by Ted Bell
“Yes, of course. I’m already on it, Chief.”
Hawke smiled. “As if I had any doubt . . .”
Congreve dabbed his chin with his white linen napkin and got his first pipe of the day going. He then regarded his friend for a few moments before speaking. A sea change had occurred. Hawke’s blue eyes were clear and untroubled. His strong jaw was once more jutting out like the fierce prow of some great warship. The tension in his musculature seemed to be melting away, and there was a clear and visible return of the intense warrior spirit so sadly diminished by the pain of his son’s kidnapping.
The two friends were having a quick breakfast outside on the Belle-Rives’s stone-flagged terrace. Quite early on that sunny Sunday it was, and bright sparkles of gold danced in attendance out on the incoming parade of wavetops.
Stoke, Brock, and Sharkey, meanwhile, were upstairs in the hotel, finishing up packing all of the team’s gear for departure. The three of them were Miami bound, catching the first thing smoking out of Nice. The other two, Hawke and Congreve, would be aboard the high-noon flight of Hawke Air back to Switzerland, departing in a little over an hour.
The prior night’s fierce storm front had moved on. Fleeing to the south, it had carried with it every trace of morning cirrus cloud and sticky humidity; the famously clear blue Riviera skies were beaming down on the town of Juan-les-Pins.
“Lovely day for it,” Hawke said, smiling up at the sun while stretching his long legs out before him. Miraculous, but for the first time in a very long time, he’d felt great surges of hope welling up in his heart. Alexei is alive, and you will find him, his heart was whispering to his ear. And he believed it.
He had good reason to be happy. The trip to the Côte d’Azur had yielded a great deal of fruit, and he congratulated himself on his solid instincts about coming here. There were still many challenges ahead. As Churchill had once so wisely said, “Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is perhaps the end of the beginning.
“Well, I must say, Alex. You’re certainly in a jolly way this morning. Whatever went on out there in the dark seems to have had a most salubrious effect on the psyche.”
“We got what we came for,” Hawke said, his prominent chin jutting forward once more, the man full of energy and determination. “We’ve got the villains in our sights now, Ambrose. They’re running out of room to hide.”
“Speaking of hiding, where is Monsieur Jadot now, Alex? I’d like to interrogate that duplicitous toad myself before we leave.”
“Up in his room, I believe. Not feeling well. Swallowed a great deal of seawater, apparently. Under very mysterious circumstances. A midnight swim of some sort. Enhanced interrogation can ruin your day, as the murderous sons of bitches at Gitmo used to whine.”
“Good. The little cretin deserves worse for his betrayal of your valued friendship. Have a croissant. They’re delicious.”
“Trying to quit, old warrior,” Hawke said, polishing off his last bit of poached egg. “Carbs. Who needs them?” Despite his current travails, Hawke maintained an extreme fitness program, one identical to his Royal Navy regime of exercise and diet. Whenever he could, he swam six miles in open ocean every day.
“So you finally got the fat little hotelier to spill les haricots vert, did you?” Congreve said, slathering a bit of orange marmalade on his croissant. “The beans? I assume you must have, based on your somewhat boisterous disposition this morning.”
“Indeed, I did, Constable! I know I dissuaded you from coming along last night, for your own safety, but I really wish you’d been there. By the time Mr. Jones and I were done keelhauling the little bastard a few times, we had him up on the bow, singing like a cage full of canaries.”
“I only hope his avian playlist provided relevant information as well as musical entertainment.”
Hawke laughed out loud. “Avian playlist? Is that what you said?”
“Every now and then, my boy, every now and then. Now, pray tell me what you’ve learned.”
“You will recall that, up on the bridge, Captain Ivar Solo said he’d overheard a heated radio conversation between a screaming Ivanov and someone on the line who went by the name of Joe?”
“I do recall that, yes.”
“Well, you’re going to like this development, Constable. The name struck a chord with me when I heard it, and now I know why. As it turns out, this Joe that Ivanov was so furious with is none other than our old friend Uncle Joe from our time in Siberia.”
“No. Putin’s former right-hand man is back?”
