by Ted Bell
“Indeed, sir.”
Hawke smiled at the elderly gent and said to Sir David, “Where’s Ambrose, sir?”
“Went to the gents,” the chief of MI6 muttered. “He’s right behind you.”
“Oh, hullo, Alex,” Ambrose said.
“Oh, hullo, Constable,” Hawke replied, standing up to shake his friend’s proffered hand. Congreve, in a cheery mood apparently, executed a snappy salute instead, and said, “Welcome aboard, Commander.”
“Oh, no need to salute, gentlemen, I’ll be on the bridge all afternoon!”
It was an old line, delivered in the manner of a puffed-up popinjay of a Royal Navy flag officer. But it always made the boss laugh, nor did it fail this time. Sir David, in a positive change of mood moderated by gin, said, “Aren’t you two the cheeriest of chaps today, Alex? What have you been up to, dear boy? The investigation is obviously going well. Making good progress, are we?”
“Oh, this and that, sir. I’ll tell you about it later.
“I’ve just watched a video of Alexei, sir. My child is safe, sound, and about as happy a boy as ever I’ve seen. He’s obviously being very well cared for. God, the relief after all this time of anxiety . . . I really can’t express it.”
Sir David broke into a wide grin and said, “Well, well, that is splendid news indeed! I’m very happy for you. It’s been a nightmare. Splendid news! Isn’t it, Chief Inspector?”
“Good lord, how wonderful, Alex! May I see the video? Can you get a sense of place from it? Who his captors are?”
“We’ll go to the Library after lunch. I’ll show it to both of you on the telly then. I can’t tell you how relieved I feel . . . I don’t know . . . boulders off my shoulders, as we used to say at Eton.”
“Marvelous, marvelous,” Trulove chimed in. “Now, do sit back down and order a drink, Alex. A toast to Alexei’s health, shall we?”
“Indeed we shall, sir,” Hawke said, signaling to the hovering Digby. “You two were early, I take it?”
“Yes,” Sir David said. “The chief inspector and I just happened to run into each other at Lobb’s shoe emporium. We decided to stroll over here a bit early, seeking reviving liquid sustenance from the bar. Don’t worry, Alex, we’ve not been talking about you. Ambrose has merely been supplying further details about the terrifying attempt on the life of your old friend Mr. Jones.”
“So you know all about it, Sir David? I was going to give you the particulars.”
“I do. And, Congreve and I are in full agreement as to who was responsible. Isn’t that right, Chief Inspector?”
“Right you are, Sir David,” Congreve said, sitting back and getting his pipe going. “Alex, I heard via morning dispatches at Scotland Yard that the two men responsible for the attempted murders have been positively identified by the Miami-Dade police. A vile pair of Cuban DGI assassins, under the direct control of KGB in Havana. Cisco and Rodrigo Valdes. Twin brothers, they were, quite infamous for their butchery, apparently, and known throughout the Caribbean as Los Medianoches.”
Trulove said, “Your friend Stokely did all of us at Six and CIA a great favor by taking one brother out, Alex. We’ve been after those two bastards for years. I had my man in Havana, intel officer Mario Mendoza, run a skip trace on their communications prior to their arrival at Key West. A call from a KGB splinter cell initiated the action.”
“So,” Hawke said, wearily, “it’s Putin after all, is it?”
“I’ll just say this. We have no proof of his involvement, nor even, apart from an unverified phone call that CIA picked up, if he’s still alive. None. But the consensus of my inner circle on the Albert Embankment is that, most likely scenario, he’s simply disappeared until the Kremlin heat on him eases up a bit. But now he may be back, ready to surface.”
“So the attempt on Stokely’s life was a shot across my bow . . .”
“I’m afraid so, Alex. If it’s Putin, and I for one think it most likely is, he knows you’re getting close. His strategy being, and obviously this is not the first time, to keep you at arm’s length while he executes his nefarious plans. Even though Stokely survived and was able to take one of his two would-be assassins off the board, it was a clear signal aimed directly at you. Stay away. Your son is not safe. Your friends are not safe. You are not safe, Alex. That’s what your old friend is telling you. He is saying, ‘Beware.’”
