Overkill

by Ted Bell

  “You’ve been aboard her many times, is that correct, Commander?” Brock asked Hawke.

  “Yes, I have. A couple of lengthy cruises as well as visits while she was moored here. Why?”

  “In the event Putin really may already be aboard or is to board her soon, it will be good for us to get a firsthand look at her interior layout, especially below. We may have to board her at sea, sir. At night.”

  Hawke looked at Brock with a half-grin. “I was just thinking the same thing, Mr. Brock, but thank you.” Finally, Harry Brock making sense and at the perfect time.

  “Yeah,” Stoke said. “You know, whether Vlad shows or not, I think we go out there and have us a little lookie-loo down below. Whether we get invited or not . . . Right, boss?”

  “Oh, believe me, Stoke, we’re boarding that vessel and searching her stem to stern. No matter what the hell happens.”

  Putin’s $300 million yacht was here all right, but was Putin himself? Or even—dare he say it—his son, Alexei?

  “We got lucky, boss,” Stoke said to Hawke. “We got ourselves some good luck going now.”

  “Luck had nothing to do with my intel,” Harry Brock said. Being normally snarky, for some reason he was clearly being on his best behavior. Stoke had probably screamed at him, telling him to keep his shit together or risk being sent packing.

  “Luck is for losers, Brock,” Hawke said, “but I’ll bloody well take it this time. Your story holds up, at least this far. So stay with it. That’s the hotel over there, along the seawall. Pretty, isn’t it, Ambrose? You’ve been here before. My favorite hotel on the planet.”

  “Lovely.”

  The old edifice, ablaze with bougainvillea lit by spotlights, was truly beautiful, and full of architectural grace and history. A history that Hawke knew all too well, having hidden out here in this seaside paradise with various lovers over the years. And once for an entire summer with his beloved Anastasia and their child, Alexei.

  The five-star seaside hotel was now called the Belles-Rives, but it had once been merely a small house where the famous American author F. Scott Fitzgerald lived and wrote. He, along with his nearly mad wife, Zelda, and their towheaded daughter, Scottie, had rented it for two years, when it was called the Villa St. Louis. Long a literary favorite of Hawke’s, Fitzgerald had finished his masterpiece, The Great Gatsby, here, and had also begun his novel Tender Is the Night.

  “Monsieur Hawke!” a voice called out from across the square. Hawke whirled to see who it was. A dapper silver-haired man had spied the three of them crossing the terrace in his direction. “Bienvenue, mon amie!” the fellow exclaimed.

  It was an old friend of Hawke’s, a rascal of the first order: M. Hugo Jadot, owner of the Belles-Rives Hotel.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “Hugo!” Hawke said, and with his three comrades trailing a bit behind, he started walking toward his friend. Jadot was standing by the door, just inside the wisteria-draped porte cochere at the grand pillared entryway. Beyond lay a broad sunny deck cantilevered like an ocean liner out over a sun-speckled infinity pool.

  Hawke let his eyes fall on the merry diners sipping icy white wine and enjoying their ridiculously overpriced salades Niçoise as massive multimillion-dollar yachts danced attendance on the sparkling waves.

  Memories.

  Hawke said, “Bonjour, Maître! Lovely to see you again, old friend.”

  M. Hugo Jadot opened his arms and literally ran to Hawke, embracing him with delight.

  Hawke said, “Hugo, meet my partners in crime. This gentleman, whom I sure you’ll recall, is Chief Inspector Ambrose Congreve and—”

  “Of course I know him! The great genius and celebrated detective himself! How are you, Chief Inspector?”

  “Very well indeed, thank you!”

  “And these are Mr. Stokely Jones Jr. and Mr. Harry Brock, both reasonably upright citizens of Miami. And this, gentlemen, is Monsieur Hugo Jadot, notorious local scoundrel and owner of this divine establishment and de facto mayor of Juan-les-Pins.”

  “You flatter me, Alex. So! Is this a vacation, Alex?” Jadot said with a sly smile. An acknowledgment that Lord Hawke had never once stayed in his hotel unless in the company of exceptionally good-looking females.

  “No, Hugo. Serious business. My son, Alexei, has been kidnapped. It happened at Christmas.”

  “My god. No. It’s not true.”

