by Ted Bell
“Not those words, exactly. I’m paraphrasing for effect. I’m an actor, what can I tell you? But that was most definitely the gist of what he said. He told me he believed you envisioned a radical change of lifestyle. That four decades of voluntary seclusion inside this mountain may well have been enough for one lifetime. Am I wrong?”
The professor sat back from the table and clasped his hands, resting them on his rounded belly. “Well, I don’t really know how to respond. I thought my words to President Putin were for his ears only. And after all, I don’t know you, Mr. Stalingrad. We’ve conducted business in the past, but we’ve barely met. But I will say this. Due to the very fact that you have earned the respect and loyalty of one of the very few men on earth whom I trust, I’ll take a rare chance. I will confide in you.”
“I’m honored, sir.”
“What he told you is true. I want to break out of this self-imposed prison I’ve created for myself. Overstayed my welcome. I have been looking into the purchase of a villa in the South of France. The Villa America in Cap Ferrat, to be exact. Paradise. If I would ever leave my beloved mountain, it would be to end my days there. The Villa America is where I want to live out the balance of my time on earth. For a man of my age, I’m in very good health. I envision long walks on the beaches, long afternoons puttering around in my gardens.”
“What’s stopping you, if I may ask?”
“To be brutally honest, money. Horrid stuff. Ironic, isn’t it? That the man all Europe acclaims as the economic genius of the age has money problems!”
“What kinds of money problems, Professor Steinhauser?”
“Well, for starters, the current owner of the villa in question, a Saudi sheik, Mohamed al-Arifi, is demanding a ridiculous amount of money. A lot of my wealth is tied up in this mountain. And should I ever be lucky enough to locate someone mad enough and rich enough to buy this Alpine fortress of mine, I still don’t think I could raise the capital to meet the sheik’s exorbitant price of two hundred million dollars. So as I told Volodya last summer, I’ve decided to forgo my dreams for the nonce. Who knows what might happen?”
“Professor, I understand your dilemma. But that dilemma is the very reason he asked you to see me. He is genuinely concerned for your happiness. He understands your feelings and frustrations. And to be honest, he wants to help. He considers himself a friend.”
“Very kind. I’m well aware that he’s the richest man on earth. Some forty billion or so, net worth. But still, however might he do that? The president of Russia wants to buy me a huge villa in the South of France? I rather doubt it, Mr. Stalingrad.”
“No, Professor. He doesn’t want to buy the villa. But he has come up with a way for you to achieve your life goals, and at same time, for him to achieve his. That’s how he works. He wants to see both sides of the deal smiling when they leave the table.”
“Very interesting, Joe. Please continue. Why are you here?”
“A real estate deal. I’m here to tell you that the president of Russia may be interested in acquiring your mountain fortress. More than interested. Determined, in fact.”
“Tell me why.”
“His life at the moment is in a state of flux. He has fallen from power. He has many enemies in Moscow and throughout the world. Lethal enemies, mortal enemies. All screaming for his head. His life, prior to his disappearance, was in daily jeopardy. So he’s seeking safety. He envisions this place as his safe haven at this point. Putin sees this unique fortress as his principal residence going forward. At least until such time as he is ready and able to make his victorious return to Moscow.
“You really think he might do that? Buy my mountain? Der Nadel?”
Joe laughed. “Yeah. He’s already got this name he’s going to call it.”
“What is it, pray tell?”
“Falcon’s Lair.”
“Falcon’s Lair. Well, I do like the sound of that.”
“I am telling you that he’s determined to have this property. Where else on earth could the man find this kind of invincible sanctuary? ‘The safest place in the safest country on earth,’ is how he put it. I am here acting as his real estate agent. He’d like me to have a firsthand look at the property and report back to him on its viability.”
“Remarkable. Truly remarkable. He’s willing to do that? Buy my mountain aerie? In its entirety?”
