Overkill

by Ted Bell

  En route, Hawke sat back in the passenger seat and said, “You’re sure about this, are you?”

  “I am indeed,” Congreve replied.

  “You saw irrefutable proof of arson? An accelerant being used?”

  “I did. And we’ve now got unmistakable evidence that it was the stolen number four Swiss rescue chopper. Next step?”

  “We call Brick Kelly at Langley and tell him what we found on the ground. And about the four KGB thugs who just tried to kill us. We ask him to go back channel to the Russian Federation embassy in Berne, Switzerland. Threaten to issue a formal demarche to the Russian embassy and warn of an impending and very public criminal investigation into Russia’s role in the kidnapping. That is, unless the Russian ambassador agrees to meet with a member of Her Majesty’s government. Namely you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, Constable, you. Having gained access, you will then lay out the incontrovertible case for Russian involvement in a Russian-orchestrated kidnapping of the child of a British intelligence officer in service to Her Majesty the Queen.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we let the bloody bastards stew in their bloody juices for a few days . . . Putin’s wandering in the wilderness, on the outs with all those oligarchs turned traitors these days. Here’s my theory, or my hope, anyway. I think the Kremlin might just throw Putin under the bus in order to make us go away.”

  “Good plan, Alex. How’d you come up with it?”

  “I made it up. While I was waiting for those gunmen to come up the hill and try to kill us.”

  “Well. I’ll certainly be busy. And what about you?”

  “I’m going to fly over to Cap d’Antibes tomorrow morning with Stokely and Happy Meal Harry Brock. You ever watch that chappie go through a Big Mac? Not a sight for the faint of heart.”

  “What’s happening at Cap d’Antibes?”

  “That’s where Tsar, Putin’s getaway yacht, is moored. At the harbor at Juan-les-Pins. That’s always been his ultimate escape plan, if foes got too close on his heels. We’re going to set a trap for Volodya if and when he does try to sneak back aboard his yacht. Have a little man-to-man conversation about giving me the precise whereabouts of my son.”

  “I’ve been thinking about the timing of the abduction,” Ambrose said, puffing away at his old briar pipe.

  “And?”

  “And Alexei was snatched shortly after Vladimir dropped out of sight. If alive, he would have been on the run. And being on the run with a seven-year-old boy at your side would be extremely difficult. I mean to say . . .”

  “Yes, I understand. Wherever my son is, he’s probably not being held by Putin himself. Who could Putin possibly trust with keeping him alive? You’ve given me a whole new train of thought, Constable. I appreciate it.”

  After that, the two men rode in silence for a time, each content to be left alone with his private thoughts. Hawke was running down in his minds the places Alexei might have been taken. His first notion: the KGB’s Winter Palace in Siberia. That’s where Alexei’s mother had long been held captive. And that’s perhaps the only place where Putin would know his little pawn was safe. With his mother, and waiting to be played on the big stage of the world should Hawke interfere in his plans. He turned to another subject on his mind lately, one that was the source of a great deal of anxiety.

  “Ambrose, let me ask you a question,” Hawke said, coming to the surface about ten minutes later. “On an entirely different matter.”

  “Fire at will, my boy, fire at will,” Ambrose said, the very soul of jollity. Nothing pleased that celebrated brain of his more than the contemplation of all things cops and robbers.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “Have you ever done anything in your life that you’re deeply ashamed of?” Hawke said to Ambrose.

  “Hmm. Probably. That golf sweater I gave you one Christmas? The bright green one from Harrods with little red golf balls all over it? I shall never forget the look on your face when you opened that box . . . I felt so, what’s the word? So small.”

  Hawke smiled. “No. Please be serious, Ambrose. I mean something that you are deeply ashamed of. Something that you would never reveal to anyone . . . that you would take to your grave.”

  Silence.

  “Well, Alex, yes. There was that brief time at Cambridge. I was only nineteen and I thought I was in love with my rugby—”

  “Stop. I don’t need to know and I don’t want to know.”

  “Why do you ask, Alex? Rather an odd question, coming from you. You’re hardly the introspective type.”