  “I’ll fill you in, Hugo. It’s a nightmare, but it’s certainly true.”

  “I’ll be at your service, Alex. Anything I can do during your stay. I love that child like my own.”

  Hawke said, “I’ll fill you in over lunch, Hugo.”

  “Well, at any rate, welcome, welcome, messieurs,” the jovial little Frenchman said, shaking both of their hands, apparently, with instant affection. “Bienvenue! C’est une tres beau jour, n’est-ce pas! I’m so delighted to have you gentlemen here at the Belles-Rive! When Lord Hawke called to reserve your rooms a few days ago, it was cause for great celebration. He and his family are much revered by the staff.”

  “It’s a beautiful spot, Hugo,” Stoke said. “You should be very proud of it.”

  “Well, won’t you all come join me for a drink in the Fitzgerald Bar? A bite to eat, perhaps? While we discuss how I may be of service in solving this heinous crime against my friend? There’s a view to the sea, and by the time we finish lunch, all of your rooms will be ready. Sorry for the delay, I didn’t not expect you quite so soon.”

  “We are at your disposal, Hugo,” Hawke said, pausing at the doorway. “Please take my friends to the bar. I’ll join you momentarily . . . I just need a moment to myself.”

  “Mais oui, Alex! Allez! Viens avec moi, my new friends.”

  Hugo and the three men disappeared into the cool darkness of the hotel reception entryway and then into the bar beyond.

  Hawke paused, then turned back to the wide and curving arms of the harbor. A body of water embraced by a necklace of white pearls—how he thought of the large villas that circled the harbor. Many of these were the grand homes once owned by his literary heroes, men like Jules Verne and W. Somerset Maugham.

  He caught his breath. He found himself recalling happier times, all those joyous evenings with Anastasia and their little boy . . .

  At night, when the Mediterranean Sea breeze wasn’t blowing inland, Juan-les-Pins smelled faintly like North Africa. It’s a strange concoction made up of diesel fuel, dust, cooking oil, and cloying flowers. Across the harbor lay the entertainment district. It has always had a seedy edge, he thought, with sidewalk seating at nightclubs like the Pam Pam and snack shops with all-American names—Monster Burger and Wall Street . . .

  In the waning light of afternoon, he and his little family would join the natives at the cafés or play pétanque in the great dusty square near Parc de la Pinède, with its playground and the strange old round stone building charmingly signed bibliothèque pour tous.

  Memories.

  He’d lived here, lived mostly happily here, with Alexei and his beloved Anastasia Korsakova, Alexei’s Russian mother. In his memory, those were the best of all times, the best time possible. The contrast between then and now was stark.

  Hawke felt his heart race and lit another cigarette to calm his nerves. He drew the smoke down deep. Then he just stood there on the breakwater, staring seaward, and considered the status quo. The threats to Alexei had always been about Hawke himself—Putin’s love-hate relationship with him.

  When all was well, the wily Russian was the soul of goodness toward them all. But whenever Hawke dared to threaten Vladimir or when he derailed one of the Russian’s endless schemes against the West? Then the long knives of the KGB came out, flashing menace in the sunlight, carving fear out of the darkness.

  What was it Congreve had said to him the other evening at the Palace Bar? One of his many pearls about how to solve a crime . . .

  Never forget the power of a good timeline, my boy, remember the timeline! Words of investigatory wisdom
from the mind of the great criminalist, Chief Inspector Ambrose Congreve of Scotland Yard . . . Indeed, Hawke had the timeline in his head.

  Alexei had been taken shortly after Putin dropped off the planet. But Putin was already on the run weeks before that fateful Christmas Day. Hiding wherever he could, traveling by night and avoiding the day. A man in such dire straits could hardly afford to saddle himself with a seven-year-old boy for company. Could he? No.

  So after months of planning the snatch operation from his Kremlin office, Putin then has his KGB goon squad execute the kidnapping on the mountaintop. They then fly Alexei to Italy and torch the chopper to destroy evidence. And then the question becomes: where on earth do they secret his son away from prying eyes until Putin resurfaces?

  Could Volodya come up with a better spot on earth than that yacht out there? Tsar, with all her technology, security, and defenses, and with a heavily armed crew at the ready.

