by Ted Bell
“I’m going up there, Stoke. Keep me company.”
Hawke disappeared into the darkened hatchway and Stoke was right on his heels, both men pounding it out up the steep steel steps into serious darkness.
“Next stop, the bridge,” he told the team on his radio.
Hawke had caught a momentary glimpse of the silhouettes of three men behind the dark glass up on the bridge. The captain, obviously, and two mates? Because of the extraordinary kindness Captain Ivar Solo had shown to Hawke on a short cruise to the Maldives, he had sent a gift to Putin’s captain upon his return to London. A lovely old Purdey 20 gauge side-by-side that his grandfather had given him for his twenty-first birthday.
His primary concern, his hope now was that Ivar Solo was still captain, still in charge of this vessel, despite the Russian president’s fall from grace or power or both at the hands of the treacherous oligarchs. Who, Hawke knew well, might rightly be the new owners of Volodya’s beloved Tsar.
Chapter Forty-Five
The elevator stopped and the door slid open, the gloom of the bridge tinged with a reddish light emanating from the giant curved array of the various instrument panels.
Hawke stepped out first, his weapon at the ready. He quickly scanned the bridge deck from one side to the other. He was relieved to see his old friend Captain Ivar Solo at the helm, flanked by two rough-looking seamen of dubious origin. Other than those three, the dimly lit room appeared to be empty.
He signaled Stoke to follow him.
“Ah, Ivar, there you are!” Hawke said with as much joviality as he could muster. “Look who’s here! Your old chum Alex Hawke. Terribly sorry to be dropping in on you like this at such a late hour, but it couldn’t be helped.”
“Lord Hawke,” the Russian captain said, but could supply no further words at the moment. There was something in the man’s eyes Hawke had no trouble reading. Fear. Fear of what? Certainly not of his friend Lord Hawke. So. The men to either side of him.
“I imagined you might show up at some point, sir,” Solo managed to croak out.
“Indeed. Looking for my son, as it happens. Friends of mine said I might find him here. Aboard your ship, I mean. Is that true?”
“On the right!” Stoke shouted. “Gun!”
Hawke swirled to the right just as the burly crewman on the captain’s right was bringing his side arm up to bear. He was about to fire when Stoke shot the man in the head. He dropped to the deck like a sack full of stones.
Hawke, barely missing a beat, turned to Ivar and said, “As I was saying, Captain, I’m inquiring after my son. Is he or is he not presently a captive aboard this vessel? Tell me where he is and you’ll avoid what will be a most unpleasant search.”
“He is not aboard,” came a hard, furious voice from behind Hawke. It seemed to well up from within the darkness at the comms and nav rooms situated at the rear of the bridge.
Hawke spun, shocked to see a legless ghost gliding straight for him out of the dark.
Rolling toward him in a wheelchair, a man who looked to be someone once known to Hawke as Der Wolf.
It was him, all right. The infamous Russian KGB General Ivanov. The man he and Stokely had been sent to Cuba to assassinate. That joint CIA/MI6 covert mission into the Sierra Maestre mountain range had unfortunately failed. But a subsequent drone strike Hawke had launched from Gitmo had not. It was Hawke’s belief that Ivanovich had died in the drone attack. Or, so he was told by U.S. Navy officers on the scene reporting on the strike to Hawke.
Ivanov was a big, bald man, with masses of muscle bunched about his neck and shoulders, and dark porcine eyes peeking out from beneath a prominent, some might say, neolithic brow. A man who’d first made his real scorched-earth reputation fighting rebels in Chechnya. Now one of the most powerful leaders of the Opposition in the Kremlin, General Sergey Ivanovich Ivanov was a savage butcher.
So who was this ghost but Der Wolf himself?
“You seem surprised to see me, Hawke,” Ivanov said, rolling into the light. He was, Hawke saw, completely legless beneath the blanket puddled in his lap.
“No doubt you thought I’d not survive in that pile of smoking rubble you made of my headquarters. My men lost their lives that night, but not me. I lost only my legs.”
