Phantom

by Ted Bell

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Indeed, had you come to me with a request to venture alone into what was, to me, so obviously a KGB death trap, I would never have agreed to it. Never. It looked a suicide mission, frankly.”

  “That was my thinking, sir. Were I in your position, I most certainly would not have allowed it either.”

  “My God, Alex, what were you thinking? We both know these Russian bastards want your head for killing their beloved Tsar. And yet you decide to go waltzing into their top-secret training facility in the middle of Siberia? Based upon some Kremlin-generated rumor?”

  “I had no choice, Sir David. It was worth my life to learn the truth, whether or not the Tsar’s daughter, Anastasia, and our child were still alive. And, if they were alive, and held captive there, I was determined to bring them out. Whatever it took. If not, well—”

  “Yes. And whether it was raw courage or sheer foolhardiness, it’s not for me to judge. I’m just glad you made it out in one piece, Alex. The service would be greatly diminished without you. No one is irreplaceable, including me, but you . . . you come close.”

  “I appreciate that, sir.”

  “Lady Mars tells me you were able to bring your son out? Is that true?”

  “Yes, sir. Alexei is sleeping upstairs as we speak.”

  “How marvelous. Do you think I might catch a glimpse of him?”

  “Well, we could peek in after dinner, I suppose. But if we wake him, Miss Spooner will have our heads.”

  “I believe they’re waiting for us. Shall we go in to dinner?” C said.

  “Delighted, sir. I was quite sure I was coming out here to have my head handed to me. Thank you for letting me retain the use of it.”

  C laughed and put his arm around Hawke’s shoulder as they started for the door. Startled, Hawke realized it was the first time Trulove had ever done anything remotely like this unmistakable show of affection.

  He’s actually glad to see me, Hawke thought, somewhat astounded.

  The dinner, Alex thought, had been splendid. The lamb was cooked to pink perfection, redolent of garlic and rosemary from the garden, and the wine, a 1959 Petrus, was beyond belief. Even C had been relaxed and cheerful during the meal. Now that he and Hawke understood each other once more, it was back to business as usual. Both men were glad they’d cleared the air.

  Hawke was seated next to Diana, whom he adored. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why she and Ambrose had yet to wed. Clearly they were madly in love. But, as the old saying went, unless you’re under the tent, you have no earthly idea what’s really going on in a relationship.

  The dinner dishes were cleared. The candles still flickered on the happy faces around the table and Cole Porter floated in from a turntable in the drawing room. Coffee was served. Ambrose fired up his pipe, Sir David his cigar, and Alex his electronic cigarette. As long as you didn’t inhale the bloody vapor, he discovered, you could manage it. Besides, he saw Ambrose smiling at him with approval.

  Hawke saw C push back from the table, all the jollity flown from his face. Whatever was coming was deadly serious and, in all likelihood, it would be aimed directly at him.

  “I’d like to raise a glass to our lovely and brilliant hostess for an absolutely smashing dinner party. Wonderful food, wonderful wine, and, of course, wonderful company.”

  “Hear! Hear!” everyone said, raising their glasses toward the hostess.

  “But now the party’s over, isn’t it, Sir David?” Diana said with a laugh. “We now turn to the affairs of men.”

  “Good God, I hope not,” Congreve said, unable to contain himself. Hawke and Diana laughed out loud. C didn’t even crack a smile.

  “I want to talk about this recent unprovoked attack by the Nevskiy, a Russian submarine, on an American cruise ship. I received a call from Brick Kelly, the CIA director, a few hours ago. Apparently two torpedoes were fired. The ship went down in less than an hour. At least seven hundred innocent people lost their lives. It would have been worse had not an American sub been in the immediate vicinity, surfacing to pluck many survivors out of the water. Alex, your man in Miami, he was aboard that ship. He actually saw the torpedoes approaching?”

  “That’s correct, sir. Stokely Jones and his new bride were beginning their honeymoon. He happened to be on deck when they were launched, saw their wakes, and warned the captain.”