“I am only too aware of that fact, Sir David,” Hawke said. “That’s precisely why I’ve got to find Alexei! Before that son of a bitch can get his hands—”
“Alexei will come into play only as a last resort, Alex,” Congreve said. “They won’t move against the boy, not now, not until Putin’s out of viable options. Hence going after your friends, not you. Hence your video this morning. He doesn’t want you breathing down his neck in a state of high anxiety. No, no. He wants you lulled into security.”
“Meaning?” Hawke said.
“Meaning Stokely is still breathing. They were not satisfied with taking Mr. Gonzales-Gonzales out.”
“And what about you, Ambrose? If they’ll go after Stokely, then they obviously will—”
“Me? Oh, I’m quite sure my name appears on a Putin shit list somewhere. All we can do is be extraordinarily careful until we get to the bottom of this whole thing.”
“He must have something big to hide, then, Sir David,” Alex said, catching his superior’s pale blue eyes. “Going after my friends . . . this is virgin territory, even for Putin.”
“We’re just starting to get a sense of what he’s up to. My deepest, darkest Kremlin mole believes he’s still alive and plotting a military coup to regain power. He still has a lot of loyal support at the highest echelons of the Kremlin and the Russian military. And more important, the hard core of the KGB, the older boys, what we call the ‘old wood,’ will stand with him no matter what he does . . .”
“Sir David, if I may. What is the mood inside the Kremlin walls?”
“Divided. Sometimes I think I know exactly what they’re all thinking. Other times I feel like I’m wandering around like a fucking pirate with two eye patches.”
“Excellent image, Sir David,” Congreve chuckled.
Trulove, who mistrusted compliments, gave him a look. “Yes,” he said, “there are those who supported the oligarchs’ ousting of Putin in the coup. And there are beginning to be more and more who are disaffected by the new regime. The oligarchs are ruthless, as you well know. Now insulated by the overwhelming power they possess, their wrath knows no bounds. The Kremlin is full of formerly powerful ministers now constantly looking over their shoulders for would-be assassins.”
“Putin will no doubt find a way to add fuel to that fire, sir. And the Russian public at large?”
“As you might expect, they long for Putin’s return. He is still a great hero to them. The man who stands up for them in the world. In a fight, they’d side with the man, no doubt.”
“I imagine the oligarchs have legions of killers out looking for him.”
“Indeed. My source believes Putin disappeared only out of fear for his life. That’s what he wanted everyone to believe. But he has much grander ambitions. He’s spent all this time in hiding plotting away. The disappearance was just to give him a cover story while he marshaled his forces. His next big move? I don’t know.”
Ambrose said, “Perhaps a counter-coup? Is that really what the hell he’s up to, Sir David?”
“Maybe,” Sir David said. He lit his Morland gold-tipped cigarette and added, “You two remember a certain Colonel Beauregard, Alex? That rather outlandish chap from Texas?”
Chapter Sixty-One
“Beau? Good lord!” Hawke said. “Remember him? How could I ever forget that fellow? I actually came to admire the chap before it was all over. His morals are a mite shaky, but he’s got the strength and heart of a lion, Sir David. I’ve always wondered where he disappeared to.”
“Well, wherever he’s been, he’s back, apparently. Been living in a hotel on Lake Geneva fo
r the last month or so. Living it up. Round-the-clock prostitutes and room service. Someone else is footing the hotel bills, Alex. And I think we could both guess who that might be. The colonel is flat broke. He’s been living on and off his yacht in Bermuda, the only thing that remains of his old life. Sold everything else: the beach house in Costa Rica, the G5, the cattle ranch in Texas, and now he’s living on the proceeds. A watch collection worth over half a million . . . automobiles, horses, whatever he had.”
“Beauregard working for Putin? Again? I very much doubt it, Sir David. He burned that bridge long ago, when Ambrose and I were last in Siberia. Betrayed Putin to help Ambrose and Stoke and me get out of Russia alive. Surprised the KGB never caught up with him.”
“Alex, think about it. Putin is bent on revenge. He desperately wants to return to power. How many men on earth do you know who could put together a massive private army, tank corps, air wing, arm them, train them for a swift and deadly blitzkrieg military strike? Something truly shock and awe? You could do it, Alex. You and Stokely and your two soldiers of fortune Thunder and Lightning down in Costa Rica. But who else? Anyone come to mind?”