“Congratulations,” Hawke said, a cold fury in his voice that surprised even Stokely. But he knew the boss could never forgive the horrific and brutal torture the two of them had endured at the hands of this monster.
“And what have you lost lately, Lord Hawke? Anything of importance? Anyone? A small boy, perhaps?”
“Listen, you disgusting piece of filth, if you’ve got my son on this boat or have anything to do with his kidnapping, you’ll lose your head next. Although that particular loss will amount to nothing, compared to your legs.”
The man had his blood up at that. “I had everything to do with kidnapping Alexei, you stupid British fuck. Who do you think did it? Putin? Spare me. It was my operation all along! Quite brilliant, even the great Lord Hawke might agree.”
Hawke remembered the photo of Alexei. And the note signed Der Wolf. He said, “Take me to him. Now.”
“Oh, so sorry, he’s not here. But you just missed him, bad luck. I saw intelligence you were headed to the South of France and had him removed to a new location.”
“Where is he, Ivanov? I swear to god, you tell me right now or I’ll rip your bloody beating heart right out of your chest.”
“Really, Lord Hawke? That’s your strategy? And then what will you do? I am the only man alive who knows where your son has been taken. Kill me and you’ll never see him again.”
“You know as well as I do that everyone talks in the end, Ivanov. Why subject yourself to—”
“To what? Torture?”
“Alex! Down!” Stoke cried. “He’s got a gun!”
A small silver automatic protruded from beneath the Russian’s blanket and spat out two shots in quick succession. Hawke felt the two rounds whistle past his ears as he dove for the deck. Reaching for his own weapon, he heard Stoke’s M14 machine gun unleash a short burst at point-blank range, one that blew what was left of Ivanov and his wheelchair backward into the darkness. He was dead now, all right, dead as dead.
“You! Drop your weapon,” Stoke said to the man standing on the captain’s left. The man’s pistol clattered to the deck. “He work for you, Captain?” Stoke asked as Hawke got to his feet.
“No. They both worked for the general. Paid assassins.”
“And the two outside on the bridge wings?”
“Both KGB officers. Two of the four who boarded this ship with Ivanov and commandeered it two weeks ago. If the president knew how these animals treated me and my crew, he would have shot that bastard himself.”
“Stoke,” Hawke said, “get Ambrose and Brock on the radio. Tell them the ship is now secure. Join us on the bridge.”
“I’m on it,” Stoke said, adjusting his lip mike to speak.
Chapter Forty-Six
Hawke had his gun on the second KGB thug.
“Ivar,” Hawke said to the captain, “any more macho boys like this skulking about on board? Including the two recently deceased outside?”
“No, Commander, that’s the lot.”
“Stoke, cuff this bastard and lock him back in the comms room with his headless leader. We need to search the rest of this boat now. On the off chance that Ivanov was lying, and Alexei is still aboard, we need to turn this ship upside down and shake it.”
“With your permission, Lord Hawke?” Captain Ivar Solo said.
“Indeed. I’m truly sorry to say that he wasn’t lying. But, if someone else could steer the boat, I could show you exactly where your little boy was kept for the last two weeks.”
“So he was here, Ivar?”
“Yes, sir. For these last few weeks. Ivanov thought he could safely stow Alexei here until Putin resurfaced. Then they would decide what to do with him.”
“You believe Putin is still alive, Ivar?”<
br />
“I really don’t know. He has not contacted me. But I believe he is, yes. I have no proof of it. It’s just a feeling. Knowing him as well as I did, and knowing his state of mind this last year, I doubt he’d sit on his hands and wait to be murdered by his many enemies or the KGB. Or worse.”
“Did you hear anything that might help me, Ivar? An overheard conversation, perhaps? Gossip between themselves, or even some offhand remark of Ivanov’s?”
“One night . . . perhaps three days ago, yes. The general was in the radio room. He was arguing with someone on the radio. It escalated to shouting.”
“What did he say?”
“At one point, he screamed. He said, and I remember this clearly, he said, ‘Fuck you, Joe! Fuck you! This is my operation and I’ll handle it any way I fucking want to!’”
“Joe? Had you ever heard anyone use that name before? Joe something or other?”
“Sorry, I had not.”