“He is indeed. He has somehow rehabilitated himself in the eyes of the Russian president. Restored to power, as it were. This is the Joe that Ivanov was screaming at on the bridge radio. Putin’s old henchman is back on the world stage. Working for Putin on something Hugo says is code-named Operation Overkill.”
“Good intel, Alex. But Uncle Joe betrayed Putin. That’s treason, by dint of helping you and me and Colonel Beauregard escape Russia. Sentenced to death. I’m surprised he’s still alive. Much less that Putin would actually have him back.”
“They seem to have kissed and made up. That’s all I can say.”
“You’re finally convinced Putin is still with us?”
“I’m convinced Volodya is alive and plotting a return to power. Where is he? No idea. But we’re going to find out where Uncle Joe is. And I’ll wager that’s where I’ll find Putin. And that, Ambrose, is where I will find my one and only child, my beloved Alexei.”
“Hmm, as I recall, you gave Uncle Joe a one-way first-class ticket to Los Angeles the night we all cleared out of Russia. And promised to introduce him to your friends in the Hollywood community.”
“Good memory, Constable. On the assumption that he used that ticket, first thing this morning, I called my friend Brick Kelly at Langley. Told him we may have a live one in Putin, after all, and that a bloke named Joe Stalingrad in L.A. may be able to tell us why. And where the hell he’s hiding. Brick’s on it. He said he’d call me shortly with an intel update.”
A half hour later, Hawke was up in his third-floor suite, baggage in hand, headed for the door and the airfield, when the bedside phone jangled.
“Hawke,” he said, putting the receiver to his ear. He heard the familiar Virginia drawl of the tall Jeffersonian figure who headed the CIA.
“Alex, it’s Brick. We’re encrypted, so speak freely. First. How are you holding up? Hanging in there?”
“Better this morning. I learned a lot last night. Putin hasn’t been anywhere near his yacht. But, I’ve got hope.”
“Can’t wait to hear what you extracted. But let me tell you where we are on this Uncle Joe character of yours. I assigned Special Agent James Steck in the L.A. station to his case. One of our very best men. Ex–Special Forces, three tours. Crack shot. Speaks fluent Russian, majored in Russian history at the University of Michigan. I’m texting you a photo of Steck’s early, very preliminary report. First of all, the guy now calls himself Joe Stalingrad. He’s in the movie business at CAA, bit parts in low-budget films. Or was until recently. Agent Steck just completed sifting his apartment on Melrose. He left a computer that he’d taken a hammer to . . . we’re looking at it. But he’s gone all right, Alex. Next-door neighbor says she hasn’t seen him around for two weeks.”
“Is Steck going to see his employer? CAA?”
“He’s all over that. He also found a recent bank statement in the apartment. Wells Fargo on La Cienega. He’s going to interview the manager this morning, guy named Larry Krynsky.”
“All good. Tell me something, Brick. Where would Putin go? Because wherever he is, that’s where Joe is going.”
“Someplace safe. Completely safe. You’ve pretty much ruled out his yacht, I take it?”
“Right. So. Where might he be?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. I have no idea. He’s on very thin ice. A lot of people out there who’d like to see him dead.”
Hawke thought, Right, Brick, a
nd I’m standing at the head of that line.
“Joe has Alexei, Brick. They were keeping him aboard Tsar. I just missed him by twenty-four hours. Another thing—I got one other great piece of intel out of Jadot. The name of the Russian yacht that brought Joe to the Côte d’Azur. I assume that’s where he first took Alexei.”
“Terrific. I’ll get the chief of the Nice CIA station on that track right now. What’s the name again?”
“She’s called Troika. Dark green hull. Two hundred feet plus.”
“Did you get the hailing port?”
“Sevastopol. That’s all I’ve got.”
“You got plenty, Alex. Good work. So now Joe’s got Alexei. The really good news is that you did Joe Stalingrad a huge favor once. Saved him from the wrath of Putin and helped him get out of Russia and a start in L.A. He owes you one, buddy, big league, as the president would say.”