  Hawke was not at all sure Harry Brock’s intel was accurate. But for now at least, it was all he had. He had learned long ago to proceed with what you had, no matter how implausible the evidence might be. Brock, in his experience, was an unreliable CIA operative. But Brock’s intel would have to suffice for now.

  He turned reluctantly and headed back to the hotel, haunted by old dreams and old feelings.

  Whenever I come here to the Alpes-Maritimes, I’m always attacked by the itch of antiquity . . .

  Why is that?

  Memories.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “Hugo, my dear old friend, when was the last time you laid eyes on the president of Russia?” Hawke asked Hugo upon entering the bar. He loved this old gin joint. Loved the Fitzgerald memorabilia and the nautical design of the large harborside bar. Jadot had designed the room to be one that mirrored rooms aboard the great yachts bobbing just offshore. There hanging above the bar was the familiar photograph of Josephine Baker and her pet cheetah out on the dock.

  Hugo Jadot appeared not to have heard him and waved him forward to join them in the melee that was lunchtime at the Fitzgerald Bar.

  Waiters in striped French boater T-shirts buzzed about, delivering cups of Nescafé that cost ten euros apiece. Famous entertainment-world boldface names swapped lies with billionaires over icy buckets of Krug.

  The owner of the hotel was seated at a round banquette beneath windows overlooking the harbor. A large bottle of Domaine Ott Rosé stood in ice inside a frosty silver urn. He knew it was Hawke’s drink of choice in the South of France.

  “Hugo,” Hawke said, pouring himself a glass, “when was the last time you saw our mutual friend Volodya aboard his big red boat out there?”

  “Volodya? Here? Oh, I don’t know. He comes and he goes. I get no advance notice, believe me. I remember the last time you and he were aboard Tsar out there in the harbor. He took you out in his submarine, I believe. To demonstrate his new secret explosive, yes? Feuerwasser, I believe it was called. This was right before he tried to set the whole world afire, moving his secret armies into the Baltics.”

  “Right. I had a hell of a time talking him into changing his mind about all that,” Hawke said grimly. “He’s never spoken to me since.”

  “You prevented a worldwide conflagration, Alex. Give yourself a little credit, my friend.”

  “It was two years ago,” Hawke said, dismissing the compliment. “Ancient history. My question is, Who’s aboard now? The captain? Is he aboard? Guards? KGB? Please be honest with me, Hugo. I know you keep an eagle eye on the yacht community? Yes?”

  “I keep my eyes open, yes. Look, Alex, what can I tell you?”

  “Hugo, the whole world believes Vladimir Putin is dead. I happen to believe that he is alive and on the run. And you, my good friend, you are uniquely qualified as a daily eyewitness to what would most likely be Putin’s primary getaway escape route. What have you seen? These last couple of months? Anything out of the ordinary? Anything we should know about?”

  “Nothing, Alex, I swear to you. The normal comings and goings of the crew, that’s about all. Food and marine supply deliveries. Zero visiting celebrities, movie stars, whatever have you.”

  “So who the hell’s out there, Hugo?”

  “Well, let’s see. That would be the captain, of course. And then the skeleton crew still remain aboard.”

  “And why, I wonder, would all these people remain aboard a moored yacht for such a long time? I mean, unless of course they are out there awaiting further instructions about their next destination?” Hawke asked.

  “I—I’ve really no idea, my friend,” Jadot replied. “As I said, he really doesn’t make me privy to his plans, you see.”

  Congreve stood up and clasped his hands behind his broad back. “No recent trips over to the fuel docks, eh?”

  “No, Chief Inspector. None.”

  “No large food shipments coming aboard? Cases of champagne? Caviar? Liquor?”

  “No.”

  “All quiet on the Mediterranean front, is what you’re saying, Monsieur Jadot?” Congreve said, his attention fixed on Hugo, watching for the telltale tics of a practiced liar. Small alarms were going off in the great criminalist’s forebrain. The manner of the man was plainly coincident with the manner of all congenital liars . . .

  “Exactly right, Chief Inspector. All quiet.”

  “Tell the truth. Full complement of crew aboard?” the chief inspector snapped.

  “No. Captain, first mate, cook. I swear to you. That’s it.”

  “How do you know that, Hugo?” Ambrose said. “Who’s aboard and who’s not, I mean?”

