Overkill

by Ted Bell

  “Ava-whut? What in fuck-all is this ugly little fuck talking about, Beau?”

  Beau put a calming hand on Shit’s shoulder and said, “Oh, c’mon, you know these movie people, Shit, who knows what the hell they’re going on about half the time.”

  “Well, hell, then,” Shit said, pulling his black lid back down over his eyes, “have to say, he was pretty good in that Flaming Pussies movie. You boys go on, do what you got to do. Don’t pay no never mind to me. I ain’t feeling so social no more. Y’all best scatter now.”

  He lifted the Stetson back up an inch, yawned loudly, and said, “Y’know, my old daddy used to say you should treat yer body like a temple. Hell, I treat mine like a goddamn amusement park . . .” His voice trailed off and he started snoring softly.

  “Nice to meet you, Shit,” Joe said to him, happy to be getting out of this new friendship alive, with only a badly bruised shinbone to show for the encounter.

  No reply. Shit was off to dreamland.

  “What’ll you have to eat?” Beau asked him, going over to a loaded buffet table in the dining room. “We got chicken salad, free range, but god knows, if I’m going to eat a goddamn chicken, I’d like to know where the hell it’s been! We got potato salad, we got lobster salad, we got any damn kind of sandwich you want . . . everything except gluten-free. I don’t even know what the hell gluten is . . . but I do like the fact that it’s free.”

  “Nothing for me, thanks, Beau. I stopped for late breakfast on the way down from Zurich.”

  “You want a drink? Bloody? Ice cold beer?”

  “Little early for me. But you go ahead.”

  “Oh, I will. Let me whip up a damn Bloody eye-opener and we’ll take her in there in the library and have us a private little chat. That suit you?”

  Joe followed Beau and his Bloody into the wood-paneled library, where a fire was crackling.

  “He’s alive, is he?” Beau said, taking his seat and lighting a cigar. “Putin?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Holy shit,” Beau said. “I was kinda wondering about that . . . how many people know?”

  “Him. Obviously. You. Me. And a Swiss financier. Four. That’s it. The rest of the world thinks he’s dead as you know, Beau.”

  “Well, that’s why I was a little surprised to get the call. But, shit, Vladimir is one hard little dude to get rid of, ain’t he?”

  “I wouldn’t bet against him. Don’t forget, the pro-Soviet forces allied with him still run deep, both within the Kremlin and within the Russian population at large. He’s left the seat of power, semi-bloodless coup, pulled off by disloyal oligarchs. But he’s still a major force to be reckoned with, believe me.”

  “So. Okay, so what’s his deal? Hell’s he want to do now?”

  “He sees himself as Napoleon exiled to Elba. But all the while he’s secretly making plans for his triumphant return to Paris. Or, in Putin’s case, Moscow.”

  “What kind of plans?”

  “A comeback. For him and for an old-style Soviet government. Big-time. He plans to spend his fortune, his remaining billions, plus whatever else he can steal, to build a new private military force, loyal only to him. In total secrecy. He wants you to be in charge of the whole military show, Beau. The new Soviet army, he calls it. Or better yet, his Soviet Imperial Army. He sits around drawing uniforms all day, he told me.”

  “Soviet Imperial Army, huh? He fixin’ to re-erect the Berlin Wall?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that, Beau.”

  “What’s his time frame for all this stuff? And what kind of compensation are we talking about here? I got me a pretty good gig going in Bermuda right now . . .”

  “Yeah? Doing what?”

  “I’m in the pussy business.”

  “Buying? Or selling?”

  “Renting.”

  “Funny. Anyway. He calls his big idea Operation Overkill. He says he wants it done inside of one year. Got that? He wants to retake Moscow sometime in late October of next year. A new October Revolution, right? But he needs more cash, a lot more, and he needs an army. And now, apparently, he needs you.”

  “I get it. The October Revolution, right? Roll into Red Square on the anniversary of the Bolshevik Revolution, I mean? He’s planning on celebrating that?”

