by Ted Bell
“It will be my new Kremlin in exile, the place from which I will wage war on my enemies of the state. Do you understand my vision, Joe? Do you?”
“I not only understand it, I fucking share it, Mr. President. I’m excited by this opportunity. You can count on me, sir. What else can I do?”
“When all is in readiness, when it is time for us all to move into the mountain lair, you will need to come get me.”
“Where are you?”
“In the Provence region of France. Near the town of Aix-en-Provence. In a cabin in the woods. I’m very comfortable here, so don’t feel it’s urgent. Only when all the pieces of this massive puzzle are assembled will I come out of hiding. I want the world to continue to believe I am dead. Besides, I like being dead.”
“Yeah? Why is that?”
“Nobody fucks with you anymore.”
“That’s a good one, boss. How shall I come for you when you’re ready to make the move?”
“I want you to buy a car in Zurich. An SUV. Nothing too fancy or conspicuous. A medium-priced Mercedes will do. But with the big engine, four-wheel drive, and total blackout windows, understand? You know how to acquire diplomatic plates, so that, too. You’ll take the back roads to Provence and you’ll not exceed the posted speed limits. Understood? There is a sizable village near my location. There you will hire a chopper. Once that is done, you can sell the car. Understood?”
“Totally.”
“We will then fly straight through from Provence to Switzerland. To the Sorcerer’s Mountain in the dead of night. Once we have established ourselves there, I shall not set foot outside again for the duration. You will be my eyes and ears out in the real world. You will make sure I have everything that I need from the outside world. You will be my second-in-command and will execute any and all of my orders with full faith and fidelity. You see, I’m putting my faith in you once more, Joe, and you will be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams. But I warn you, failure is punishable by death. Am I clear?”
“Hundred percent, boss, hundred percent. Unlike you, I don’t think I’d like being dead all that much.”
“You’ll be hearing from me, Joe.”
“One thing before you go, sir. When you throw out a figure like, oh, ‘beyond your wildest dreams,’ what are we talking? I mean, you know, just talking round figures, you know, ballpark numbers is what I’m saying . . . hello? . . . Hello? Mr. President?”
Click.
Chapter Ten
St. Moritz
The big chopper hovered, then settled. The skids touched down soundlessly, dead center on the big red H painted on Tiefenthaler hospital’s rooftop helipad.
“Please remain seated until we’ve shut down the engine and the rotor has stopped,” the pilot said over the PA system.
Hawke instantly rose to his feet and made his way aft to where his son’s guardian was seated. Tristan smiled up at him.
“Can’t get up, sir.”
“Yes, you can. Put your left arm around my neck. Let’s get you to your feet, old soldier.”
“Yes, sir.”
It took a little effort, but Hawke was able to help Tristan to stand on the first try. With his strong right arm around the wounded man’s waist, Hawke was able to get him forward to the wide-open exit bay. First out, first served. Tristan’s injuries were far more severe than his own, but he was in an agony of despair, desperate to return to St. Moritz and find his son.
Nurses were waiting outside on the helipad with gurneys rigged with IVs. Hawke got Tristan to the nearest one and the nurses quickly whisked him away. “I’ll be back, Tristan,” he called after him. “Alexei and I will be back here to see you before you know it.”
Hawke used the stairs to reach the ground floor and hurried to the exit. He pushed open the door and was greeted with a blast of frigid air.
It had begun to snow again, heavily. There was a line of black Mercedes SUVs idling nearby, waiting just outside the entrance of the emergency room.
He went to the closest one and addressed the driver behind the wheel. “Any room left?”
“Six in the back, just one seat left. Right up front, sir.”
Hawke climbed inside, taking the seat right next to the driver. He buckled up, and the driver pulled away from the curb.
“How long a drive from here back to the Klinik Gut?” he asked the portly red-faced fellow at the wheel.
“In this weather? And traffic? Half an hour, sir. Perhaps closer to an hour if we don’t get lucky.”
