Tsar

by Ted Bell

  “Shit, mon, you ain’t going to break it.”

  “No? Who paid you to follow me?”

  “Fuck you, mon.”

  “Your place or mine?”

  The kid spat, barely missing Hawke’s left foot.

  “Last chance?”

  Desmond glared, wincing at the pain, saying nothing.

  “No more joy rides for a while, Desmond,” Hawke said, smiling at the man as he deftly snapped his wrist, eliciting a howl of pain.

  Hawke’s hand blurred again, moving for the ignition switch atop the fuel tank. In an instant, Hawke had plucked the key from the ignition and flung it out into the scrub brush on the hill beside the road.

  “What you-aw, fuck, mon, now I going to have to-”

  “Desmond, you’re no good at this. Surveillance is a highly sophisticated art form. Go back to dealing ganja. Street dealers have a much longer life expectancy than people stupid enough to get involved with me.”

  Hawke turned his back on him and crossed the dusty road. He climbed back into his car, and Stubbs turned it around and headed back to the South Road. Desmond remained on his bike, too proud to let Hawke see him searching for his keys.

  “You see all those gold teeth, Cap?” Stubbs said, looking at Hawke in the rearview mirror, waiting to rejoin the flow of traffic on the South Road.

  “Hard to miss.”

  “Disciples of Judah. That’s their trademark, replace all their teeth with gold. A Rasta sect, immigrated from the Blue Mountains of Jamaica many years ago to work in the banana plantations. They went bad. Drugs, sir. Cocaine, marijuana, heroin, you name it, the Disciples deal it. The big boss is a man named Samuel Coale. Call him King Coale. He was extradited to the U.S. a few years ago under the Foreign Narcotics Kingpin Act. We heard he was back on island. That boy you just talking to?”

  “Yes?”

  “He say his name?”

  “Desmond.”

  “I thought that was him. He’s the favorite son. The son of King Coale. Calls himself the Prince of Darkness. You see his graffiti tags all over the place you visit Skanktown on St. David’s Island.”

  “He’s a fighter, is he? Boxer?”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “Sometimes you can tell.”

  “Yes. Fought under the name of Prince back in Jamaica. Fought his way to the top, won the Golden Gloves in the Caribbean, and then went to the Olympics on the Jamaican boxing team. He won the gold medal at Athens in 2004.”

  “All downhill from there, it looks like.”

  “Couldn’t handle the success, sir. The fame went to his young head, swole it up.”

  “Where can I find his father, this King Coale?”

  “Hard to say, Cap. These boys move around a lot. There’s a rumor they have an offshore compound out on Nonsuch Island down by St. David’s. Illegal because it’s a wildlife sanctuary. But that’s what I hear. Squatters’ rights.”

  “How long to the Naval Dockyard?”

  “We’ll be there in twenty minutes, sir.”

  “Could you make that ten?”

  “I’d be delighted to try, sir,” Wooten said, as he pulled a red flasher out of the glove box and stuck it on the dashboard.

  Hawke sat back in his seat and gazed out the window, lost in thoughts that led straight to Anastasia Korsakova’s door. She had called him at some ungodly hour that morning. He’d stumbled half-asleep to the bar and reached blindly for the phone. He had a vague memory of agreeing to come to her house that afternoon at five. He felt peace slipping away from his grasp. What with C’s proposal and the appearance of the lovely Miss Korsakova, the halcyon days of idle bliss seemed to be waning.

  “HALLOWED GROUND ON your right, Cap,” Stubbs Wooten said, interrupting Hawke’s reverie ten minutes later.

  They were approaching the Dockyard compound. The mostly empty early-nineteenth-century buildings and facilities had not seen use since the Cold War. They were still lovely, though. Especially the twin spires of the Dockyard Clocks in the distance.

  During that era, the Cold War, the Royal Navy had conducted clandestine air and submarine surveillance operations to keep the Soviets from regarding the Atlantic as their ocean. At that time, Bermuda was a principal naval base in defending the United States from Soviet attack. The Royal Navy still maintained a minimal presence here. Although it was minor now, with C’s new operation, the old Dockyard might soon become more fully operational.