“Well, thanks, Skipper. We’ll see where that leads.”
At that moment, Ambrose Congreve and Harry Brock appeared at the top of the staircase leading to the decks below.
“Hello, Alex,” Congreve said, looking at the blood-spattered carnage that was the bridge as he and Brock entered. “Are you two quite all right?”
“Well enough, considering. Stoke and I had a short-lived reunion with an old friend of ours from Cuba. KGB general named Ivanov, whom I’m sure you’ll remember. He’s in there, dead, with two other KGB officers—one alive, one recently deceased. And two more outside, rather more on the dead side.”
“You lads have been busy boys,” Congreve said with a rueful smile. “Any luck?”
“Alexei was here, Constable. That is, until two days ago when his captor got wind I might be headed this way. We just missed him.”
“Well, safe to say we’re a lot closer to finding him now than we were, Alex.”
“You didn’t get anything out of them before they got shot?” Brock asked.
“No, Ivanov pulled a hidden gun on me and Stoke shot him.”
Hawke said, “Stoke, could you take the helm so that the captain might take us below to view Alexei’s quarters?”
“Absolutely, boss.”
“Captain Solo, this is Scotland Yard Chief Inspector Ambrose Congreve. He’s investigating my son’s kidnapping for Interpol. He’ll be wanting to interview you about everything you saw or heard since my son was brought aboard. I’m sure you’ll be forthcoming?”
“Of course, I’ll do anything I can to help, sir.”
“One quick question,” Congreve said. “You mentioned that the killers appeared aboard in the middle of the night. How did they get to the yacht from shore?”
“A speedboat.”
“What kind of speedboat, Captain?”
“It’s called a Wally. Very high tech. Named Too Elusive. On loan, clearly. Belongs to an old friend of mine, the owner of the Belles-Rives hotel in Juan-les-Pins. Do you know of him? Lovely man. Henri Jadot’s his name.”
Congreve looked over at Hawke and said, “Yes, we know him all too well, Captain, don’t we, Alex? He’s been lying to us since the moment we arrived.”
“You were right about Hugo all along, Constable. Bloody liar. Hardly surprising, I suppose—he is a Frenchman, after all.”
“We’ll get to the truth somehow, Alex,” Congreve said. “Let’s go see what we can see, shall we?”
It was a small cabin, V-shaped, the one nearest the bow.
Hawke entered first, followed by Congreve and the ship’s captain.
The single-berth bed with its thin blanket had not been made since the child’s departure. Hawke immediately sat down on it and buried his face in the boy’s pillow, craving the sweet scent of him and trying as hard as ever he could to stifle the heartbreak that threatened. He said, “It’s him, Ambrose”—tears brimming but not spilling—“it’s Alexei. I know now that he was here.”
“Look at that wall, Alex,” Congreve said, pointing to the bulkhead above the child’s bed. It was covered with a dozen sheets of white paper that featured stick-figure drawings. One of a little boy and his dog. Another with his father, still another with both his father and mother . . . the very same drawings they’d seen on the wall in the picture slipped beneath the door that night.
From Hawke, a sigh of profound grief.
“Sorry,” Hawke said, looking up at Congreve and trying to smile. “Bit overwhelming, that’s all.”
Congreve sat down on the bed next to Hawke and said, “Don’t be silly, Alex. You’ve every right to vent your emotions at a time like this. Captain, please take that chair. And tell me every single thing you can remember about the day Lord Hawke’s son was brought aboard this boat.”
“The general and his four men, all heavily armed, boarded us in the middle of the night, as I said. I was awakened by my first officer. He said more KGB men were on the boat. They had a young child with them, someone whom they referred to as a hostage. They said they had orders from the Kremlin to seize control of this yacht in the president’s absence. They would be staying for an indefinite period.
“The next morning, the general ordered me to set sail with no destination. Once we were in open seas, twenty miles or so from the harbor, his men ordered me and my crew, meaning the first officer, chief engineer, cook, housemaid, and a young midshipman from Kiev, to line up at the stern rail.
