by Ted Bell
“I told you all of this last night. Let me refresh your memory. My son was on that gondola. So was I. It was a good deal more than tragic, it was a nightmare of pain and suffering for the children. Not to mention the agony of those of us parents aboard. We worried and prayed for our children’s very lives and safety for hours. I, as it happens, am still worrying and still praying. And I am not leaving here until I get some answers. Do we understand each other? Verstehen-sie? Capiche?”
The man stared at Hawke but could supply no further dialogue.
Hawke said, “All right. My son was seated next to his Scotland Yard Royal Protection officer throughout the ordeal. We all were eyewitnesses to your rescue helicopter. We saw it arrive and off-load the children. And later, two other helos showed up for the adults. There were fatalities, by the way. Twenty-five little boys and girls were loaded aboard your helicopter. But only twenty-four were disembarked on the roof of that hospital. Do the math. My son boarded, but he did not disembark atop that hospital!”
“Impossible.”
“But true!” Sigrid said, leaning forward. “His lordship went to the hospital immediately to find his son. He wasn’t there. And there was absolutely no record of him being admitted.”
Pfeffer said, “I’m sure you’re telling the truth as you know it, Police Constable Kissl. But I myself can offer no rational explanation. It doesn’t make any sense. None at all.”
“No, it doesn’t. But you need to deal with it and deal with it now,” Sigrid said, her sentences welded with steel.
“What do you suggest I do?” the florid fat man said, exasperated.
“Commander Hawke,” Sigrid said, “wishes to speak to the pilot of the first chopper at the scene. That’s why he came to see you the first time. According to his lordship, you were intoxicated and extremely unhelpful. That’s why Chief Inspector Congreve and I set up this interview. Lord Hawke still wishes to speak with the pilot.”
Congreve stood up and began pacing back and forth by the windows, hands clasped behind his back. “Then I would inform you,” he said, “that Lord Hawke is here in Switzerland as an official representative of the Crown. And you, sir, are giving testimony as relates to an international crime of vital importance. Dwell on that thought, Chief.”
He did not dwell long. “Then I will say again what I said that night. We did not effect that rescue. We got the alert, launched a helo immediately. En route, our pilot was told to stand down. He was notified by rescue officials already on-site that there was a rescue chopper in the immediate vicinity and en route. My pilot was waved off and returned to base. That’s all I can tell you.”
“I saw the damn thing with my own eyes!” Hawke said, his overwrought temper flaring. “It was an AW169. It was a Swiss Air-Rescue Rega helicopter. It was one of yours, damn you!”
“And how did you know that?” Pfeffer shot back.
“I saw it! It was red and white the length of the fuselage. Red cross and number on the flank, Swiss Air-Rescue insignia, for god’s sake!”
“So, Commander, you would recognize it if you saw it?”
“I most certainly would.”
“Well, there’s nothing else for it, is there? Shall we go to the hangar, then? As it happens, our entire fleet is on the ground at the moment. Routine maintenance and bad weather, mostly. We shall settle this matter here and now.”
“Most kind, Chief,” Sigrid said, her short leather skirt riding up on her thighs as she rose, giving the man the high-beam smile as she got to her feet. “Lead the way, sir.”
“No, no. After you, Police Constable Kissl,” he said, blushing pink and bowing slightly from the waist.
He actually thought she’d been flirting with him, poor bastard.
There were twenty or so identical red-and-white helicopters parked in three lines inside the cavernous hangar. All with the big red cross on the flanks. The place was a beehive of activity. Many of the helos were undergoing mechanical inspections and repairs.
“Let’s split up—faster that way,” Congreve said.
Pfeffer said, “Yes, good idea, Chief Inspector. I’ll leave you to it, then? I don’t see how I can be of further assistance.”
“Yes. You’re free to return to your office. But I must insist that you not leave the base until I’ve spoken to you after our search of the hangar. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly. Chief Inspector, Fraulein Kissl.”
He turned and left without, Ambrose noticed, saying good-bye to Alex Hawke.