  Hawke looked to his right and saw the hallowed ground. A lovely old cemetery nestled in a gently sloping valley between the growths of tall Australian pine trees on either hilltop.

  “Royal Navy?” Hawke asked.

  “Yes, sir. First consecrated in 1812 when the Dockyard was still being built. See that big stone spire, grass grown up all around? Many men from the British Army and Royal Navy buried there, mostly died of the yellow fever. But some of the newer headstones there are the final resting place for the seamen who died on their ships off Bermuda in actions against German pocket battleships and U-boats.”

  “I had no idea,” Hawke said as they passed through the narrow entrance gates. They rode in silence as they passed the abandoned docks to their right and the Dockyard Clock spires on their left.

  “See that building on the high hilltop over there? That’s where your meeting is, sir. The Commissioner’s Building. Will you be needing me to wait?”

  “I’d very much appreciate that, Stubbs. I’ve an appointment later this afternoon out at St. George’s. If you could take me out there?”

  “Pleasure’s all mine, sir.”

  “Place called Powder Hill. Do you know it?”

  Stubbs turned around in his seat. “That’s a private island, sir. You have to go by boat. Very tight security. Don’t let anyone near that place.”

  “They’re expecting me.”

  “Ah, well, you’re fine, then.”

  Hawke smiled as the car came to a stop, popped the door open, and climbed out of the back. The structure itself was a lovely old three-story British Colonial building, somewhat the worse for wear, built on a hill overlooking the sea. It was just inside the fortress walls and surrounded on all sides by bastions with cannons still in place. A wide verandah graced the two topmost floors, with shuttered doors on all sides.

  He could see Sir David waiting in the shade at the covered entrance. As Hawke got closer, he saw that C was wearing old white duck trousers with a Spanish flare, a striped Riviera sweater, straw shoes, and an ancient Mexican hat.

  Hawke could hardly believe the vision the head of SIS presented. And there was a woman with him. Blonde and very good-looking, in a simple linen shift of lime green that did little to hide her spectacular figure. It was certainly Pippa Guinness, he thought, squinting in the sunlight, one of C’s closest aides at MI-6 in London. Although he could not have explained why, Hawke was both surprised and not surprised to see her. The bad-penny principle, he supposed.

  “Sorry to be late, sir,” Hawke said, shaking C’s hand. “Spot of bother on the road.”

  “Spot of bother?” Sir David said.

  “Minor irritation.”

  C’s idea of tropical attire threw Hawke a bit. It was difficult to take a man in such costume seriously. Hawke was accustomed to seeing Sir David in a crisp foulard tie and a three-piece worsted number in either navy or dark grey from Huntsman of Savile Row.

  C said, “You remember our Miss Guinness, don’t you, Alex? Guinevere Guinness? You two were on special assignment together, as I recall. Florida, wasn’t it?”

  “Of course. How could I not remember Pippa, sir? She’s unforgettable. How do you do, Miss Guinness? Lovely to see you again.”

  Hawke had been intimately involved with the woman during a previous mission that had taken them both to Key West. She was an intelligence analyst at MI-6, assigned to Hawke at a Caribbean security conference. They’d had an ill-advised fling and had not parted on the best of terms. He waited for her response with some curiosity. He imagined she felt
hard done by and wouldn’t blame her if she did.

  “Hello, Alex,” Pippa Guinness said, smiling as if she were actually happy to see him. A strange girl, indeed. The first time he’d seen her, she’d been one of the Garden Girls, working for the prime minister at Number 10 Downing Street. The last time he’d laid eyes on her, she was storming down the gangplank of his yacht Blackhawke, in tears.

  “Anything serious? On the road, I mean?” C said, interrupting the awkward silence that followed their exchange.

  “Young thug on a motorbike followed me from the hospital. I had a chat with him and convinced him it was unwise to continue.”

  “Followed you. I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “I’ve got a name. I’ll look into it.”

  “Do that. Let’s get started, shall we? Miss Guinness and I think we’ve found just the spot.”

  “After you, sir.”