“My son is there, you see . . . and—”
The driver gave him a look of compassion. “Look. We are all in the same boat here, sir. I will do my best to get all of you there as quickly and safely as possible.”
“Thank you,” Hawke said, feeling as if he was on the verge of a panic attack. He sat back and tried to calm himself. Patience was not a trait that came easily, but he made an extraordinary effort. He knew the men and women seated behind him in the van were just as frightened and anxious as he himself was.
He turned around and spoke to a woman seated directly behind him. She was weeping softly into her handkerchief.
“I’m sorry. But have you heard anything at all?” he asked her. “Any word on the children? Anything coming from the hospital? I lost my mobile in the chaos on the tram.”
“My husband has been trying to get through,” the woman said sympathetically. “The hospital lines are jammed. But the accident is on the news. Reporting only that there were injuries and deaths when the cable gave way. But no specific information or numbers. I’m so sorry. How old is your child?”
“My son is seven years old. He’s all I have.”
“I’m sure he’s fine. Try not to worry.”
The drive south to St. Moritz, normally half an hour’s journey, took two hours. All courtesy of a jackknifed lorry blocking three lanes. Whiteout conditions prevailed and the road conditions were treacherous.
But Alex Hawke, who had been dealing with nervous anxiety for the last six months—hell, for most of his life—had found a new way to deal with the delay and distress, and he resorted to it now. Talking privately with his god, and beseeching him for the protection of his one and only child.
The Mercedes finally managed the exit for St. Moritz. Twenty minutes later, the driver rolled up the broad sweeping drive to the hospital. Hawke leapt out instantly and ran up the wide snow-covered steps to the trauma center’s emergency room. He dashed inside and made straight for the nurse busy taking questions from behind the information desk.
He waited patiently in the queue for the parents and relatives who’d arrived ahead of him, finally coming face-to-face with a pleasant-looking white-haired nurse of about sixty. Her tired and reddened blue eyes told him that she had already seen far too much suffering and tragedy this day.
He pulled out his UK diplomatic passport and placed it on the counter in front of her.
“Good day. My name is Hawke. Is this where the, uh, all the children from the gondola are being treated? My son was aboard, you see, and I must find him immediately. Do you have a list of those admitted? Of the children? I need to know where he—”
“Don’t worry. You’ve come to the right place, mister—uh, sorry, is it Lord Hawke?”
“It is.”
“The trauma center and pediatric wing are both on the top floor of this building, right next to the ICU, and—”
“Yes, yes. Do you have a list? Of those who were admitted?”
“They were not admitted to the ER, sir. The children were all taken directly from the rescue helicopter to the trauma center. It’s located one flight down from the rooftop helipad. That’s where they were all admitted earlier this morning.”
“Ah, yes, of course. Thank you so much. Were any children admitted to other hospitals?”
“No, no. All here. The injured children are in surgery, intensive care, or the pediatric ward. All of them are being treated for shock. The clinic’s chief of staff has ordered that all those adm
itted remain hospitalized for overnight observation and—”
“For how . . . I’m sorry . . . for how long?”
“Twenty-four hours, Mr. Hawke. Those who are able will all be released at nine a.m. tomorrow. Now, if you have no further—”
“So sorry. Thanks for your help,” Hawke said, and sprinted across the wide lobby for the elevators.
Chapter Eleven
Los Angeles
Hollywood had been good to Uncle Joe.
But then again, he’d been good to Hollywood, hadn’t he? He had a nice little bachelor pad just off Melrose where he entertained all the ladies, of whom there were more than a few. He’d earned himself quite a nickname among the women in his circle. They called him Playstation—for anatomical reasons, of course. And these were serious ladies. Ladies who if not all bold-faced names, were at the very least bold-faced liars.
Playstation had a car, the first one he’d ever owned. He loved it. He loved it with a passion he usually reserved for the bedroom. He sometimes went down to the garage just to stare at it. Rub its curves. It was the kind of car Americans sometimes called a chick magnet. It was a 1965 turquoise Corvette convertible with eighty thousand miles on the odometer. It ran a little rough, but it was still a Corvette. He called it the Getaway Car.