  “And SSN 75, the U.S. nuclear submarine Texas, was shadowing Nevskiy just prior to the attack. The American commanding officer avers that he has sonar confirmation of the Russian sub’s screw signature, the sound of her outer torpedo doors opening, tubes flooding, and two torpedoes launched. This evidence is incontrovertible. The Russians sank that cruise ship, period.”

  Congreve said, “What do they have to say about it? Knowing the Kremlin, they deny it, of course.”

  “Except for the presence of the Texas, yes, they would, certainly. Putin called the White House immediately. Deepest regrets. Insisted the Kremlin had no prior knowledge of this attack. The sub is returning to her home port at Sevastopol. The captain will be arrested and interrogated by the KGB. So the question is this: Was this a skipper gone rogue? Was this an accident? Or was this a deliberate attack on America by the Russians for reasons as yet unknown? Answers are vitally important because the West finds itself in the midst of a dangerous diplomatic firestorm.”

  “What was President McCloskey’s response?” Congreve asked C.

  “He told Putin that, based on the U.S. sub’s report, he was immediately taking all American air, sea, and land forces to DEFCON 3. Depending on what explanations he hears back from the Kremlin within the next forty-eight hours, he will go to the next highest state of readiness, DEFCON 2. That’s one level shy of all-out war.”

  “The Russians can come up with a lot of excuses in forty-eight hours. We need proof of what really happened on that sub,” Hawke said.

  “Absolutely,” C said. “Right now, U.S. Navy divers are sifting through the debris field on the ocean floor. They will examine every last scrap of those two torpedoes looking for evidence of either a misfire or a deliberate launch. Not much to go on but at the moment it’s all we’ve got.”

  “Next steps?” Hawke said, already having a pretty good idea where all this was heading.

  “The CIA and the NSA are all over this, naturally. But they’re stretched pretty thin at the moment and they’ve asked for our help. Kelly specifically mentioned you, Alex. And your Russian counterintelligence operation based in Bermuda, Red Banner. Since you are already working in tandem with the CIA, it’s a good fit for something like this.”

  “It’s exactly why it was created, as you well know, Sir David.”

  “So, Hawke, old fellow. Will you be staying for dessert?” Trulove asked, smiling at him.

  “I appreciate the offer, sir, but I think not. If you all will excuse me, I’ll take my leave. It seems I suddenly have a rather pressing engagement.”

  “Good man,” C said as Hawke stood and kissed Diana on the cheek. “You’ll keep in touch with me this time, won’t you?”

  Hawke smiled and said, “Hourly updates, sir.”

  “Not that in touch. I’ve other matters on my platter. Good hunting, Alex. I trust you’ll get to the bottom of this in short order.”

  Hawke put a hand on Congreve’s shoulder. “Ambrose, I wonder if I might impose on Diana’s hospitality. Is it possible that my son and Miss Spooner might remain here at Brixden House until this current assignment is completed?”

  “Absolutely, darling,” Diana said to him. “Don’t be silly. We’d adore to have Alexei with us.”

  Hawke paused, thinking. “One other thing you should all be aware of. Alexei, being the grandson of the late Tsar, has been the subject of death threats from certain elements in Moscow. Gaggle of thugs calling themselves the Tsarists. There was an incident on the Red Arrow
train en route to St. Petersburg. Ambrose, would you ask your colleagues at Scotland Yard to send a few chaps out here to keep an eye on things?”

  “I’ll put a call in immediately,” Congreve said.

  “Thank you. I’ll run upstairs and kiss him good-bye and then I’ll be off. Sir David, would you like to accompany me? I promised you a peek at him.”

  “I was going to insist on it.”

  “One final thing. Just thought of it in fact. Ambrose, if anything . . . bad . . . should happen to me, I wonder if you would do me the very great honor of being Alexei’s godfather. He has no one else, you see, and—”

  “The honor is all mine, Alex. Thank you for your faith in me. I’m deeply moved.”

  And with that Hawke and Sir David Trulove quickly left the room and headed for the upper reaches of the house. Two men off to save the world once more, Ambrose thought, watching them striding up the staircase, realizing he might never see either of them again.

