by Ted Bell
“Don’t go down this road, Alex! I warn you, do not—I repeat, do not go there!”
“I must go there, Volodya! It’s the only road we’ve got left. And you, you’re headed straight to hell in a hotrod, going over the cliff. Because you somehow still believe you now hold the world hostage. But the generals arrayed against you no longer fear you, Volodya. Not them, not the politicians, and certainly not me. Not anymore.”
“You should.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t. Because it’s all a bloody lie! An outright fraud. That elaborate demonstration you staged for me in the sub, that underwater light show. Revealing your new secret weapon so convincingly with a vial going down a smokestack. But it wasn’t true, was it, Volodya? No! It was all an elaborate hoax you spent years perfecting. That sunken tanker you blew up had been prerigged by divers. Traditional plastic explosives, I’m quite sure. But I was your friend and I trusted you. That was my own stupid mistake. I won’t make it again.”
“Try convincing them of that. Your mighty American generals. They saw what happened in Miami with their own eyes. And Texas. And that little coastal town in England. Vaporized. And was there even the slightest trace of a traditional explosive found? No. If there had been, why in God’s name have they not gone public? Pointing the accusing finger at the guilty? Presumably, me!”
“My friend Kelly at CIA told them not to. At my request.”
“Why would he ever do that?”
“Because I was looking for irrefutable proof of your duplicity. Now I have it.”
“You have nothing of the kind.”
“Trust me.”
Putin considered. Just long enough.
“You’re lying.” Putin said finally. He seemed exhausted and out of bullets.
Hawke saw his ray of hope. He needed to let what he’d just told him to bake inside Putin’s brain. Needed to give him time to reflect before taking another step.
Hawke said, “Unless you’ve got serious objections, I’ve changed my mind about that drink.” And this, unsurprisingly, brought a smile to the Russian president’s face. “Gosling’s?” he said.
“Perhaps a vodka?”
“When in Russia . . .” Putin grunted, getting somewhat shakily to his feet.
Hawke smiled and sank back in his chair. Slowly but surely, he felt he might be gaining the upper hand. He’d needed this small chunk of time to consolidate what he believed to be his strategic gains thus far. Then he would strike.
Putin went to the drinks table. Ice and the tinkle of crystal. He returned moments later and handed Hawke his glass, sloshing a bit over the rim, and saying: “Careful, you don’t know what’s in that.”
Hawke smiled up at him.
Always the consummate poker player, the president collapsed back into his chair and picked up his drink. Raised his glass and said, “Prost!”
“Thanks. This is an awfully fine vodka. Might I ask what it is?”
Putin could not hide a sly smile.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Alex.”
“Not Feuerwasser?”
“Hmm.”
“Seriously? Oh, come on, Volodya.”
Putin just smiled and sipped his drink, staring with those bloody black poker eyes across the rim of his glass at the Englishman.
And then it came to Hawke. Something Uncle Joe had told him en route to Moscow. Perhaps Putin had been sitting in that same bloody chair all afternoon. Drinking vodka, listening to Beethoven, and feeling sorry for himself. Mulling over the stirring words of his mighty Caesar, using alcohol and the ancient glory of military history to stiffen his spine . . .
Hawke held his fire.
The two men sat drinking quietly in the deep silence that pervaded the drafty wooden building. There was only the soft lapping of the waves washing ashore beyond the windows, the snoring of Putin’s wolfhound, and the distant ticking of a great clock in a distant hall . . . Hawke’s troubled mind slowed and drifted . . . back to the dark Siberian wood. It was near dawn and . . .