  Hawke smiled. Good for Congreve.

  “Oh. Yes. How do I know since I’ve not been aboard in months? I see what you mean. Well, it’s no revelation that the yacht’s captain and I are longtime friends. I get invited out there occasionally. And Ivar, the captain, comes ashore to the hotel for dinners or upstairs entertaining his numerous female acquaintances.”

  Hawke said, “What’s his full name?”

  “The captain? Ivar. Ivar Solo.”

  “Ah, yes, Captain Solo,” Hawke said, pleased that Ambrose seemed to be making good progress.

  “So you’re saying no unusual activity at all?” Stoke said. “Since Christmas, let’s say . . .”

  “Mais non, monsieur! Rien! Nothing! She lies at anchor. She doesn’t rock, she doesn’t roll. Tsar is not your answer. Whatever you gentlemen have heard, this is not where miracles will happen . . . that Putin will appear in Juan-les-Pins out of the mist only to sail away into the sunset. I’m sorry, Alex. If Vladimir Putin is why you’re here, I’m afraid you and your friends are simply wasting your time. You think he’s alive. But I know he’s dead. We all know that.”

  Hawke raised his glass to the owner.

  “Well! Thank you, Hugo, for your unique perspective on our situation. Very interesting, indeed. However, my colleagues and I have no problem wasting our time. Especially here in your lovely hotel . . . Cheers!” Hawke raised his glass.

  Hugo, chastened by Hawke’s tone and manner, raised his glass and said, “A votre santé! And now I would think your rooms are ready! I hope you fine gentlemen find your accommodations to your liking, yes?”

  “One more thing, Hugo,” Hawke said, “if you don’t mind. We need a boat of some kind. Fast boat. Highly maneuverable. I think I saw a Wally Tender down at the docks. Too Elusive, I believe she’s called. Wally makes a good solid boat and fast as hell. That’s the kind of thing I’m talking about.”

  “Sightseeing?” Hugo said.

  “Something like that,” Hawke replied. “Have a look around, see the sights. Mr. Brock here has never been to the Riviera before. Isn’t that right, Harry?”

  “I can’t wait to see all its charms, boss.”

  “See what I mean?” Hawke said, smiling. “He can’t wait.”

  “Very interesting. Well, as it happens, your lordship is in luck. Too Elusive’s owner is a good friend and a fellow business owner. He lets me use her whenever he’s travelin
g abroad. Like he is now. When do you need access to the boat?”

  “As long as I’m here. Is she fueled and ready to go?”

  “Not sure. Haven’t used her yet this week. But the keys are at the front desk with the concierge.”

  Hawke said, “Thanks, I’ll take you up on that very kind offer, Hugo. Can you excuse us for a second? I need to talk privately with my colleagues here.”

  “Certainly,” Hugo said, getting to his feet and touching his white linen napkin delicately to his protuberant liver-colored lips. “I bid you fond adieu, gentlemen. I’ve had a word with the chef. We look forward to seeing you here for dinner with us this evening. Outside on the terrace? I’ll book you a table on the water. Yes?”

  “Yes, of course, Hugo, please reserve us a table right on the water with an unfettered view of that Russian yacht out there. Yes?”

  “Mais oui! Mais oui!”

  “Stoke, I want you and Harry to run that boat over to the petrol dock and have her fluids topped off. Make sure she’s seaworthy. We may need that thing in a hurry. Also, stow all our gear aboard now. All weapons, everything, on board that launch and secured . . . And, Stoke, heads-up. These Wally Tenders are very, very exotic. High-tech and sophisticated. Fast as hell. So give yourself some time to get used to her. Maybe do a quick sea trial out beyond the breakwater? I want us to be ready to mount an overwhelming assault the very instant the time comes.”

  “Aye-aye, Skipper,” Stoke said. “Don’t worry. We’re on it.”

  “Who’s got the graveyard watch tonight?”

  “Brock.”

  “I’m sure our friend Harry remembers that disastrous night he was supposedly on duty down in the Keys,” Hawke said, with a smile that held more than irony but less than scorn.” When we were chasing Scissor hands all over creation.”

  “He’ll never forget it, boss. He screwed the pooch that night with the Cubans and he knows it.”

  “Good. Tonight, he stands his post and he keeps his bloody eyes open, right?”