“They were executed, Chief Inspector, consecutive shots to the back of the head. I was waiting for the bullet. But because they needed me to drive the boat, I was spared. And then their corpses—these were friends of mine, by the way—were unceremoniously tossed overboard like so much rubbish.”
“My lord,” Congreve whispered, looking away.
“Of course, I said nothing about it, fearing for my own life. We then returned to the harbor.”
“My god,” Congreve said. “I am so sorry, Captain.”
Hawke shook his head in disgust, and said, “And tell me about Alexei, Ivor. What do you remember?”
The captain, shaken, took his seat and said, “The first thing I noticed about him was how much he looked like his father. And what a loving child he was, even in the company of these murderers.
“In the two weeks he was aboard, I insisted that every day I be allowed to walk up on deck with him, so that he got some sunshine and fresh air. I found an old rubber ball someone had left aboard long ago, and we would stand up on the upper deck and toss it back and forth . . . He had the most wonderful smile.”
Congreve looked over at Hawke. “Captain, we’d like to hear more later. I’d like to know everything you saw and heard from your captors. Every radio communication, every whispered conversation. Every detail you observed in the days preceding our arrival.”
“Of course, Chief Inspector. They had so little respect for me, they were not very careful about what they said and did in my presence.”
“Excellent news,” Congreve said, with a smile to Hawke.
“Thank you, Ivor,” Alex said, reaching over to shake the man’s hand. “Thank you so very much, sir, for your kindness to my son. And your bravery in the face of Ivanov. I won’t forget this, sir.”
Congreve saw that his friend’s sadness had been replaced by a smile, the exact same smile that his son wore on his face every day of his young life.
That wonderfully beatific smile.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Hawke stood in the darkness, looking down at the sleeping man in the frilly pink nightgown.
The fellow’s chest, having been subsumed by his belly, was rising gently and rhythmically. His snoring made him sound as if he had a mouthful of feathers, like the cat who’s just eaten the canary.
“Time to wake up, ladies,” Hawke said, smiling in spite of himself.
“Wha—”
“I said, it’s time to wake up, Hugo. Now.”
“Go way . . . sleeping . . .”
Hawke had a half-full bottle of expensive champagne, Krug, in his hand. Holding
the mouth of the bottle somewhere in the neighborhood of the Frenchman’s yawning orifice, he upended the carafe. The contents poured into his mouth, overflowing and gagging him.
“Fuck! Fuck!” he sputtered, kicking his tiny feet in the air.
“This is what they call waterboarding Riviera style, Hugo. Don’t worry, it’s going to get worse.”
“Alex?”
“That’s what they call me.”
“Hell are you doing? I thought we were friends. Are you crazy?”
“Yeah, I’m crazy, all right.”
Hawke fished in his trousers pocket for his old steel Zippo lighter. There was a single candle on the bedside table, a tall taper in a silver candleholder. He lit it.
“How the hell did you get in my apartment? I locked all the doors . . .”
“I’m an English spy, Hugo. Spy. It’s what I do. Be careful, this might hurt.”
“What do you want—ow! What the fuck—”
“I’m going to continue dripping hot wax on your face until I see your feet hit the floor. Take your time . . . I’m rather enjoying this. Stick out your tongue for me.”
“Jesus Christ, Alex! For god’s sake, stop this insanity!”
“I will. When you get out of the bed, take off your pretty little nightie, and put your big-boy clothes on . . . I’m waiting. Oops, that one went in your eye, didn’t it?”
“All right! I’ll get up, for crissakes . . . Jesus.”
Hugo swung his short fat legs over the side of the bed and sat up, trying to wipe the hot red wax from his face. He’d gone to bed drunk. Had he insulted Hawke down in the bar? He couldn’t remember . . .
“Good boy. Your clothes are in a pile on the floor in the bathroom. But you’re going to need a heavy overcoat. The storm has worsened and the temperature is dropping . . . could get nippy out there, Hugo.”
“Out there? Why the hell are we going outside? You want to talk about something? Let’s talk here. I’ll get someone to bring up a bottle of whiskey from the kitchen and—”
“No, no, Hugo, you don’t understand. We’re going on a nice long boat ride.”