CHAPTER 83
Hawke was sitting on a fallen log, he and Ambrose studying the enemy compound gate. He was thinking then about how this would all end. Where the hell did it all go from here? War? Peace? Death? He tried to think it through. It was like driving through a dark wood with the headlamps off. He felt the clouds of self-doubt and despair rolling in, sought desperately to stave them off. Had he, finally, simply taken on too much? Overestimated himself, deluded himself about his lifelong ability to overcome even the most insurmountable of challenges, the most impenetrable of—
And then, without warning, dawn broke. It was all perfectly clear! He would contact Putin tonight. Hawke suddenly knew that somehow Putin might actually agree to see him. And therein lay the only way forward. The beckoning open door swung wide. His opponent had built his fortress of fear atop a weak foundation. Neither a castle nor a fortress, but a house of cards. Yet, thank God, the Russian president still believed the stronghold of his lie still held fast!
And in that cherished belief lay the seeds of his downfall.
And then came yet another illuminating ray of light: Putin knew now that Hawke had, only days ago, gone to extraordinary lengths to destroy his Cuban warehouse full of Feuerwasser. And therein, perhaps, lay Hawke’s salvation. And perhaps the world’s as well.
Putin still clung to the belief that neither Hawke nor anyone else knew his secret . . .
HAWKE SNAPPED OUT OF HIS REVERIE.
He sensed, no, he knew, that now was the moment to go in for the kill. In the last few minutes, he had come to a realization: in any negotiation, when your opponent’s only defense rests upon a foundation of his own lies and deceit, then your opponent will, more often than not, be first to fold. It was Hawke’s only chance and he knew it.
Strike now, Alex, he heard his mind say. Strike now!
And so he struck.
“Please listen to me carefully, Volodya. I am going to tell you precisely how it stands now between us. There are no more bargaining chips on the table. No more shadow armies in Siberia waiting to pounce on your defenseless neighbors. No secret weapons of mass destruction. No Feuerwasser. Nothing. There is just you. And just me. And the words we now say to each other. That’s it. That’s all we have. For better or for worse.”
Putin stared at his enemy for a long moment, assessing the truth of his statement. He said, “Go on.”
“Take this.”
“What is it?”
Hawke handed it to him.
“It’s a vial of that stuff. Feuerwasser. You gave it to me that day in the library aboard Tsar. I slipped it into my pocket and forgot about it. Found it again a few days ago. Notice the metal seal remains unbroken. It’s still armed.”
“Yes, I see that.”
“Ignite it. Vaporize both of us the way you vaporized that sunken freighter.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I’m ready to die if you are. Twist the bloody top, man. Or smash it on the floor. Use your mobile to pull the trigger. Boom. We’re history . . .”
“You are a fucking madman, you know,” Putin said. He turned and hurled the vial, smashing it to crystalline bits against the stone fireplace.
They both stared at the puddle of clear liquid and the broken glass in silence.
Hawke said, “I may indeed be mad, but you most certainly are a liar. Don’t you see? You’re walking around naked, Volodya. Emperor Putin has no clothes. And the whole world can see him for a poseur and a charlatan. A destroyer of worlds.”
THEY SPOKE FOR ANOTHER HOUR. Putin would thrust and parry, looking for the slightest of holes in Hawke’s position. On, and on, and still on. At the very end, both men were exhausted. They simply could not find a way to end it.
In the tall eastern windows of the lodge, the light beyond took on a pinkish cast.
Hawke had finally had enough. He got to his feet and started pacing back and forth before the fireplace, just to get his blood flowing again. He finally spo
ke.
“Look here, damn it. You don’t seem to understand that the Americans have already gone to Defcon 3, Volodya! A state of war already exists! America and Britain are on a war footing. Just waiting for an excuse to get rid of you once and for all. Don’t give them that excuse, Volodya. Don’t be remembered as the one who bet it all and lost.”
“Fuck you. You hear me? Fuck you.”
Putin was plainly drunk now. Hawke knew he had to hurry. The last vestiges of sobriety were evaporating, and with them, any hope of peace with Russia. His mind turned to something else Uncle Joe had told him aboard the chopper . . . Putin’s fierce pride in his legacy.