“He is, sir. And of course, after the transaction is completed, you would then have sufficient funds to acquire your dream. Two birds with one stone, as the Americans say, sir. You both win.”
“Indeed. You’ve painted a very rosy picture. For both of us. I hope we can somehow come to terms. In the meantime, I shall ask Miss Peek to give you the grand tour! Top to bottom! I believe you’re free this morning, are you not, Emma?”
“Free as a bird, my love.”
“I’d like Mr. Stalingrad to see everything. And, Joe, please feel free to use your phone camera to capture anything you think our buyer might find interesting. From base to peak. We have no secrets from Mr. Stalingrad. Remember that, Miss Peek.”
Joe couldn’t wipe the smile off his face fast enough to escape the grin from Emma Peek.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Although it pained Joe to tear his eyes away from Miss Peek’s shapely bottom leading the way up the stairs, he had to say her tour was an eye-opener.
You had to see this place to believe it. Twelve separate levels, all accessible by high-speed elevators, like a vertical office building built inside a mountain. Except not an office building—unless you meant a war office. This place existed for one reason only. To live in comfort until the moment you have to fight a war and win.
At sea level, you had the secret underwater air lock where the three subs arrived at regular intervals, delivering guests, food, and everything required by the inhabitants, a population numbering somewhere around two hundred or more. On lower levels, you would find the vast storerooms for food and other supplies, freezers, HVAC equipment, pump rooms, electrical equipment, generators, and such. Sort of like the basement.
On the third and fourth levels were the dormitories. Very much in the naval military style, like something you’d find aboard an aircraft carrier, with hot sheet beds and hammocks, showers, and toilets for each of the single-sex dorms. Two kitchens and two messrooms. And one officer’s mess.
On level five, arms and the artillery to defend the lower and middle levels from invasion were stored. Old 105mm howitzers, six of them in perfect condition, were mounted on rail tracks in the center of the complex. In the event of an attack, six gunports would open up and the guns would be rolled out onto firing platforms. Also on the platforms, to either side of the rail tracks, were batteries of mounted .50-caliber machine guns, giving you tons of firepower to rain down on anyone foolish enough to mount an attack.
Level six was the sick bay and office space for the various physicians on staff. A fully equipped hospital with the best doctors, surgeons, and nurses, recruited from all over Europe by Leopold Levin, the Sorcerer’s chief physician. There too on level six were the physical training facilities, including a basketball court and a fully equipped gymnasium.
Level seven was the communications and computer center. State of the art, Joe thought, like you might see at the White House. Rooms and rooms of IBM servers, the whole enchilada.
Seven was where it all got serious. Seven was the hangar space for the squadron of White Death fighter jets, the pilots’ residence, the home of aircraft and maintenance. The gleaming silver jets, perfect rows of them, sat waiting twenty-four hours a day, the pilots in a state of constant readiness.
Level eight was also the launch deck. High-speed aircraft carrier type elevators whisked the fighter aircraft up from the level below. The deck was very much like that of a carrier except for its shape—it was oval! Four high-speed catapults radiated out from the center, one due north, one south, one east, one west. On command, the four hidden doors opened in sync and fighters were catapulted out into the
sky at ten thousand feet! This enabled air combat communications to launch four fighters simultaneously, every five minutes! Even Joe, ever nonchalant, was impressed.
Nine was food services. The Mess Hall. Freezer storage, prep, banks of ovens and stoves, the kitchen team racing about keeping everyone fed and happy. Overseeing it all was chef Millicent Montserrat, a Cordon Bleu chef the professor had lured away from Paris.
Ten was where the work took place. Secretarial, Accounting, Payroll. It was also home to the large auditorium in which all big meetings were held. There was digital projection equipment, and Hollywood’s latest fare could be seen every Saturday night at eight.
Level eleven was dedicated to all things offensive and defensive. There was the Battle Ops center, the radar command post, tracking everything worth having a look at. And also the SAM missile batteries, mounted on platforms with retracting rooftops, capable of exposing the surface-to-air missiles at a moments notice.