  “I have a friend who’s in trouble. It’s all about fear and guilt and shame about the past.”

  “How can I help, Alex? Sounds bad.”

  “It is. And I don’t know what to do to help. I’m dancing with demons I don’t need in my life right now, given my priorities at the moment.”

  “You have my rapt attention.”

  “All right. How best to do this? I’m going to tell you a story. It’s about me, not my friend, but it’s relevant to my friend’s dilemma . . . maybe you can wrap your supersize cerebellum around it?”

  “All right, Alex. I’m listening.”

  “This was in Ireland. At a lovely old ruin called Glin Castle on the River Shannon. I was six years old, an only child. I adored my mother and worshiped my father, an admiral in the Royal Navy, as you well know.”

  “A brilliant naval strategist and a fine man.”

  “Well, yes and no, Ambrose. That’s the crux of my story. At any rate, for my sixth birthday, he took me on a boy’s own adventure to Ireland. Just the two of us, you understand. Mother stayed in London. It was wonderful. Riding and shooting at Glin Castle, the home of his good friend Desmond FitzGerald. I think you know him?”

  “I do. The Eleventh Knight of Glin, title dating back to 1066. Splendid chap. Lovely rose gardens there at the castle.”

  “Yes. And my father’s closest friend. We were there for four days. I was just learning to ride horses and I loved it. We went for a long ride, hill and dale, out in the countryside. On the return ride to Glin Castle, we encountered a young Irish fellow out jumping fences and other obstacles on his horse.

  “My father told me the boy was clearly an eventer, a show jumper, something my dad had also done at a young age. I don’t remember all the details, but apparently he’d been very successful at the sport.

  “We stopped to watch. Dad was silent for a few jumps, watching with approval at his clearing different fences and walls and obstacles. Then, I don’t know why, he began criticizing the boy’s style and technique. Very disparaging comments. It was the first time I’d ever seen a side of him I didn’t like.”

  “I would say it was unnecessary, yes. But not necessarily something anyone should be ashamed of, his father behaving badly . . .”

  Hawke shook his head. “No, no. It gets worse, Ambrose. Much worse.”

  “Sorry.”

  “At any rate, we rode over to a small pond where the fellow was watering his beautiful chestnut horse. Dad struck up a conversation with the young man, whom I remember as being very good-looking, a fine shock of black hair, blue eyes, about sixteen or seventeen. He told Dad his name, and Dad introduced me to him. His name was Seamus McBain. And the beautiful stallion was named Eamon, a gift from his grands.

  “Father told Seamus how much he admired his fine looks and his skill and the courage of his horse. He said later that the boy had the most beautiful smile . . . winsome was the word he used.

  “And that he, Father, was determined to make me a great eventer or show jumper some day. Then Dad told Seamus about a high farm fence in a meadow we’d ridden through earlier, about a mile or two from where we were then. He said it was deceptively challenging, but that he’d successfully jumped it. He asked Seamus if he’d like to see it and he said yes. We rode back to the fence and Seamus agreed it looked extremely difficult. It was old and crumbling—unstable. It was a high stone wall with wooden fencin
g laced along the top. Dad asked Seamus point-blank if he thought his mount could clear it.

  “Seamus said he probably could, but that he didn’t want to put his horse at risk needlessly. He and Eamon were out training for a big event next day. Perhaps in the future, when his horse was more mature, but not now. But Dad wouldn’t stop. He kept pressing him, goading him on and challenging his manhood and . . .”

  “And what?”

  “Seamus was getting angry, I could see it, and I wanted to tell my dad to leave him alone, that I wanted to go home. But I didn’t . . . didn’t say anything. Father had a colossal temper. I was too afraid of him. Finally, Seamus said, ‘Fine. Me good horse Eamon and I, we’ll jump that bloody fence, if only to silence that mouth of yours, sir.’”

  “Oh, god, Alex. Don’t tell me he—”

  “Dad said, ‘Good for you, lad! That’s the spirit! I was beginning to think you didn’t have the bottle for it! We’ll watch from that hillside beneath the trees. Careful of that top post, it’s deceptive.’ With that, we rode up the hill to the copse of trees at the top.”