  He puffed away at his pipe, wondering whether the world would ever again sail with such serenity through space as it seemed to do a hundred years ago.

  Congreve walked Hawke out to his car, the familiar Bentley Continental he called the “Locomotive,” parked in the forecourt.

  “How can I help you, Alex, get to the bottom of this Russian thing?”

  “Good of you to ask and I may indeed call upon that oversized brain of yours before this is all over. But, for now, I already have a plan as to how to get to the bottom of it.”

  “How, may I ask?”

  “By going straight to the top.”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “I mean I’m going to pay a little visit to my dear friend and former cellmate, Prime Minister Vladimir Putin.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Deadly serious.”

  “And just how do you plan to manage it?”

  “Simple, actually. I’m going to ring him up tonight. I have his private number in my wallet.”

  “You ought to be careful, dear boy. To sup with that Russian you’ll need a very long spoon.”

  “Did I ever tell you he and I got thoroughly pissed? A bottle of vodka in his cell in that awful radioactive prison, Energetika?”

  “I don’t believe you did.”

  “Hmm. It’s true. We got rather chummy.”

  “I must say, Alex, that, after all these years, you still have the power to shock and amaze me.”

  Hawke climbed behind the wheel and the Bentley’s monstrous engine exploded to life.

  He smiled at Congreve.

  “Good. May it always be thus, as your idol Mr. Sherlock Holmes might say.”

  With that, Alex Hawke and his great grey Locomotive roared out of Brixden House’s graveled forecourt and disappeared down the winding drive into a warm summer’s night, pearlescent moonlight and shadows of indigo blue showing the way.

  Seventeen

  Cap d’Antibes, France

  Hawke slept peacefully for most of the short flight from Gatwick south of London to the south of France. He was dreaming fitfully of the last time he’d visited the glittering Côte d’Azur. There was a woman in his dream, a beautiful raven-haired Chinese secret police officer.

  Her dream name was Jet something . . . Jet Li. Yes, and even in his hotel bed, rolling among the twisted sheets, he sensed something wrong. An aura of threat surrounded her . . . yes . . . and at the climactic moment of love, she raised a knife above her head and plunged it into his heart . . .

  “Fifteen minutes to touchdown at Nice Airport, sir,” he heard the copilot of his G-5 announce over the intercom. He picked up the phone mounted inside his armrest and raised his seat back, blinking awake.

  “Is there any hot coffee left, Charley, or did you two polish it off?” Hawke said, raising his window shade, letting light flood the darkened cabin.

  “Still a few drops in the pot, sir; I’ll step out and bring you a mug from the galley.”

  Hawke normally had an attendant on board, but she’d been vacationing in Ibiza with her new husband and he hadn’t wanted to bother her at the last minute, especially for such a short hop.

  “You fly the plane; I think I can still manage to pour myself a cup of coffee, believe it or not. How’s the weather? It looks beautiful down there.”

  Hawke was peering out the big oval window at the sun-sparkled blue Mediterranean ten thousand feet below his airplane. He found himself smiling. If he had to meet with Putin, he’d much rather it be here in paradise than in Moscow, where every other chap he met might want to kill him.

  “Eighteen Celsius right now, sir, winds light, about five knots, ten percent chance of showers late this afternoon.”

  “Bloody perfect. What mischief are you two up to this weekend, while I’m off saving the world from the Evil Empire?”

  “Thought we’d get a hired car, sir, drive along the coast over to Monte Carlo. Not far, and neither I nor the skipper here have ever been.”

  “Ah, the casinos. Hold on to your wallets.”

  “We might have a go, sir. A few quid.”

  “I’d like to be wheels-up by ten Sunday morning. Back to London, unless my host has other ideas.”

  “No problem at all, sir. We’ll have her topped off and ready for you.”