And finally, level twelve. The Residence. This was the level that Hitler had dedicated to his personal needs of complete luxury. This is where he could dine in splendor, sleep on silk sheets, and delight in all of his stolen art and libraries of thousands of books. There were a number of smaller bedrooms to accommodate VIPs from Berlin and the Führer’s female guests from all over Europe.
And of course the magnificent office that Speer had created for der Führer, now occupied by the Sorcerer himself!
Two hours later, Joe was sitting with the professor alone in his office. A blinding snowstorm was swirling outside the windows and the light inside the room was soft and watery. Seated on either side of the fireplace, they were sipping tea.
“So, Joe. You’ve seen it all. Quite something, isn’t it?”
“Amazing doesn’t begin to cover it.”
“You think he might find it sufficient to his needs?”
“I do. Beyond sufficient. This mountain will be become an unassailable fortress against the president’s enemies. It’s just what he’s looking for.”
“Good, good. But, tell me, how in the world do I begin to put a price tag on this unique real estate asset? It’s a problem I’ve been wrestling with for years.”
Joe smiled. He’d been waiting for this part.
“No need. He put a price on it himself, Professor. Half a billion dollars. That is his offer. And it’s a onetime offer. No counteroffers. He has authorized me to offer you five hundred million dollars. Today, immediately wired to your accounts. Three hundred million to cover all costs involved in the purchase of Villa America and relocating your possessions to France. Plus an additional two hundred million goes into the bank account of your choosing.”
“Half a billion dollars?” the Sorcerer said, suddenly dry-mouthed.
“That’s what the man said.”
“That would probably make it the largest real estate transaction in history.”
“Well, that’s what he’s putting on the table, Professor. Half a billion dollars so you can live your dream. What do you think?”
“I think I need to think about it.”
“Of course. You’ve got twenty-four hours.”
Joe got to his feet. “Miss Peek, will you help arrange my departure?”
“Of course, Mr. Stalingrad,” Emma said. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay for dinner this evening? Spend one more night at the mountain? It promises to be something very special.”
Joe paused at the door, turned to her, and said, “Did you say special, Miss Peek?”
“Yes, I did, Mr. Stalingrad. Very special.”
He was scheduled to set a chopper down in a densely wooded area of southern France the day after tomorrow . . .
“I think I can squeeze another night into my schedule, Miss Peek.” Joe Stalingrad smiled.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The French Riviera
Lord Hawke, Stokely, and Ambrose, aboard Hawke Air, had just landed at the Nice airport that morning. Harry Brock, surrounded by all his gear, was waiting on the tarmac. It was a short but scenic one-hour drive along the corniche to their destination, the towns of Antibes and Juan-les-Pins. Hawke, however, had arranged a much more expedient mode of transportation, one that would give his colleagues an added benefit: a better view of the geography of the rocky coastline that was soon going to be their new theater of operations.
The six-passenger chopper waiting for them on the tarmac was a shade of baby blue. Its color was almost identical to the glorious shades of sky and sea found along the sun-shot coast of the Riviera in the South of France on this splendid morning in January.
Alex, seated up front next to the chopper pilot, felt better than he had in the weeks since his son’s disappearance. He was now taking active steps, positive steps that could lead to the rescue of Alexei. He was fighting on two fronts, but he had powerful allies in the battle.
Gazing down at the diffused light and the ghostly wash of the Mediterranean far below, he realized he had another cause for his newfound optimism and happy humor: Once more he found himself amid the bliss that was this uniquely beautiful part of the world.
He put his forehead against the cool plexiglass of the cockpit window, stared down at the flow of scenes racing by below, and just breathed it all in, the unforgettable beauty of the rocky, sun-splashed playground peninsula of the French Riviera.
How he loved it here.
They were now landing at the helipad provided by the casino. A minute walk from anywhere. Hawke stepped down onto the tarmac, took a deep breath of pine-scented air, and looked around.