He had a cat too, the first one since he lived in the West Village five years ago in New York. Before his acting career had taken off. She was a Maine coon called Ninotchka, little darling.
He also had a job. A couple of them, in fact. One, he’d fast-talked his way into CAA, the most powerful talent agency in town. He started where they all started, in the mailroom. The personnel director had asked him why in the world she should hire him. He was almost forty years old, for god’s sakes. “There are thirty people in here already and a zillion or two more out there banging on the door. What’s so special about you, Joseph? And aren’t you a little old for this job?”
Uh, I used to be Vladimir Putin’s right-hand man at the Kremlin. Is that special enough for you, bitch? he thought but didn’t say. Instead, he said, “Look, doll, I’m a very smart guy. I know I look older, but I’m still in my thirties. I can learn everything there is to know about being an agent in ninety days. I don’t? I give you back every penny you paid me.” She was laughing so hard, she probably doesn’t even remember hiring him.
He figured out fast how to shake up the mailroom, get attention. The young dudes, the fancy pants East Coast grad students and the other guys, they came in at the crack of nine. Joe came in at seven. They’d leave at six, he’d leave at ten. He worked his butt off, reading every script that came his way. Volunteered for everything and was very, very, almost scarily aggressive.
He loved it there. When he wasn’t there, he actually missed that old mailroom. That’s why he wasn’t all that excited about going back to Moscow or Switzerland or wherever the hell this gig with Putin would take him. But the half million upfront in expense money? And lots more where that came from?
Fuhgeddaboudit.
His other job, part-time, was movie star. Stage name: Joe Stalingrad. Well, maybe star is a bit of a stretch. Because of his CAA connections, he met producers, directors, casting directors, and even a smattering of stars. Jim Carrey is still a star, right? Right? So, early days, he got crowd scenes, walk-ons, and then bits in films like Bitch on Wheels and Beverly Hills Butcher 3. The bits just kept on coming, and pretty soon he was a featured player in the indie Too Hot to Sleep. It was a noir detective story set in the Florida Keys, sort of like a Body Heat meets Key Largo kind of thing.
His character, Cody Lazarus, was a two-bit Jewish mobster hauling product up from Havana aboard his rust-bucket trawler, the Cindy Lou. His death scene at sea in a hurricane at the finale was not exactly a vintage Bogart, Key Largo–type performance, but it wasn’t chopped liver, either.
One reviewer on Rotten Tomatoes had him down as “Maybe the new Peter Lorre?” Deadline Hollywood crowed, “Stalingrad the new Danny DeVito?” Not bad company. Oh, and commercials up the wazoo after the movie. Last one was a McDonald’s spot he’d shot out in Orange County. He played the manager, standing atop the counter and singing to the crew about his new secret sauce.
Now, where were the keys to his Vette? He was late. Today was the day he planned to visit his Wells Fargo branch on La Cienega Boulevard and set up the wire transfer from Zurich. He took the elevator down to the garage and hopped in the Vette. It had the 327-cubic-inch engine with the supercharger. Badass. He fired her up, startling citizens a block away, and burned rubber as he cranked the wheel of the Getaway Car and rumbled out onto Melrose.
Driving over, he smiled in anticipation of seeing the look in the eyes of the nitwit manager who ran the bank. That pillar of the L.A. banking community, Mr. Larry “Buttwipe” Krynsky.
“Larry Krynsky still work here?” he said, a little too loudly to the babe at the reception desk. “You know, the white-collar criminal?”
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Joe Stalingrad, the semi-famous movie star,” Larry said, grabbing his elbow and ushering him into his dipshit cubicle of an office. Larry had a big fake oil painting on the wall behind his desk, looked like a paint-by-numbers project one of his kids had done—picture of Lake Tahoe at sunset. Big whoop. This pussified manager, this Krynsky guy, was officially a member of Joe’s Hall of Fame of Flaming Assholes. Man kept his butt where his face used to be.