“Alex, do try not to let that little toad get under your skin. He’s just not worth the effort.”
“If you had any idea how vile he was to a desperate father that night, you’d understand.”
“Hmm. Tell me, what was the number on the side of the helo that picked up Alexei?”
“Four.”
“Off we go! Let’s meet back here at the door in, what, fifteen minutes?”
“Yes,” Hawke said.
They went their separate ways, Hawke deciding to investigate the aircraft on the far left side of the hangar. The first one he saw had a large red number, but it was a nine, not a four. He kept striding down the line. Ten minutes later he was back at the door, joining Ambrose and Sigrid.
“No number four on my line,” Ambrose said. “Sigrid?”
“Sorry. No number four, Alex?”
“Nor mine. What the devil?” Hawke said. “I think I need another word or two with my good friend Waldo.”
Chapter Twenty
The mood in Waldo Pfeffer’s office was decidedly somber. Hawke was on his feet, hands clasped behind his back, staring out the window at the hangar on the far side of the field. He lit another cigarette and spoke without looking back at Pfeffer, who was seated at his desk, his normally pink face now a bright red. Hawke was at the point where he literally couldn’t stand the sight of the little fat man.
“You’re short one helicopter, Waldo,” Commander Hawke said.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Number three is there. Number five is there,” Congreve said. “How do you explain the absence of number four?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Hawke whirled and barked: “Let me ask you that question another way. Where the bloody hell is chopper number four? It’s not out there in that hangar with the other nineteen helos! Just tell me that, damn it. Where is it?”
“I told you, or tried to tell you that last night, Commander. But let me say it one more time. Number four is offline. Not in service at this time. Period.”
“So what the bleeding hell did I see up on top of that mountain? I saw it and so did a whole lot of other people. I’ve got video, Waldo, on my mobile phone! Shot by skiers on the side of the mountain! Want to see it?”
“No, no. I believe you.”
“Then answer my question!”
“I can’t account for it.”
Hawke shook his head angrily and was silent.
Sigrid’s voice was next. He heard her say, in her silkiest tones, “Chief, I’m sitting here wrestling with your answer. In particular, the word offline. What does that mean exactly? To a layperson like myself.”
The rooster puffed himself up. “Look here. I’m running out of patience with you people and—”
And then again came Congreve. “Let me know when your patience is completely gone, Chief Pfeffer. That’s the exact moment when I arrest you for obstruction of justice and impeding an Interpol criminal investigation, and for disobeying the direct order of an officer of Her Majesty’s Government. That would be myself and Lord Hawke over there.”
“Lord Hawke is it now?” Waldo snorted.
Hawke looked at him coldly and said, “You’ll know when my patience is exhausted, Chief Pfeffer. You’ll know because that will be the moment when I stick my hand down your bloody throat and rip your still-beating heart out of your chest.”
“Boy, boys, stop this,” Sigrid said, genuinely worried about the possibility of violence. �
��Chief, you can end all this. Just tell us what offline means in your parlance.”
Pfeffer sat behind his desk, literally shaking and sweating profusely. Few men would not be. Hawke was a creature of radiant violence. And the chief could see for himself that he’d meant every word of that threat.
“All right, all right. I’ll tell you. But I must warn you that I am violating a strict code of silence imposed upon us by the police in this matter until it is . . . resolved. Swiss national security is involved.” He paused and mopped his face with his soggy handkerchief.
“What matter?” Congreve said. “I want the truth.”
“Number four helo has disappeared.”
“Disappeared? What do you mean, disappeared?” Congreve said.
“No one knows where it is.”
“What? What are you talking about?” Hawke said, astonished at the news and its implications in the disappearance of his son. He’d seen the bloody chopper with his own eyes, less than twenty-four hours ago!
“It was stolen.”
“When? After the rescue?”
“No. About six weeks ago.”
“By whom?” Congreve said.