Hawke shook his head. The man was right. Beauregard was certainly one of a kind.
“May I have one of your cigarettes, Sir David?”
“Certainly. Do you take my point, Alex?”
“I do. If Volodya’s planning something of that magnitude, say, mounting a military coup in Moscow, he would have to forgive and forget Beauregard’s treachery. He would be forced to. He’d also offer him so much money, the colonel wouldn’t be able to refuse. Enough to guarantee his loyalty this time around.”
“Yes. We’re all on the same page. Remember Uncle Joe, Alex?” Trulove asked.
“One of the most memorable characters I’ve ever met in my life,” Hawke said. “As you’ll soon see for yourself on Alexei’s video, Uncle Joe is most definitely back in the picture.”
“Meanwhile, have a look at this picture,” Sir David said, handing Hawke an eight-by-ten black-and-white photo. It was a hotel lobby, full of people coming and going.
“A hotel,” Hawke said, and looking up at the white-jacketed barman, added, “I think I need another drink. Gosling’s Black Seal, if you please, neat.”
Congreve sat forward and said, “Look at the queue waiting at the front desk. The second man in line, specifically.”
“No.”
“Yes. It’s definitely Uncle Joe, Alex,” Congreve said. “He’s wearing a fedora, but you can’t mistake that stocky little build . . . and that nose.”
“It’s him, all right. What hotel is it again?”
“The Beau-Rivage in Geneva,” Trulove supplied. “The very hotel where Colonel Beauregard has been ensconced in the penthouse for this last month.”
“Putin is reassembling his old team,” Congreve said, bright lights going on all over the myriad regions of his vast brain. “The game is afoot, Sir David.”
“Indeed it is,” Sir David said. “And now the question is, where and when and how does this bloody game manifest itself? Where’s Putin going to find the resources to fund and mount a full-scale military operation against such an entrenched enemy as the oligarchs in Moscow? He’s still rich, to be sure. But billions? No. He’s going to need more than one of Beauregard’s legendary mercenary armies. He’s going to need fighter aircraft, he’s going to need bloody tanks and artillery, for heaven’s sake! Alex, what are you thinking? You’ve got that look in your eyes again.”
Hawke said, “What? Oh, yes, sorry. I was just thinking that no one’s going to give him the damn money. Hand him billions? No. So . . . his only alternative . . . is to steal it. So, who’s got all the money, Sir David? The Americans. The Germans and Chinese . . . the Saudis . . . did I leave anyone out?”
“The Swiss?” Ambrose said, with a wily smile. “They’ve all that and more. Seventy percent of the world’s gold reserves are hidden away beneath those Alps. But I ask you why, Alex? You know Putin better than anyone. Why not just sail away on the big red yacht of his? Leave the damn world in your wake and get on with living the good life?”
“I’ll tell you why, gentlemen,” Hawke said. “Two reasons, really. One, he’s got a price on his head, probably a massive number. It’s awfully difficult to hide oneself whilst sailing around the world on a big red yacht. Two is that massive bloody ego of his. Because he sees himself as the bloody Comeback Kid, that’s why. He’s down . . . but he’s never, ever out. He ruled Russia with an iron fist. Seized Crimea, probably the Ukraine and the Baltics soon.”
“Has he no fear of a revitalized America?” Trulove asked. “A strong president investing untold billions to rebuild her weakened military, a powerful leader who will brook no nonsense from the bad actors out there? Witness Kim Jong Un . . . aka Little Rocket Man.”
“Oh, I think he has some trepidation, yes, but now he sees a once-in-a-lifetime chance to cement his place in history! Standing shoulder to shoulder alongside his two great heroes, Caesar and Napoleon. Caesar at his height of power, Napoleon at his finest hour. The Corsican Giant, escaping his miserable exile at Alba for his triumphant return to Paris, with his army massed behind him, ready to destroy anything that gets in his path. France, bow down! That’s how he sees his future . . . Russia, bow down!”
“The scary thing,” Congreve mused, puffing away at his ancient briar pipe, “is that he might actually be able to pull it off. You’re right, the new American president won’t like it much . . . or will he? A destabilized Russia might be just the tonic for him . . . hmm . . . after all the hacking and meddling in U.S. politics by the Russkies?”