  “Something like that, yeah, but listen to me, Colonel. Pay attention. As soon as you complete phase one—create, arm, and train the army—your first mission will be to successfully complete the annexation of the Ukraine, then wheel your army and march on Moscow with overwhelming force. He’ll pay you thirty million bucks, ten when you sign on, five when you’re up and running. Fifteen when you’ve completed your mission.”

  “Thirty million, you say? Well, hell, son, where do I sign on for that deal?”

  Joe pulled the contract Putin had sent him from his inside breast pocket and handed it to the colonel.

  He said, “This is movie star money, Beau. This is athlete money. You better be good, is all I can say.”

  “Ah, hell, Joe, you don’t need to worry about that. If I ever let you down, I’ll just send my best buddy Shit Smith around to see you!”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Geneva

  “The Eagle has landed,” Joe Stalingrad said with a wide grin as Putin answered the sat phone call. He’d picked up on the very first ring next morning.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Putin said. “What fucking eagle? Landed where?”

  “Oh, sorry. American jargon. Sometimes I forget who I’m talking to.”

  “I advise you not to make that mistake with me.”

  “Right.”

  “I assume you have news? I haven’t heard from you in a week.”

  “I do, Mr. President. And, it’s not fake news, either.”

  “It better be good, Joe. For your sake.”

  “Oh, it is, sir. As to the Sorcerer’s mountain fortress, first item on the agenda. Professor Steinhauser accepts with pleasure your offer of five hundred million U.S. dollars cash toward the purchase of his real estate holdings in Switzerland.

  “So, he agrees to sell? Very, very good news, Joe. Excellent!”

  “Soar with the eagles, Mr. President! It’s all yours!”

  “Excellent! Very, very good, Joe! How soon can he be prepared to move out?”

  “He wants to know if you want to buy it furnished. If so, he can be out within a week.”

  “Furnished? A mountain? I hadn’t thought about that. What’s included?”

  “He didn’t say. Washer, dryer, I assume. And that Formica dinette set in the kitchen . . . plus the fighter squadron, I assume.”

  “I know you’re only trying to be funny, Joe. Please don’t.”

  “I believe he means everything, sir. The whole enchilada, so to speak. Household furnishings, the art on the walls, the entire contents of the weapons armory, the radar and missile installations, the fighter squadron, et cetera, et cetera. I’d guess not a lot of real estate transactions include a fighter squadron, but there you have it.”

  “We’ve probably just set a world record for highest price ever paid for a single residence,” Putin mused, “Will he take cash?”

  “Oh, I’m sure that would be most satisfactory, sir.”

  “All right, get confirmation of that. Pull the trigger. Make arrangements for the delivery to him of five hundred million U.S. with the assistance of my banker in Zurich, Heinrich. Next?”

  “Next up, Colonel Brett Beauregard.”

  “You saw him?”

  “Yes, sir, I did.”

  “How did you find him? Is he still railing against me for events in Siberia?”

  “No, sir, not at all. All seems to have been forgiven and forgotten. He inquired after your health.”

  “Since I’m supposed to be dead, I imagine he did. You laid everything out for him? The scope of the mission? The timetable?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And?”

  “He didn’t even flinch. I think our timing is good
. He was running low on cash and looking for what to do next . . . and he wants his head of security to go on the payroll, too.”

  “Colonel Beauregard has a head of security now?”

  “Yes, he does. A CIA cowboy named Shit Smith.”

  “Shit Smith?” Putin said. “What kind of name is that?”

  “Yeah, I know. Some name, huh? Crazy.”

  “What about the salary offer for Beau?”

  “Beau wants to know about benefits.”

  “What? What fucking benefits? He gets thirty million fucking benefits when he signs on.”

  “Just kidding, sir. No, sir, he’s fine with the salary. I just finished breakfast with him and Shit at his hotel here in Geneva. His question to me was about where his base of operations would be. This is going to be a fairly massive deal to put together. He needs somewhere off the grid. Where he can put this all together, you know, the air and land components of the army. He wants a face-to-face with you to discuss options.”

  “Are you still there? At his hotel?”

  “In the lobby, waiting for my car to be brought around.”