Unless you were a spy, of course, or a Russian billionaire whose mega-yacht required a deepwater port, or a plucky paparazzo hotshot on the trail of Leonardo DiCaprio, you might have little reason to find yourself in Antibes, or its charming little sister village Juan-les-Pins, on this brilliant morning.
But the quartet of men who climbed out of the baby-blue helo and started out on foot into the town of Juan-les-Pins had plenty of reason to be here. If Vladimir Putin actually was still alive, and that was a very big if, then they might well be a few steps away from learning where he’d stashed little Alexei.
Hawke, quickly walking ahead of the others, couldn’t wait another second. He whirled around and said, “Stoke, listen, could you and Harry Brock do the honors? Take care of getting all our gear and weapons to the hotel? Ambrose and I are going to run ahead and check out the harbor. See if that big red boat is still here.”
“You got it, boss.”
He’d found himself hoping, recently, that his son was held captive at the KGB complex in Siberia. His mother was there. And, the safest place on earth for him, oddly enough. Of course he and Stoke would have to mount a major hostage rescue operation, and he’d call in his friends Thunder and Lightning from Costa Rica. World’s toughest paramilitary-for-hire force . . . but yes, he’d have the advantage because he’d been a guest at the Winter Palace, knew every square inch of that grand palace and—
He heard a big marine engine start and then moving water and he paused a moment to see a big blue yacht getting under way . . . and there she was! He found himself staring out at the massive red yacht out there, bobbing at her mooring.
Tsar!
She was still here after all!
The wind was up and the current had shifted. She’d swung around her bow anchor, so that she was now lying stern to.
He knew every square inch of that yacht, too. He felt a frisson of pleasurable expectation ripple up his spine. He was close. He was getting closer. His son might very well be aboard that goddamn Russian boat at this very moment . . .
All Hawke wanted to see now was the owner’s launch from Tsar leave the yacht and head in his direction. Of course there were many reasons why the launch would have been dispatched to shore. Fetch food, wine and liquor, et cetera. But to pick up the owner and spirit him over under cover of darkness?
That was certainly one of them.
And then, in Hawke’s mind, Putin would magically appear here at
the harbor, stepping out of a nondescript automobile. Hawke would see Putin’s face as he stepped out of the darkness here on the seawall and into the light . . . and he would take the old monster by the throat and . . .
I want my son and I know you’ve got him aboard . . . Take me to him or I’ll kill you right here and now!
“I’ll torture the bastard if I have to,” Hawke had told Ambrose on the flight to Nice. “I will, I swear I will. He thinks everyone who knows him wants him dead? I’ll happily go to the head of that line, by god I will.”
He heard someone behind him and turned to see Stoke reach over and squeeze his shoulder.
“Stowed the gear, boss. Came back out to see what’s going on.”
Hawke said, “There she is, Stoke, god help us, there she is!”
Stoke looked up. “Holy shit,” he said. “Will you look at that! Is that our boy Vlad’s machine?”
“Thank god, right?” Hawke said, “All morning I was trying to prepare myself in the event that she’d already set sail.”
“Nah, boss, you got more luck than that, man. Always have had.”
Stoke gazed out across the sparkling bay, where all the heavy iron bobbed on moorings. These were the big-boy toys, the personal fleet of the masters of the universe, all riding at anchor here in the Billionaire’s Paradise. Here were assembled some of the truly great yachts of the world, most notably the enormous Ecstasea, built for the Russian oligarch Roman Abramovich in the early 2000s and reportedly sold several times, including once to the crown prince of Abu Dhabi. And closer in to shore, Larry Ellison’s $130 million Musashi.
But there, in the overarching shadow of that Russian monstrosity, Ecstasea, lay another Russian yacht, not quite as large as the other two, but still famous enough around the world in her own right. She was over two hundred feet long on the waterline, one of the world’s most photographed vessels, and she belonged to none other than Russian Federation president Vladimir Putin.