“He just might move the mountain,” Hawke said, thinking it through. “With the help of men like Beauregard, Uncle Joe, his many high-ranking loyalists in the KGB, military, not to mention the hard-core followers he’s amassed at the top of the KGB, now desperate for his return to power . . . Yes, I can see it, if he can find the money. He could do it.”
“With the majority of the Russian people behind him, he most certainly could, Alex,” Sir David said. “That is, unless and until someone like you puts a bullet in his fucking head.”
“Wait. Can I put one in Kim Jong Un’s head first?”
Ambrose took a sip of his whiskey and smiled at Hawke. “No free lunch, dear boy, no free lunch!” he said.
“Tell me about it,” Hawke replied. “Let’s order some lunch. I’m famished.”
Chapter Sixty-Two
Zurich
“Sometimes I get so goddamn bored I kill folks just for practice,” Shit Smith was saying. “I mean, you know, just for the sheer fuck-all of the thing.”
Joe just stared at him. Thinking how much he looked like that movie star Sam Shepard. If looks could kill, he was thinking.
Shit and Uncle Joe were in Zurich, in the Altstadt, sitting at a corner table in a dark bar getting solidly beer drunk on a cold, drizzly Sunday afternoon. Shit had his chair rocked back on two legs, cowboy style, sitting there paring his nails with his ivory-handled bowie knife. Joe was thinking, That’s an awfully big knife for doing your nails. Total overkill, that was, face it, the Shit Way.
“Sorry?” Uncle Joe said, all ears now. Kills for practice, this psycho friend of his says?
“Yeah. Let that little beauty sink in, pards,” Shit said, lighting a soggy old stogie and cackling to himself. “I was married once, y’know. To a Russian woman. Met her when I was CIA in East Berlin. Ilsa? Elsa? Something like that. Anyhoo, I put up with her crap for, what, mebbe ten years before I had to kill her. Judge ruled it a crime of passion. Asked me what I had to say. I said there wasn’t no passion to it. Said I’d been wanting to kill me a woman since way back afore I can even remember.”
“Jeez, I dunno, Shit. I just don’t know about that.”
“Ask you a question,” Shit said, “serious question. You ever been to Pirates of the Caribbean?”
“You mean the Johnny Depp movie? Sure.”
“No, not the fuckin’ movie, Joey!�
��
“Oh. You mean, like, the ride at Disney World? You’re talking about Orlando?”
“Exactly. Orlando. Armpit of the country.”
“Never have, sorry to say, Shit. Sounds exciting, though. Pirates. The Caribbean. You know. Good stuff.”
“Huh. Well, guess what, Uncle Joe. For your information, killing child molesters? Mass murderers? And nasty fucking Russian women? Trying to convince you you’re an alcoholic? Or worse yet, early onset Alzheimer’s? See you next Tuesday! Hell, that beats the living shit out of that damn Disney Pirates ride! Beats it all to hell and back, Joe. And I mean you can take that straight to the bank, little buddy.”
Uncle Joe just sat there and stared at that crazy sumbitch cowboy. Trying hard as he could to come up with a snappy comeback . . .
As sometimes happened, Joe found he could supply no further dialogue at the moment.
The big meeting was tomorrow, Monday morning. The first assembly of the loyalists, newly arrived from Moscow. Joe and the Colonel would be briefing the members on the president’s grand mission.
The mission Putin called Operation Overkill.
“Hey,” Joe said, quaffing his libation, “you want me to introduce you tomorrow morning at the big show? Get you up on the stage, get you in the spotlight, brother. I see you all in black . . . a bullwhip in your hand, silver spurs on the Tony Lamas and—”
Shit Smith looked at Joe like he was plumb crazy. “The spotlight?” he said. “Are you out of your fucking mind? I’m a hired killer. Hired killers stay in the shadows, not in the fucking spotlight!”
“Good point,” Joe conceded, thinking maybe he’d had one or two too many icy steins of lager at this point. Order some food, maybe?
This joint was a bierstube, Joe had told Shit, what you called a bar in German. It was in the Altstadt, the oldest neighborhood in Zurich. They’d decided to get the hell out of Falcon’s Lair on this cold and drizzly Sunday afternoon in early February. Freaking claustrophobic, Joe told Shit.