  A silver chopper was waiting on the tarmac fifty feet away, rotors turning. Judging by the large red star and the blue-and-white Russian flag on her fuselage, she was clearly waiting for him. As Hawke descended the Gulfstream’s staircase, taking deep breaths of the fresh salt air, two men in white strode across the tarmac to greet him. Men who walked with the rolling gait of seamen. Heavily muscled jack-tars who no doubt carried concealed weapons.

  Both wore white gabardine trousers and skintight white T-shirts with a silhouette of a megayacht and the name Red Star emblazoned below it. One stepped forward and extended his hand. He had a wide white smile and blond hair, cut close.

  “Commander Hawke,” he said. “Welcome. I am Yaniv Soha and this is my colleague Yuri. The prime minister extends his warmest greetings and says he is looking forward to having you as a guest aboard Red Star. We are here to provide you with diplomatic security. And anything else you require. Can we help you with your luggage?”

  Hawke had only the old canvas seabag slung from his shoulder.

  “I’m good, thank you.”

  “Do you mind if I look inside the bag, sir? Standard precaution.”

  “I’d be worried if you didn’t.” Hawke smiled, handing it to him. The man picked through the items slowly and carefully, examining each one more than thoroughly.

  “Excellent,” he said, returning the bag. “Very well, if you’ll come this way, it’s a very short flight out to Red Star. She’s anchored just off the Hotel du Cap at Cap d’Antibes.”

  The three men started for the Russian military helo, which was spooling up.

  “I saw her on final approach. Magnificent. What’s her l.o.a.?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Length overall.”

  “Ah. One hundred meters, sir. Three hundred feet.”

  “Impressive.”

  The silver chopper hovered above the yacht’s helo pad, located near the stern. As Hawke emerged from the cockpit he saw Vladimir Putin striding toward him, an honest smile on his face and his hand extended. He was wearing a black bathing suit and a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was in very good shape, much better than the pale skeleton he’d been when the two of them had been inmates at Energetika Prison.

  “Alex,” Putin said as they shook hands.

  “Volodya,” Hawke said, smiling.

  “My old cellmate, we meet again.”

  “Under considerably better circumstances, I would say,”

  “Your pilot waggled his wings as he flew over Red Star. Made me lau
gh. I admire your style.”

  “I was asleep. My pilot’s the one with the style. What an incredible yacht. Yours?”

  “I’d never admit it publicly, but yes. The sea has become my sanctuary. Come on, I’ll give you a short tour. Just enough time for a tour and a cocktail before lunch. We’re going ashore to the Hotel du Cap. I hope that’s suitable. If not, my chef can cook anything you like.”

  “You just happened to have picked one of my favorite hotels on earth. Fifty quid for a Salade Niçoise with a teaspoon of tuna is pushing it a bit, but still.”

  Putin laughed, clapping him on the back. “Follow me. We’ll start on the bridge. You’re difficult to impress, but I think you will be. You still have Blackhawke?”

  Putin walked very quickly and Hawke matched his stride as they headed forward along the starboard deck.

  “Yes, but I’m building a new one in Turkey. Sail, not power this time.”

  “Tell me about her. I’m new to yachting and have become fascinated with them.”

  “Well, she’s basically a twenty-first-century clipper ship. Three carbon fiber masts, each one about twenty stories tall. Extreme, I suppose.”

  “The more extreme, the better. How long is she?”

  “Three hundred twenty l.o.a., forty-two-foot beam, and she draws twenty feet. The naval architect, a Turk named Badi, told me that if she were anchored in New York harbor her mastheads would reach up to the level of the tablet carried in the arm of the Statue of Liberty.”

  “Good God, Alex.”

  “You only go around once in life, right? You know what all megayacht owners love saying to each other? ‘Mine’s bigger.’ ”

  Putin laughed. “Good one. I’ll have to remember that.”

  “My idea for the new one was to have all the attributes of a classic sailing ship, teak decks, varnished cap rail, et cetera, but with the overall appearance sleek, metallic, ultramodern. She looks a bit foreboding, to be honest. Darth Vader’s intergalactic yacht, the architect calls her.”

  “I hope you’ll invite me aboard sometime. She sounds magnificent.”