“For God’s sake! Look at yourself! You’re up to your knees in shit. And now Western economic sanctions have brought you to your knees. The ruble is underwater. Plummeting oil prices have emptied your coffers. You’re broke. And now you would go to war? You don’t want to be remembered by future Russian schoolchildren as history’s fool, do you? I know you. And you don’t want that. You’re far too bloody narcissistic for that. Am I wrong? That was a question, damn it. I said, Does the great Vladimir Putin want to be remembered for all time as history’s fool? Or not? Now is the time to decide, God damn you!”
Putin paused a moment. Then, he rose, quite wobbly now, to his feet. He threw back his head, drained the last of his vodka, and hurled the crystal vodka tumbler against the stone. More shattered bits of glass scattered on the hearthstone, glittering in the firelight.
Everything was broken now. It was all broken. And the end was very near.
“How long have I got?” Putin said, his voice shaking.
“Forty-eight hours. They want you to sign this document to that effect in my presence.”
Hawke handed the Russian president the document he’d had printed at KGB Headquarters. The one the American secretary of state had frantically e-mailed him before he left hours earlier.
Putin took it and went to the drinks table and poured himself another. He read the terms without speaking and with trembling hands. He turned and regarded his old friend, now his adversary, with those hooded brooding eyes. When he returned to the fireside, he spoke, the words parsed out slowly, barely audible.
“I have made the decision to stand down. I will sign your fucking papers. I will tell my commanders in the field to withdraw from Estonia and Poland. To retreat back within existing Russian borders. Also, I shall similarly instruct the navy. The air force. And then I shall call my wife to . . . what was I saying?”
Hawke was elated, but what came next was an eerie reminder of Nixon’s bizarre farewell speech in the Oval Office.
“I would never mind being defeated by you, Alex. Never. There is no shame in what happens on the battlefield. There is only honor and blood and bravery among warring knights. But this, tonight, was no field of battle. No. You have come into the sanctity of my home and you have humiliated me. Abused the favored status I have always granted you as someone fervently respected and admired. And that abuse, my old friend, is something I can never, nor will I ever, forgive.”
Hawke rose to his feet.
“Volodya, what would you have had me do? Would you rather I had just turned away and watched you fall into a wretched pit of—”
“Silence!”
His enemy’s face was white, and he was bathed in sweat. His breathing was a desperate rattle, as if he had just run a race.
“Silence! I cannot stomach the sight of your face nor the sound of your words. You had better leave now. Take your fucking papers and go! I can no longer hold myself responsible for your safety, Alex. Now, please go while you still can.”
Hawke saw Putin reach inside his woolen jacket with his free hand, the other still clutching the signed documents. Out came the small silver Walther PPK he always carried for protection. Hawke’s heart stopped when he saw the man eyeing the roaring fire turn to face him.
His intent was clear. He had changed his mind. He was about to hurl the signed treaty into the fire. A red spark of anger filled Hawke’s blue sailor’s eyes as he took a step toward the madman, who was now batting the scorched treaty at the licking flames.
“Get out, I said!” Putin cried as Hawke moved closer toward him.
“I’m sorry, Volodya. This is not what I wanted. To insult you, to offend you, was never my intent. I wanted only for the two of us to find the truth together. Seek a peaceful resolution that protects this imperfect old world as we know it for a little while longer. I hope you can come to believe that.”
“And I hope you believe this,” Putin said.
He raised the weapon and pointed it at Hawke’s head. If he wanted Hawke to flinch, he was sorely disappointed. Hawke took one and then two steps more toward the president, a cold fury in his eyes. And then, as Hawke reached out to snatch the treaty clutched in Putin’s left hand, the drunken leader fired his weapon at point-blank range.
He missed.
Hawke took another step closer. His right hand shot out like a piston. In desperation, he wrenched the precious document away from the drunken Russian. Now, somehow, he had to get out of here alive with the cease-fire treaty in his possession.
“Damn you!” Putin said, raising the pistol again.
“Don’t do it, Volodya.”