“We’ve no idea. The aircraft had been damaged during the rescue of a trapped climber near the top of the Eiger. In severe storm conditions. It was deemed not to be airworthy and was grounded for repairs. At some time during the night after its return here to base, a truck carrying two men penetrated the security gate and killed three military policemen who tried to stop them. The men had had no chance to even sound the alarm. Five minutes later, the chopper was airborne and flying a course due south toward Italy. It was never seen again.”
“Right,” Hawke said. “Until I saw it yesterday morning.”
Sigrid and Congreve eyed each other. This was it. This was just the kind of break they’d been hoping for.
A doorway into the investigation had just cracked open.
Ambrose said, “And what was the justification for this national security blackout?”
“It was believed in some circles that ISIS terrorists had stolen the chopper and were planning to use it in some kind of aerial attack on the Swiss Parliament. Striking a blow at the heart of Europe . . . the government imposed a black-out on the story while they tried to find the chopper and the Iranians. They never did.”
“Ah, I see. Well, that’s most interesting,” Congreve said.
Ambrose got to his feet, as did Sigrid. He said, “Thank you for your candor, Chief Pfeffer. You know you might have saved all of us a whole lot of trouble by paying attention to what Commander Hawke first told you that night. Upon learning that he was an officer of British Intelligence, investigating a major international crime, we had every right to know the truth of the chopper’s theft.”
“I would have told him! But we took no part in that rescue! Had he bothered to tell me the number on the fuselage and—”
Hawke was already halfway out the door. “I did tell you the bloody number, you little prick. Four. I said it more than once. But the Great Waldo Pfeffer was too drunk to even know what the hell I was saying.”
And they were gone.
When they got back to Badrutt’s Palace, there was a message at the concierge desk for Mr. Alex Hawke from Mr. Stokely Jones Jr.
It read:
We’re here at the hotel, boss. The war room on the top floor is up and running. Hope you don’t mind, but we started without you. I got a call from my pal Harry Brock at CIA, Miami. CIA says mountain hikers in Italy have found what looks to be the wreckage of a small aircraft in a mountainous region of northern Italy. Could be our missing helo? Who knows? CIA is keeping the site secure until we get down there to investigate. Love, Stoke. Oh, and one more thing. Harry says Putin may not be dead. PS: hope you like cold pizza.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Talk to me some more about Harry Brock,” Hawke said to Stokely Jones Jr. “Start with the crash site.” The lobby bar they were using was closed and Hawke had asked his friend to come downstairs for a one-on-one conversation. They sat side by side at the darkened bar, speaking barely above a whisper.
A match flared as Hawke lit another cigarette and said, “So what’s he got?”
Stoke turned to him and said, “Okay, but first of all, lemme tell you the good news. According to Harry’s intel, your good friend at CIA, Director Brick Kelly, is all over this case.”
Brick Kelly was one of Alex Hawke’s closest friends, and the two of them had worked together on many difficult operations with joint U.S. and UK involvement. Their first meeting had not boded well for their joint futures, however.
Commander Hawke, who’d been a top-gun Royal Navy fighter pilot before joining MI6, had been shot out of the skies, captured, and frog-marched through the unrelenting heat of the Iraqi desert to a prison so bleak and cruel as to defy description. There was an American being held there, a young U.S. Marine colonel named Brick Kelly.
He took his name from the color of his hair, a reddish gold that recalled that of Thomas Jefferson. Brick was tall and lanky, the perfect Virginia gentleman, and he and Alex struck up a friendship that would endure. But Hawke, lying in his cell night after night, was worried. Kelly had been there for too long a time. He was starved, dehydrated, and the victim of countless beatings and worse. One night, he’d managed to overcome his guards, escape his cell, and snatch Kelly away from his torturers. They raced out into the nighttime desert and never stopped running.
“You say Brick’s on the case. Which case?” Hawke asked Stoke.
“Alexei’s kidnapping.”
“Seriously? Brick’s in? Who brought him into the loop?”
“Your buddy Brock.”
“Harry? Really? Didn’t know he had it in him, god bless him.”