  C led the tour. “The first two floors are devoted to the Maritime Museum. Wonderful displays, you should see sometime, Alex. Bermuda war history. We’ve taken over the entire top floor with permission of the Bermuda government.”

  C led them down a corridor and up three flights of beautiful Bermuda cedar stairs. Having attained the top floor of the building, Hawke saw that the abundance of tall French doors, windows, and warm sunlight made it far more hospitable than the ground floors.

  “Here we are,” C said, a broad smile on his face. “What do you think, Alex? The new headquarters for our secret nest of spies?”

  “Lovely views,” Hawke said. It was true. The views were to the south, across the South Channel toward the entrance to Hamilton Harbor. Sailboats, fishing boats, and ferries plied their way over the smooth blue surface of the Great Sound.

  “Yes. I thought our chaps could take this end of the hall. Griswold and Symington, the two young MI-6 fellows I mentioned bringing over, will have their offices down there near yours. And I thought we’d put the Yanks down there at that end.”

  “The Yanks, sir?”

  “Didn’t I mention that? This is to be a joint operation with our friends at Langley. We could hardly afford to go it alone on our budgets, and since we’ve clearly a common interest, Director Brick Kelly at the CIA has agreed to a goodly portion of the funding. He’s picking someone now, a top American field operative who would liaise with you on Red Banner. Kelly envisions a secret allied counterterrorist training camp here. He’s even trying to get the Pentagon to recommission the Dockyard’s old sub pens and base one of their Atlantic Fleet attack subs here. SSN 640, the former USS Benjamin Franklin.”

  “I think it’s all brilliant, sir,” Pippa said, favoring C with her winning smile and then looking at Hawke. “Don’t you agree, Alex?”

  “Are you planning to spend some time here on Bermuda, Miss Guinness?” Hawke said, his voice cracking slightly despite straining for nonchalance. Before she could open her lovely mouth, C spoke for her.

  “I’ve asked Miss Guinness to be administrative head of Red Banner, Alex. Reporting to you, of course, should you decide to accept this assignment.”

  “Ah. Yes. Quite.”

  C looked at him and smiled. “What have you decided, Alex?”

  Hawke looked at Pippa, smiling up at him with a combination of mirth and mischief in her beautiful eyes. He was trapped, and she knew it. Still, the job C offered was an important one. The more he’d considered C’s offer during a restless night, the more inclined he was to accept. Red Banner section would be a good way to serve his country perhaps more substantially than he had done previously. Perhaps even more rewarding than some of his last efforts on behalf of the service. He realized he’d already made up his mind. And it was too late to change it.

  “Well, Alex?”

  “I’d be honored, sir. I’m very flattered that you and the firm put such faith and trust in my abilities.”

  “Splendid!” C said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “A good decision, Alex. Well, it’s nearly lunchtime. I think a bit of celebration is in order, don’t you both agree? There’s a lovely pub out here, just opposite the Maritime Museum. Called the Frog and Onion. Shall we all stroll over and have a tot of rum?”

  “Oh, let’s do!” Pippa said, gazing not at C but at Hawke.

  “Of course we should,” Hawke said with as much joviality as he could muster, wondering what in God’s name he had just gotten himself into.

  He would learn soon enough.

  13

  NEW YORK CITY

  Paddy felt a slight heaviness in his heels and knew that the airship must be climbing. He glanced out the nearest window and saw that they were angling upward, the sunlit towers of the Manhattan skyline pivoting away as they left the midtown mooring behind and headed out toward Long Island. So, he’d missed the whole departure thing, too, throwing off the lines and the TV crews and media people on the platform waving good-bye, et cetera.

  Hell, he was news. For the first time in his whole freaking life, he was news. And he’d missed it.

  He was also completely lost. He’d begun the tour along with his new best pal, Dr. Shumayev, and a bunch of journalists, everybody oohing and aahing over the luxurious interior appointments aboard the corporate flagship. He’d been at the back of the group and had stopped to admire a beautiful model of the Hindenburg, about six feet long, inside a glass case. This was on the B Deck, in the Atlantis reception lounge, where blonde babes in blue uniforms served coffee and Danish before the grand tour began.