  “Good. Go back up to his suite. Tell him we spoke and that I am delighted to be working with him again on so magnificent a project. Tell him fine about his security guy. Tell him you asked about the base of operations and I said this: After lengthy consideration, I have decided that the very best location to base this is the abandoned secret KGB military base he operated out of in Siberia. It’s all just sitting there, just as he left it, abandoned because of budget constraints demanded by my political enemies. The fighter wing was mothballed at my insistence . . . as was the tank division and a lot of light artillery. All waiting to be recommissioned as soon as he can get there.”

  “Got it.”

  “The military housing, the defensive missile perimeter, the communications—all of it just like it was the night the two of you betrayed me and fled Russia with that fucking traitor Alex Hawke.”

  “The colonel asked about that, sir. He said he hoped Hawke wouldn’t be poking his nose into our business this time around.”

  “Okay, so good. Tell him that I have taken protective measures to ensure that Alex Hawke stays as far away from this as possible. And if he gets anywhere near it, I have loyalist KGB assets all over Europe ready to take him off the board.”

  “And the face-to-face?”

  “It will take place at my new Swiss residence, Joe. As soon as I’m established there.”

  “Want me to give him a ballpark?”

  “A ballpark? He wants a fucking ballpark?”

  “It means a rough idea of when. When you want the face-to-face, I mean.”

  “We need to talk about that. You need to exfiltrate me soon.”

  “What’s the best way to get you out? I’ve got your new car. Mercedes with blacked-out windows. Geneva’s not all that far away from Provence, sir.”

  “No. Too risky. And there are no passable roads to where I am. Accessible only on foot. The only way in or out is a chopper. Night landing in the field adjacent to where I’m staying.”

  “Where are you staying if I may ask? Hotel?”

  “Hardly. My new address is a woodchopper’s cabin deep in the forest. Cordial fellow, this French woodchopper. Good company. We’ve become something akin to friends . . . I help him cut firewood every day. And he helps me with my drawings of uniforms for the new Soviet armed forces.”

  “This is still in France, right? You haven’t moved?”

  “Yes. Still in Provence. Do you have a pencil?”

  “Shoot.”

  “I’m going to give you my geographic coordinates. Tomorrow you will secure a helicopter. Today is what? The last day of January. I want you to get me out of here day after tomorrow. At midnight, second of February. Tell Colonel Beauregard I shall be expecting him at Falcon’s Lair this coming Wednesday.”

  “Falcon’s Lair is—what, again?”

  “The name of my new home high in the Alps. I just thought of it. Like it?”

  “Falcon’s Lair. I love it, Mr. President. It just screams Vladimir Putin to me.”

  “Good thing, Joe. You’re going to be living there.”

  Click.

  Living there?

  Joe smiled. He Google-earthed the mountain to get a better feel for the neighborhood. Looking at the bleak alpine images, he worried that his new boss may have forgotten the golden rule of real estate. Location, location, location. Then he wondered if the beauteous Miss Emma Peek would be included with the household goods left behind.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Juan-les-Pins

  “Tsar is on the move! Let’s go!” a drenched Harry Brock said, bursting into the almost deserted Fitzgerald Bar at the Belles-Rives. It was nearly midnight, and Hawke, Stoke, Sharkey, and Congreve were having a late coffee at a corner banquette. They were still going over Hawke’s hand-drawn renderings of Tsar’s layout fore and aft, above decks and below, getting it locked in their minds before they did a forced search of the big yacht.

  This, after leaving Brock out in the rain on watch. A fierce electrical thunderstorm had rolled in from the Mediterranean shortly after sunset, and curtains of howling rain swept over the little harbor. Visibility was nil.

  “Just like that?” Hawke said, leaping to his feet at Brock’s appearance. “They’re leaving in this weather?”

  “Yeah,” Brock said. “I almost missed him. You couldn’t see a thing out there in the dark, with all the heavy rain and mist. And the crew kept the engines at idle and all Tsar’s running and nav lights doused until they’d weighed anchor and gotten well under way. I got lucky this time. They just happened to cross in front of a big yacht that was lit up stem to stern. So, I was able to see the red boat’s silhouette gliding by in front of that brightly illuminated boat.”

