chair, “how comfortable are you with current security arrangements at Hawkesmoor?”
“I’d say very comfortable, sir.”
“And you, Archie?”
“Very much the same, sir.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Because we’re going to need it. I waited till we were on board the plane because I can’t afford to trust any other location right now, not anyone, frankly.”
Tristan said, “You’re talking about Cubans, sir? The Cuban American civilians working around the docks?”
“No, Tristan, I’m talking about Russians working around the docks.”
“Please explain, sir,” Archie said. “We need to know as much as we possibly can going forward.”
“Archie. Here is the thing. We are about to take on the most dangerous man on the planet. Vladimir Putin. And he knows it.”
“His every move seems left unchecked,” Walker said.
Hawke nodded. “Right. But I think I can stop him. With a little luck and a little help from above, I will stop him. But I’ll pay a price for whatever I do. And the one price I am not willing to pay is the life of my son.”
“Please explain, sir,” Tristan said, leaning forward in his seat, his clear green eyes full of an intensity Hawke welcomed.
“Putin and I kn
ow each other well. Or at least we used to. But recently I’ve faced the hard truth. He’s not the man I used to know. I was vain enough to think he admired me and just wanted my friendship. I was wrong. He has been using me since some years ago when we met in a Russian prison. Now, because of recent events, I know we’re mortal enemies, and I believe he feels the same way. And my enemy has limitless resources and power. He also knows the only possible way to slow me down, or even shut me down, is that little boy up there in the cockpit. With me?”
“Indeed we are, sir,” Archie said. “Just tell us what we can do.”
“I know Alexei is in good hands. You and Tristan would not be aboard if I didn’t think that. I also know there are unintended consequences to every action. As soon as I sail my boat into that Cuban harbor, it’s game on. Putin will know I’m coming for him. He knows it’s going to be no retreat, no surrender. And he will do everything in his power to take me off the board. He thinks my weakest flank is my son. He will attack me there. I’m putting my faith in Scotland Yard and you two men to prevent that.”
“Archie and I are honored, indeed, sir. And, I assure you, we will guard him with our very lives.”
Hawke paused for a long moment’s thought before he spoke. “No assurances necessary, Tristan. You have my complete confidence, both of you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now, please listen very carefully. This is critical. As soon as you arrive at Hawkesmoor, I want you examine every layer of security, every line of defense. The CATV, the motion sensors, all of it. Take notes. Either fix it or e-mail me anything major you think I should be aware of. Walk the perimeter daily with the MI6 officer in charge of the detail there. Take notes, stay in touch. Carefully explain to your Scotland Yard colleagues my concerns about a possibly imminent attack . . . tell them I expect you and Archie to identify any holes anywhere, and plug them. Anyone gives you any crap, or looks at you sideways, have them escorted off my property, under my orders, and reported to their superiors as suspicious, or unfit for duty. Is that clear? Archie? Tristan?”
“Could not be clearer, sir,” they said in unison.
“Archie, what kind of weapon do you and your concealed weapons team ordinarily carry?”
“Glock 226 pistol, sir. And the HK MP5 machine gun. Inspector Walker, the same.”
“That’s good. I have one of each myself. And another thing, Archie. You’re the point man. Never ever let my son out of your sight. I want one or the other of you on duty sleeping in the room adjacent to his every single night until my return. Archie, when that child sets one foot outside the established lines, I want you glued to him. Right?”
“Done,” Archie said.
“Good on you, lad. Now. Here’s the real reason I wanted to deliver this speech in complete secrecy . . . I have a backup plan. And no one on Earth save the three of us sitting here has any idea of what I’m going to tell you.”
“We’re listening, sir.”
“In the event you even suspect a perimeter breach, or an impending attack on Hawkesmoor, by land or air . . . or even if someone is suspected of giving the dead wrong answer to a vital question, then I want you two to grab Alexei and Pelham, go up to the helipad above the stable rooftop, and you four get the hell out of there.
“I’ve got a helicopter. It’s armed. Two Sidewinder AIM missiles mounted in the undercarriage and a .50-cal. machine gun in the nose. All gassed and ready to fly. If it takes you longer than four minutes after the alarm bells go off, it’s already too late. So rehearse that escape a few times. Time it. From the second things go bad until you lift off from the rooftop. Get it under four minutes. Are we clear?”
“Clear, sir.”
“I know you’re both qualified combat helo pilots. I don’t care who flies the damn thing. You’ll be flying due north. Up to an island in the Outer Hebrides, in the north of Scotland. Isle of Skye. Only access to it is by air or water. I still maintain an old family hunting lodge up there. My great-grandfather built it in 1900. It’s called Drum Castle. Empty now, most of the year. But it’s well stocked with food, weapons, provisions. There’s heat, power, and cords of firewood in the cellars if the power goes out. It gets very cold at night up there. It’s remote, as I said. Once you land on the property, near the main house, use the ATV and immediately tow the helo into one of the barns and out of sight. Remember this always, the skies have eyes. Enemy satellites.”