Two more shots rang out, striking the ancient plaster just inches above the Englishman’s head. Hawke stared at Putin, knowing full well that the end of this story was very near now.
It would be so easy for Putin to simply kill him . . .
One way or the other, Hawke would stand his ground; he would do what he had always done. He would stand fast.
The gun wavered wildly as Putin gave full vent to his righteous anger, firing shots into the ceiling high above. He was shouting now, “I don’t believe in your old world, Hawke! I believe in a new world to come. And someday I shall have it . . .”
“All things are possible, Volodya.”
“Yes, they are. Over your dead body.”
“That is clearly your choice, Volodya. I took you at your word. You’re the only one with a gun, remember.”
Putin laughed, but it was mirthless and hollow.
He took dead aim once more.
Hawke stood fast and unflinching, looking into the cold dark eyes above the barrel. He saw trickery and he saw death. He could feel the spot on his forehead where the bullet would strike; the spot, a small circle of fear, was there even now. It felt cold and icy and final.
“You really are a murderous bastard, aren’t you?” Hawke said, keeping his voice steady.
Putin smiled. “Anything else to say?” Hawke was watching his trigger finger and saw the pressure whiten the knuckles . . .
“Just one thing,” Hawke said evenly. “You’d better make the first shot good, Volodya. I will get my hands on you before you can fire that bloody thing a second time . . .”
Fired.
Hawke, a blur, dove forward. He had both hands around his assailant’s neck, crushing fingers digging brutally into the larynx before Putin even knew he’d missed. He tightened his fingers cruelly around the Russian’s throat.
“Drop it. Now.”
The gun clattered on the stone hearth, and Hawke shoved him away, disgusted more than anything else. Putin backed up against the wall, rubbing his bruised throat, his eyes glaring and red. His voice was raw when he finally spoke in a harsh whispery croak.
“Oh, what a noble image of yourself you’ve always had! The valiant Arthurian knight on his black charger. But you hear this, Hawke. The second you walk out that door, you will no longer enjoy my benevolent protection. Nor will your beloved son. Nor even the Russian whore who bore you your bastard child. So I suggest you run for the woods once you step outside. Run as fast as you can. Do I make myself perfectly clear? Now, get out of my sight!”
“Good-bye, Volodya,” Hawke said, walking away. But he paused at the doorway then turned around to face his enemy. Holding up the treaty, the Englishman said, “You’ve summoned a small semblance of honor here
tonight. And done a courageous thing. The right thing. And, despite what you say you believe, I can only pray that one day you’ll realize what I say is true. That, on this one night in history, both of us have done the very best that either of us may ever be capable of doing.”
Putin had no reply. Not that night, anyway.
His final answer, tragically, would come to haunt Alex Hawke. But it would come later.
Much later.
Hawke turned his collar up against the cold and walked on into the night, under starry Russian skies.
The woods ahead were dark and deep.
“On we go,” he whispered to himself.
On we go.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to offer heartfelt thanks to my literary agent, Peter McGuigan, as well as Emily Brown at Foundry Literary + Media, and to my dear wife, Lucinda Watson, for putting up with me during the completion of this manuscript.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
TED BELL, former writer-in-residence at Cambridge University, was chairman of the board and worldwide creative director of Young & Rubicam, one of the world’s largest advertising agencies. He is the New York Times bestselling author of Warriors, Phantom, Warlord, Tsar, Spy, Pirate, Assassin, and Hawke, along with two YA adventure novels.
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ALSO BY TED BELL
FICTION
Warriors
Phantom
Warlord
Tsar
Spy
Pirate
Assassin
Hawke
NOVELLA
Crash Dive
What Comes Around
White Death
YOUNG ADULT NOVELS
The Time Pirate
Nick of Time
CREDITS
COVER DESIGN BY TONY MAURO AND RICHARD L. AQUAN
COVER ILLUSTRATION © BY TONY MAURO