“Believe me, I’m aware of that.”
“You know I go up to that little chapel in McLean every Sunday morning? St. Paul’s. Just want you to know that you two guys are in my prayers.”
“Thanks. But I’m getting close. I am the one who’s going to save him, Brick. Not god.”
“Do me a favor, tough guy. Let god help.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Skies over the Alps
“Wherever are we going, Uncle Joe?” the little boy said between spoonfuls of chocolate mint ice cream. Joe smiled. They’d disembarked from Putin’s pal’s yacht Troika at dawn. The boss had a little PJ waiting for them on the tarmac at Marseille aeroport. He’d loved this kid on sight. Hell, he loved all kids. But this kid was something special.
A bright light shone in his big blue eyes, one that spoke volumes to Joe.
Keen intelligence, great natural curiosity about the world and everything in it. And maybe the best part, a sense of humor always lingering in the background, delighting in the company of a born comedian like Joe himself. Close? Yeah, you could say that. Two coats of paint, this close.
“To the most beautiful place in all the world, Alexei, Switzerland. Look out your window. See those mountains down there? Isn’t it pretty?” Uncle Joe asked him.
“What’s that ginormous tall one with all the snow, Uncle Joe?”
“Very famous mountain. It’s called the Jungfrau.”
“Can we go there? Do they have ice cream there? On the Jungfrau, I mean?”
“You know I won’t go anywhere unless I know they have ice cream. I mean, like, even to the bathroom.”
Alexei giggled, “You are funny, Uncle Joe. My uncle Stokely is funny, but not as funny as you!”
In accordance with Putin’s latest instructions, Joe had assumed all responsibility for the young kidnap victim. After the rendezvous at sea with the Russian mega-yacht Troika, Joe now had assumed permanent custody of Alex Hawke’s son. Any fears Putin had held that the child might have suffered mistreatment at the brutal hands of General Sergey Ivanovich Ivanov, aka Der Wolf, could be allayed.
The seven-year-old boy was, like his father, extraordinarily beautiful. Same unruly head of jet-black hair, same jutting chin, same Arctic blue eyes. He seemed fit, well fed, and given the circumstances of his captivity and the horrific separation from his father, remarkably cheerful.
Joe, who was unabashed about his admiration for Alex Hawke (except around Putin), could see a good deal of the father already beginning to take hold in the son. High spirits, humor, quickness of mind and action, charm, the love of living dangerously, and a readiness for anything.
Joe attributed the child’s good fortune to Putin’s skipper aboard Tsar, Captain Ivar Solo. The man had not only protected Alexei from his thuggish captors, he’d made sure the child was both happy and healthy. And felt cared for.
“So, we’re going to Switzerland?”
“We are, kid. Are you happy?”
“Sort of . . . My father took me to St. Moritz for Christmas. Are you taking me back to my daddy, Uncle Joe? Please say yes! I had fun on the big red boat, I really did, but I miss my father. I pray for him every night, you know.”
“I’m sure he misses you too Alexei. You’ll see him again, don’t worry. Maybe not right away, but soon. Okay? He’s a friend of mine, you know?”
“Is he really?”
“Sure he is. Your pop is a swell guy in my book, Alexei, just swell!”
“I . . . guess so. Now I’m sad.”
“You are? It’s hard to be sad when you’re eating ice cream, isn’t it?”
“I guess so.”
“Why are you sad?”
“I miss Daddy an awful lot, you know. But I also miss Captain Solo. He was fun. He gave me no end of treats too, just like you.”
“Would you like some more?”
“No, thank you. Well, what about Captain Ivar . . . Will I see him ever again?”
“You liked the captain, didn’t you?”
“Better than the Russian who looked like a bear in a chair. He was mean. Always yelling at people. Hitting them, too. You know what? I saw him slap somebody! Right on his face! But Captain Ivar was always nice to me!”
“Aren’t I nice, too?” Uncle Joe said.
“You seem very nice. And sorta funny too, but in a different way, I mean. But I haven’t known you very long.”
“I’ll grow on you, kid, believe me. Back in America, I’m a movie star, you know.”