Joe lit a cigarette, propped his Guccis up on Larry’s cheesy faux wood desk, and said, “Hey, J. P. Morgan, how high up you have to be in this company to have air conditioning in your office? Or an ashtray? Seriously.”
Larry sat back and forced a smile. “Hey, movie star. How’s your long-awaited movie deal coming along? Universal green light that epic yet?”
“You mean Uncle Joe and the Donald? The Paramount picture starring yours truly as the evil dwarf Stalin and Alec Baldwin as the president? That one? The picture Deadline Hollywood says has the makings of this summer’s number one comedy? That one, Larry, you dumb fuck?”
“Yeah, that one. When are they gonna green-light it? Never? Is never good for you?”
“Does the phrase Go fuck yourself have any resonance for you, Larry? Any at all?”
“What can I do for you, Joe?”
“Wanna arrange for a wire transfer of some funds owed to me.”
“All righty, and where are these funds coming from?”
“My bank in Zurich.”
“Your bank in Zurich. Right. Now, that’s funny! Didn’t know you had a bank in Zurich.”
“That’s what I said.”
“And which bank might that be?”
“That bank might be UBS.”
“UBS.”
“Right. But it isn’t. It’s Credit Suisse.”
“Roger that.”
“Don’t say roger that, Larry. It’s such a douchebag Tom Clancy cliché.”
“All right. And how much money are we talking about here, Mr. Joe Stalingrad, aka, Playstation, future A-list actor? A thousand? Five thousand?”
“We’re talking a half mill.”
“Half a million dollars?”
“Kee-rect. I’m doing some renovations at my apartment and I need a little extra cash, if you know what I mean. New fridge in the kitchen, new toaster. Redo the laundry room. Washer, dryer. Stuff like that. A makeover.”
“Is this a joke, Joe? Because if it is, I don’t have time to—”
Joe slid the Credit Suisse routing information and wiring instructions across Larry’s desk. “Does that look like a joke to you, Larry?”
Larry scoped it out, his eyes bulging. “No. No it does not.”
“When can I expect the funds to hit my account?”
“Usually, overseas, let’s say twenty-four hours?”
Joe stood up. “Must be great sitting in here all day, Larry. Looking out on the lobby and all. All the fake plants and crap artwork. Not to even mention that redheaded teller over there, the one with the super-huge tits you told me yo
u were fucking. Mr. Larry Krynsky, vice-president of all you survey. See you around sometime, loser.”
Joe walked out onto busy La Cienega and headed to the lot where he’d stowed the Getaway Car, the smile on his face a mile wide.
Game on, motherfuckers.
Chapter Twelve
St. Moritz
Reaching the hospital’s top floor, Hawke immediately spied a sign that read admissions mounted over a wide arched corridor tiled in hospital green. Just inside the arch was a table where two pretty young nurses in white were busy at their computer keyboards.
“May I?” Hawke said, taking a seat on one of the two wooden chairs.
“May I help you?” his nurse said, offering him a warm smile.
“Yes.”
Hawke pulled two passports from the inside pocket of his jacket and said, “Yes, you can. My name is Alexander Hawke. British citizen, as you can see, but currently living in Switzerland as an official representative of Her Majesty the Queen regarding some financial matters.”
“What can I do for you, your lordship?” the younger one said, looking at his passport. Sometimes having Lord in front of your name didn’t hurt.
He picked up the second passport and handed it to the nurse. “And this is my son, Alexei. Age seven. We were both aboard the gondola this morning. He is a member of the ski school, his class is called the Donald Ducks or something like that. There were twenty-five of them on the gondola. So can you direct me to wherever he is? The pediatric ward, most likely and—”
“Lord Hawke, it’s understandable that you are upset and anxious. But let me assure you that all of the children who survived are receiving the best care possible under the circumstances. Now, if you’ll just be patient, I’ll try to locate Alexei’s admission paperwork . . .”
“Survived.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You said the children who survived. Is that correct?”