  “‘I know what I’m doing,’ Seamus said, as we rode off, still angry.”

  “Did he clear it?”

  “I didn’t want to look. I covered my eyes. But Father grabbed my shoulders, jerked me around, and made me look. We could see that Seamus was pushing Eamon very hard, gathering all the speed he would need to clear that damn fence. I was watching, sort of aghast at what was happening, afraid for him, somehow already knowing it would not turn out well and . . . Oh, it was horrible, Ambrose. He never had a chance to clear that damn fencing atop the wall. He and his horse slammed broadside right into the whole structure at a full gallop. I screamed and tried to turn away, but Dad had my reins and wouldn’t let me.”

  “Good heavens.”

  “Yes, so I saw it all. I could see that poor boy’s bloody and mangled body sprawled atop that wall, his head cocked at an odd angle. One look told me he was grievously hurt. Dad told me to stay put, that he’d go down and see what he could do for him. He rode down the hill at full gallop and right up to the wall. I watched him dismount and go to the fence.

  “He just stood there and stared at Seamus, not saying or doing anything. In hindsight, I suppose he saw nothing to make him think he needed to check the boy’s pulse. Then he bent over the boy’s horse for a few moments, again, just staring at it. For a long, long time. Thinking god knows what. And then he got back up on his horse and came storming up the hill . . . his handsome face showing no emotion at all.”

  “Was Seamus alive? Please tell me the boy was still alive?”

  “I don’t know, Ambrose. I’ll never know. Dad was the only one who ever knew. And he’s long gone now.”

  “What? What did he tell you? He had to say something to you!”

  “Yes. He told me, he said, ‘There’s nothing we can do for him. Or, his horse. It’s too bad. Accidents happen. But it’s late, and we need to be getting back to the castle. Desmond is a stickler for punctuality. Alex, listen very carefully to your father now and never forget what I tell you. I don’t want you to ever, ever mention what happened here to a living soul. Do you understand me? Never! This is our secret. And we shall both carry it to our graves.’”

  “Holy mother of god,” Ambrose whispered. He was stunned. “How horrible for you, Alex. Unforgivable behavior on his part, I must say. Certainly not the man I thought I knew.”

  “Of course I never forgave Father for what he’d done that day. But I kept it all to myself. All these years. I was only a kid. But I knew what I’d seen. I’d seen my own father murder someone.”

  “Murder? I think that’s a little strong, Alex. After all, your father had successfully jumped the fence and had no idea that the boy wouldn’t do the same.”

  “No! That’s the thing I’m trying to tell you. We had stopped and looked at that bloody fence, yes. Father thought about jumping it, sure. Galloped right up to it a few times, turning away at the last second. But he never jumped it. He never even tried. He lied to that boy. And he goaded him into committing suicide.”

  “Or, even worse, left him and his horse to die alone in the woods.”

  “Yes.”

  “So. What is your question? The question you want to help your friend with?”

  “Forgiveness. That’s my central question, Ambrose. You’re a classically trained ethicist, so you see my moral ambiguity. My moral dilemma. Should I ultimately forgive my father for what he did? Should I forgive myself for keeping quiet about what happened all those years ago? And finally, as an officer of the law, can you forgive me for that? Isn’t that accessory to murder? Hiding the truth about a crime for decades? And not even—”

  “Alex, stop torturing yourself. Of course I forgive you. You were trapped inside a horrific dilemma. You loved your father, your parents. You didn’t want to destroy their lives, their marriage, and thus your own life. I think I myself would have done what you did. Any boy would have done the same. You kept the deep dark secret and thus kept your family together. Your real fear was that your mother would leave your father if she knew what he’d done that day. And your family would be no more. You couldn’t bring yourself to do that.”

  “It’s that simple?”

  “Some secrets are better kept than revealed, Alex. Moral relativism, they called it at Cambridge.”

  Alex was quiet, gazing out the window at the receding countryside. Finally, he said, “Yes. I think that’s true, Ambrose. Some secrets are better kept than revealed. That’s very helpful. Not only for me, but, for my friend as well.”