“You are? A real movie star? Like Harry Potter?”
“Well, Harry Potter’s not actually a star, per se. He’s the character in—”
“I love Harry Potter! He’s my favorite!”
“Right. But I’m an actual star, see? I’ve got a DVD of my latest picture, called Little Patton. I’ll show it to you when we get to Seegarten tonight if you like. Maybe have some popcorn, too.”
“So . . . a movie, huh? You play a good guy? Or a bad guy, Uncle Joe?”
“Bad guy, of course.” Joe laughed. “Look at me! Do I look like a good guy?”
“Well . . . you sure look like a nice guy, Uncle Joe. To me, I mean.”
Joe was silent. It took a lot to move him. But the kid had him choked up.
“What’s a Seegarten?” Alexei said after a few moments.
“It means a house on the water. In German, I think. It’s on an island. On a great big lake called Lake Zurich. Look! You can already see it, way down there! That island house with mountains in the distance and lots and lots of land and green grass and flower gardens all around. You can play outside every day with my dog, Laika.”
“Laika. That’s a funny name for a dog, isn’t it?”
“It’s Russian. Laika was the name of the first Soviet space dog. She was the first to be fired into orbit and very, very famous.”
“A dog went up in space?”
“Laika did. Pretty brave dog, huh?”
There was a short burst of static on the little Bombard jet’s PA system and then the captain said, “Starting our descent now, Mr. Stalingrad. We’ll be on the ground at Zurich in less than fifteen minutes.”
“Buckle up, Alexei,” Joe said.
“You betcha,” he replied.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Oxfordshire, England
The two friends sat alone in the spacious cabin of the big Gulfstream jet. Having dropped off Stokely, Harry Brock, and Sharkey at the Aeroporto de Nice, where they were catching an early-morning Air France nonstop back home to Miami, they’d driven to the far side of the field. There was their Hawke Air flight on the tarmac, engines running, gleaming in the sun.
“Here, Alex,” Congreve said, reaching across the aisle with a thick portfolio tied with string.
“What is it?” Hawke said.
“That new timeline you asked for, dear boy, a dossier. I daresay you’ll find it good reading. I began building a dossier the very evening of Alexei’s abduction. I’ve included therein every scrap of information, every scintilla of evidence gathered by the Yard and the CIA, Interpol, Swiss Polizei, as well as every fact, every fable, every
far-flung surmise I could devise.”
“Wonderful of you,” Hawke said, smiling. “Splendid, in fact. Why’d you wait so long to apprise me of its existence?”
“It wasn’t complete until events recorded during our sojourn in the South of France. Here, there are three copies. That one is for you. The second I plan to give to Sir David Trulove at our MI6 debrief tomorrow morning. The other one is for me to use in a debriefing I’ve scheduled with the lads at Scotland Yard tomorrow afternoon. I thought it the most propitious and expeditious way for us to bring everyone up to speed on our progress on the case thus far.”
“A lot of work went into this, Constable. I appreciate it.”
“Never have I taken a case more seriously than this one, I assure you.”
“You must be excited to be getting home to Diana and Brixden House.”
“Oh, I am, very much so. One feels home reaching out for one with long, beckoning fingers. And a wind soughing about the eaves moaning, ‘Come to me . . .’” Hawke just sat and stared at his old friend for what seemed an eternity.
He said, “That’s almost poetic, didn’t know you had it in you. By the way, I forgot to tell you that I have arranged for Pelham to retrieve us at Heathrow upon arrival. I hope you’ll let me give you a lift. I can easily drop you off en route to Hawkesmoor.”
“Lovely. I was just about to ask the copilot to put me through to Brixden House to make arrangements. Here’s a thought, Alex. Diana always has the kitchen prepare a homecoming feast for me whenever I manage to return alive from a mission abroad. Why don’t you join us? Pelham can drop you off, continue homeward with the luggage and gear, and I’ll spirit you homeward in the Yellow Peril after supper.”
“Don’t tell me that old heap is still up and running. I wouldn’t be caught dead in that thing.”