“Damn good plan, sir,” Tristan said. “I’m only sorry I didn’t think of a backup myself. Should have done.”
“I hope to hell you don’t need it. Pelham is my dearest friend. That boy up there is my son. They are all the family I’ve got. Thank you.”
Hawke put his hands on his knees and began to rise from his chair. The pilots had lit up the engines. He needed to get back to the boat and finish his prep.
“Hold on. One more thing. There’s an old caretaker up at Drum Castle. Known him since I was Alexei’s age. A good friend of mine named Frank McPhee. I call him Laddie, always have. Don’t let his advanced age mislead you. Laddie McPhee is a crack shot and tough as a blacksmith’s barrel of nails. I’ve told him about you two. That you might drop in out of the blue one day. Know what he said? He said, ‘I hope I never have the pleasure of meeting those two gents, m’lord, fine as they sound. But I’ll welcome the sight of that fine little boy.’ That’s Laddie, for you. Here’s his mobile number.”
Walker took the card and said, “We will immediately coordinate all our security measures with him, sir.”
“Laddie’s still got eyes like a hawk. He’ll watch the water approaches from an observation tree platform he and I built when I was twelve. There’s a pair of Kawasaki ATV vehicles in one of the garages you can use to cover more ground on patrols. Air is another story. No radar up there, I’m afraid. Like I said. Keep your eyes to the skies.”
“Aye, sir.” Archie said. “We will indeed. You’ve left no stone unturned, sir. We won’t let you down.”
“I’ve left a good many stones unturned, I’m afraid. But I’ve run out of time. The good news is, I remembered Drum Castle up there at the top of the world. There’s no one alive save Laddie and Pelham who even know it exists anymore. Alexei’s been up there once or twice with me. Loves exploring it. If you and Archie have got to make a stand somewhere, do it at Drum Castle. God knows how many sieges and battles it’s withstood over the centuries, and it’s as good a place to hold fast as you’re going to get. Are we clear?”
“Perfectly, sir,” Walker replied.
“Good. This envelope has everything you’ll need to know about the house and grounds and terrain. GPS coordinates, weather for the month. Laddie’s mobile number, as I said. Call him soon as you’re airborne en route to the castle. He’ll be waiting for you out at the pad near the main barn. Square, are we now?”
“Square, sir.”
“Have a safe flight back to England. I’m going up to say good-bye to my son.”
Tristan Walker watched Lord Hawke make his way forward to the cockpit. As relaxed as he seemed, he had the coiled energy of a stalking lion on the Serengeti plain. The inspector felt he now understood why the man had the burnished sterling reputation of a great warrior. And Tristan was proud that Royalty Protection was able to help such a fine man in his time of greatest need.
CHAPTER 62
Tvas, Siberia
Less than ten days after their game-changing meeting at Ravenswood Farm, the two old spies found themselves shivering at the edge of a dark Siberian wood, hunkered down against the chill in the night air. But, as the Englishman politely reminded his Russian confrere, it was Siberia after all. Was that not a word synonymous with freezing one’s balls off?
The Cambridge Two were wholly exhausted. They had endured a long and perilous trip. The journey to the back of beyond had been an exhausting chore but they had prevailed.
Traveling incognito, dressed as wealthy businessmen, the two men had flown from Heathrow to Moscow. Then, having safely gotten past ai
rport security, it was on to St. Petersburg, sitting in the back of the 1950s bus. Disembarking, they caught the Red Star Trans-Siberian train with seconds to spare, and began the endless journey to Tvas.
Once aboard, shivering in their beastly compartment, they made their way overland to the tiny rail station at Tvas. Somehow, they managed to secure a pair of stout horses for the arduous cross-country trek across the bloody tundra to the winter palace of the tsars. That had taken the better part of the day and now, when night had fallen, they knew the temperature would surely plummet like a stone.
In the lone canvas duffel bag they’d shared were food, ammo, weapons, and two heavy bearskin coats. These were coats Halter used when he was at his home in the Swiss Alps, and they were undeniably warm. Halter’s coat fit; Congreve’s did not. It brushed the tops of his gum boots and proved very difficult to walk in. However, it had been a godsend while they were traveling in high winds on horseback.
They were now shut of their traveling clothing, and beneath the bearskin coats each man was wearing a black KGB officer’s uniform from Ambrose’s carry bag. Halter had secured these from his tailor in Moscow for their impending operation. These, along with serviceable identification and both men’s fluency in Russian, were the only hope they had of getting inside the heavily fortified compound.
But Congreve wasn’t so sure. His spoken Russian, while technically correct, was not nearly so idiomatic as Halter’s. But, he reassured himself, perhaps it was good enough. He felt he looked preposterous in the ill-fitting KGB uniform and voluminous bearskin rug, but who in God’s name knew what the reaction of the guards might be to this apparition.
Ambrose saw Halter looking at him in an odd way.
“What?” Congreve said.
“The trademark moustache, I’m afraid.”
“What about it?”
“It won’t serve, that’s what. It needs shaving. No one, I mean no one, in the officer ranks of the KGB wears a moustache. You’ll have to lose it.”