  “I hope you both find some peace.”

  “I do, too. We both could use a little at this point.”

  “Can you tell me who your friend is? Do I know him? Or, her, as the case may be?”

  “At some point I will tell you, perhaps. Not now. For the moment, that’s a secret better kept than revealed.”

  Congreve looked at him, his expression something approaching a wry grin.

  “Always good to have the last word, isn’t it, m’boy?” Congreve said, puffing away at his pipe with wry good humor. “I suppose.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Light was pouring into the wood-paneled breakfast room. Through the soaring windows above, Joe could see the vast sunlit brilliance of ethereal blue skies and towering snowcapped summits of some of the world’s most dangerous mountains. All marching down to the crystal blue lake.

  The large round mahogany table was situated in a bay window that featured floor-to-ceiling leaded windows. Again, from where he was sitting, Joe could see the external rock-clad shutters. Protection and concealment on all the windows in the fortress. Simulated rock doors and window shutters that would instantly slam closed in the event of unwanted visitors on the ground or in the air.

  He’d just joined the beauteous Miss Peek and the professor for breakfast. He was late, but not that late. Helped by the midnight schnapps, he’d overslept and somehow forgotten you had to take a train to get from the guesthouse to the residence some two hundred feet higher on the far side of the mountain.

  “More coffee, Mr. Stalingrad?” Emma Peek said, lifting the silver urn. She was wearing a tight white sweater this morning, one that left little to the imagination. The woman, who had to be pushing forty, had a body on her. Jesus, Joseph, and Mary!

  “Sure, sure,” Joe said, smiling at her.

  He had this feeling, he wasn’t sure, exactly, but he had this gut feeling that this Princess Diana look-alike had the hots for him. Who knew? He knew he was no Brad Pitt. He was built like a Dumpster and had the pockmarked face of a famous mass murderer. But crazier things had happened. Stockholm syndrome? No, that wasn’t it. But something, yeah. Some chicks had a thing for him, for sure. Ever since middle school, when he’d emerged as the class clown. You want a chick begging for it? Make her laugh.

  Hell, Playstation had women in L.A. flirting with him all the time. Women on the beach at Venice, on the Santa Monica Pier, star
lets on the set, women at Spago, Musso and Frank. Hell, women who’d been on Entertainment Tonight, for crissakes. Something about him drew women to him. Something like a . . . mystique, if that was the right word.

  Yeah. That was it. He had a certain . . . mystique.

  Emma filled his cup, and Joe, touching his napkin to his lips, said, “Delicious omelet, Miss Peek. Beluga caviar, no less. My compliments to the chef.”

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Stalingrad!” she said brightly, and headed for the kitchen. “I made it myself! See you at lunch.”

  “Can’t wait,” Joe said.

  “All right, Joe,” the ever-observant professor said. “Let’s talk. I’ve got a busy day ahead of me. I think it’s time for you and me to get down to cases. I know you come with a message from my old friend Volodya. Please tell me what’s on the great man’s mind these days, Mr. Stalingrad . . . and how it concerns me.”

  Joe sat back for a moment to gather his thoughts, staring at the bookish man across the table. The man he privately had come to call the Man in the High Castle.

  “Certainly, certainly, Professor. Well, you see this all goes to a private conversation the two of you shared. It took place last summer, when you joined the president aboard Tsar in the Med for a week. On the last night aboard, you confided your plans for the future . . . spilled your dreams of a new life to the president. That was the way the president put it.”

  “Yes, I remember that little chat very well. But tell me, what aspects in particular did you two discuss?”

  “The president said that, after many long decades of solitude here, you were growing tired of perpetual seclusion inside of a mountain. Having achieved your eighth decade, you wanted out. You wanted fresh air and sunlight on your cheeks every morning. Wind-in-your-hair kind of thing . . . gardens dripping with fragrant blossoms, the sea at your doorstep.”

  “I can’t imagine the Volodya I know uttering those terribly flowery words, Joe, but he may have inferred something of the sort from my comments, yes.”