  Anyway, when he looked up, the group had left him alone, and he’d decided to just wander around on his own, see what he could see. It was cooler, actually, than tromping around like a bunch of ducks, listening to the ship’s purser (what the hell was a purser, anyway?) explaining everything in a whole lot more detail than he really needed. Looking at one of the passenger suites, the purser had informed them that all linen aboard was Egyptian cotton with a thread count of more than 1,200! Really, 1,200? Sign me the hell up!

  So he set off on his own, heading aft along a wide corridor lined to his right with almost floor-to-ceiling windows. It was called the Promenade. Every five feet was a comfy-looking leather chaise facing the outward-slanting windows, little round tables in between. Light was pouring in, and a couple of windows were slid open a foot or so, and there was a nice chilly breeze blowing through. The views of Long Island Sound were spectacular.

  Nice place to hang for a couple of hours or the rest of your life. Paddy could imagine it when there were passengers aboard. The ship was already sold out for its maiden crossing to England, the purser had informed them. Maiden voyage? As in, all virgins? Hey, I’m in. He could see all the swells sitting here, sipping their tea and reading novels or whatever they did. Nice way to travel across the Atlantic, he thought, skimming along a few hundred feet above the waves at 150 miles an hour, listening to the latest beach book on your iPod.

  Yeah, one day, he just might have to spring for a trip on this beauty.

  He came to the end of the Promenade. A glass door slid open, and he was in some kind of reading and writing room. There were comfy armchairs scattered around and also little desks with old-fashioned blotters and inkwells and stationery with a big red T engraved at the top. Tsar. Great name for a great ship, he had to admit.

  Next was a kind of foyer with a staircase and another hall branching off that must have connected to the other side of the ship. He peeked inside a leather-padded door marked “Odeon.” It was a little jewel box of a movie theater with red velvet seats and two golden dolphins over the screen. He kept going straight and found the gym, typical exercise bikes and treadmills and shiny weight machines all along the windows. Personally, he didn’t see the kind of people who would book a flight on this thing being all that interested in sweat. More interested in the wine-and-cheese buffet, he’d bet.

  And finally, as far back as you could go, there was a shiny silver elevator door with bronze dolphins carved into it. What the hell, he’d already seen what was up front. He pushed the button, and t
he doors slid open. There were a total of five decks, two below him and two above him. He pushed the top button. Going up, ladies’ lingerie.

  “Private,” the big guy in the black suit said when the doors slid open. “Didn’t anybody tell you? No press allowed.” He was holding a small Glock submachine gun loosely at his side. He had a single gold stripe on each sleeve of his jacket. Private army. Ex-Russian special forces, had to be.

  “Sorry. I’m freaking lost here.”

  Paddy reached for the button, and the doors had started to close when the muscle man stuck his foot out and automatically opened them again.

  “Hold on a second,” the guy said. “You’re not Paddy Strelnikov?”

  “Dimitri Popov?”

  He knew the guy, all right. Gone to high school with him in Brighton Beach. Then his family had moved him back to the Soviet Union. Last time he’d seen Dimitri, it was on TV. Barbara Walters was interviewing him in Athens after he’d won the gold in Olympic wrestling for the Russian Federation.

  “All-Beef Paddy!” Popov said, “Yeah, how you doin’, player? Come out here, talk to me. It was you went out and blew up that prison in the boondocks, right? That was some sick shit, huh? Sixty jerkoff cons on Death Row catching the train on the same night? I loved that! And you know what? I wasn’t the only one to think so. You got friends in high places, my man.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  “Listen, I’m not supposed to do this, but you want a quick look-see around? This is some serious shit up here.”

  “What about your elevator?”

  “I’ll lock it. Got a remote right here. There. Game’s locked, throw away the key, remember?” He dropped the remote back into his pocket.

  “What’s up here?”

  “The man, baby. This whole deck is his private world.”

  “Ivan?”

  “Count Ivan Korsakov, baby. Who else?”

  “He’s a count?”

  “Fuck no. He’s a god. Come on, there’s a bar down this way. I’m on duty, but I can get you a Bloody Bull. You look like you could use a little eye opener.”