  “Good work, Harry,” Hawke said. “Let’s move out.” Hawke leapt to his feet and made for the entrance. This was what he’d been waiting for since Alexei’s disappearance. He knew his boy might not be aboard, but whoever was could bring him one step closer to finding him.

  The five men had hung their foul weather gear on hooks inside the hotel entry for just such a situation. Donning the bright orange offshore kit, they raced out into the storm. The storm’s icy cold ferocity was shocking after the warmly lit peace of the cozy bar.

  The steps down to the dock and the sleek Wally boat were slick, but they all took them three at a time. Then they were pounding down the long dock at full gallop. Too Elusive was tied up at the far end.

  The Wally One, powered by twin Volvo Penta SP 800hp engines, was capable of speeds up to fifty-two knots. She was roughly forty feet in length, with a beam of ten feet. The big Russian boat would be lucky to make thirty knots through the water in this weather. So speed was an advantage in Hawke’s favor.

  Brock, Hawke, and Congreve scrambled aboard and prepared to get under way. Hawke went to the helm station and switched on the batteries, the fuel pump, turned on the GPS and all the electronics. Congreve went below and powered up the nav station, where he would be monitoring radar during the hostage rescue mission at sea. Brock went to the weapons locker at the sternmost portion of the cockpit to get the arsenal sorted out.

  Stoke and Sharkey remained up on the dock to handle the lines, meanwhile scanning the harbor with powerful night-vision binoculars.

  “Final weapons check, Mr. Brock?” Hawke cried above the thunder and crash of lightning and the burbling rumble of the engines. He was in the midst of firing up the big Volvos.

  “All set, sir.” Harry was affixing silencers to the assault rifles and side arms, checking ammunition and assault gear.

  “I see her,” Stoke shouted through cupped hands. “Tsar’s at one o’clock! She’s just passing through the breakwater at the harbor mouth, pouring on the speed and headed for open water.”

  “I’ve got the helm,” Hawke said. “Mr. Brock, please join Stoke and Sharkey up on the dock to handle the lines. Ambrose? Can you hear me d
own there?”

  “Aye, Skipper.”

  “Good. Lock on to that target and don’t let go! Understood?”

  “Affirmative!” Congreve shouted.

  “Bowlines are free, boss,” Stoke said from above, heaving the freed bowlines down onto the Wally One’s foredeck.

  “Stern lines and spring lines free!” Brock said, heaving his lines onto the stern. Before boarding, he and Stoke each put a foot on the gunwale and shoved the speedboat a few feet away from the dock to ease maneuvering.

  Hawke looked around at his not so motley crew.

  Congreve was busy below at the nav station, tracking the target objective and warning Hawke of boats, markers, and bell buoys that he might not be able to see for the downpour. Stoke stood at Hawke’s side, also on watch. And Harry Brock was at the bow, his head and torso emerging from the forward hatch cover. He had heavy artillery up there, the big M14 machine gun cradled in his hands.

  “Everyone strapped in?” Hawke asked.

  “Aye aye, sir!” they replied.

  Alex put his right hand on the big chrome throttles and eased them forward. He now had to thread his way through all the myriad of yachts moored in the harbor. All in practically whiteout conditions. He flipped on the powerful searchlight and twin spotlights atop the cabin, and three white beams streaked into existence.

  “Boat! Dead ahead!” Stoke cried. “Hard right! Hard right!”

  “Christ!” Hawke said, throttling back and cranking the wheel hard over to starboard. He’d never even seen the big blue yacht now rearing up just fifty feet ahead of him. Too Elusive, heeled over so far that her starboard rail was underwater, cleared the big yacht’s stern by mere inches.

  “Slow way down, boss,” Stoke said. “A collision at sea could ruin your day. We’ll catch Tsar out in open water, don’t worry. I did a sea trial in this thing early this morning. Topped out at almost fifty knots in a light chop. We’re good to go tonight. We’ll catch that bad boy.”

  Hawke said, “Maybe we’ll get lucky. But, I’m not sure we’ll find Alexei aboard. Putin’s smarter than that. Too obvious a location maybe. You think Putin could have slipped aboard tonight, Stoke?”