“Yeah. He made sure all the CIA station heads in Europe are now aware of Alexei’s disappearance Christmas Day. Shared with them all the details of the kidnap operation. And every last one of them has vowed to make it a priority, do whatever they can to help us in a hostage rescue.”
“Thank god for Brick Kelly,” Hawke said, his voice resonant with relief. He was finally amassing the necessary resources to mount a serious hostage recovery operation against world-class operatives. And it wasn’t a moment too soon.
“And thank god for Harry, Boss. Look, I know you don’t like him and I know you don’t think we need him, but I think you’re wrong. Besides, he’s our de facto liaison to CIA until we get Alexei back. And anyway, he’s put himself on the case until you kick him off.”
“Christ, Stoke, you know Brock makes me crazy. Bloody annoying on a lot of levels. You never know what the hell he’ll do next.”
“I know, I know. Tell me about it. But listen. There’s stuff here you need to consider. You remember that KGB sting operation we pulled in Moscow a few years back? Blew up their shit, right, their fancy mansion on the banks of the Moskva River? You, me, and Harry?”
“Of course. We were waiters serving bombs in chafing dishes to those bastards.”
Stoke laughed.
“Well, it seems like while we were in Moscow, Agent Brock recruited a mole. A well-placed ranking member of KGB, apparently. Former leader of a Spetsnaz special forces team from the Russian GRU. His name is Oleg Rostov. Code name Rasputin. Remember?”
“Harry brought this guy in?” Hawke said, one bushy black eyebrow lifted. “You’re kidding, right?”
“All I am saying is that Harry, all by his lonesome, suckered an experienced Russian military officer into trusting a young American agent from Miami. And Rasputin has given us a way into Putin. If he’s still breathing. Which Harry believes is true. Gotta admit, boss, as Ambrose says, that’s pretty good gravy.”
“Point taken. I will temporarily adjust my attitude about Mr. Brock accordingly.”
“At any rate, Harry’s still working the guy. And yesterday, on a deserted stretch of South Beach in Miami, Rasputin delivered a nuke right into Harry’s lap.”
“Tell me.”
“What? Don’t be absurd. Pure disinformation. C’mon, Stoke, somebody took him out. KGB assassination. A bloody Kremlin coup, for god’s sake. We all know that. Volodya’s probably buried right alongside Jimmy Hoffa by now. Under some stadium in New Jersey.”
“Well, here’s what Harry knows from his source. Okay?”
“Okay? Of course, okay! You think I don’t want to know?”
“Okay, here’s what. Apparently in the last few months Vladimir began to see the handwriting on the Kremlin walls. He knew his time was short, the axe was swinging his way. So he made plans to disappear for a while. Plot his next move. Go to the only location where he felt like he had any margin of survival. The safest place he could go, right?”
“Right, right, just tell me, Stoke. Cut the drama. Tell me where he is.”
“His yacht, that’s where, according to Rasputin. Tsar. You’ve been aboard her many times.”
“I have, yes.”
“Heavily armed, heavily armored, that big boat, would you say? A floating fortress.”
“Not up to the standards of my Blackhawke, but, yes. Of course.”
“Even SAM missile-protected, and anti-submarine defenses, yes?”
“Yes,” Hawke said. “Even back then, a couple of years ago, Tsar was where Volodya felt safest. He never said as much, but I always knew he thought of that yacht as his ultimate getaway car.”
“So, according to Rasputin, the last anyone saw of Putin was boarding the presidential aircraft at his private airfield. Five passengers. Putin, plus the pilot, copilot, and two stewardesses. One of them being Putin’s favorite mistress, a former Miss Ukraine named Ekaterina. Kat for short.
“The flight plan had them heading east and south on a direct course for Nice. Tsar’s chopper had been ordered to be waiting out on the tarmac to ferry Vladimir and Ekaterina to the yacht anchored in Cap d’Antibes. Anchors aweigh and they’ve vamoosed. We don’t know where they were headed, of course, but it doesn’t matter anymore.”