Patriot

CHAPTER 18

After dinner, Hawke stretched back against the faded red cockpit cushions. He lit a Cohiba Torpedo with his old steel Zippo, puffing to get it fully lit. There was a slight chill in the air, that cold front moving in from the west. Unfortunately for his dinner plans, it had begun to rain during the first course, misty and light, but steady, and he was grateful to Pelham for rigging the overhead canopy from the boom. The sound of soft rain drumming on taut canvas above had always soothed him.

And, since this was Bermuda, the shower stopped suddenly and the late sun was shining once more. He watched Crystal pat her lips with her napkin, ever so demurely.

“Damn that spaghetti was good, darlin’,” Crystal said, sipping her bourbon neat. “You were right, Lordy, that wasn’t a mean bolognese, that was serial killer bolognese.”

During dinner her short skirt had ridden up on her tanned brown thighs, revealing a glimpse of bright lacy pink at the nexus of her long bare legs. She caught him looking and smiled. Then, turning her head this way and that to catch the late rays of the sun, she asked, “This side? Or this one? What do you think, Lordy? Which side do you think is my best side?”

“I think you’re sitting on it.”

Crystal exploded with laughter, spewing bourbon everywhere, including Lord Hawke’s pristine white linen blazer.

“You certainly give as good as you get, don’t you, buddy boy?” she said.

“Mmmm,” Hawke murmured, looking quickly away, his thoughts already elsewhere. He couldn’t help wondering if this woman aimed to get him deep in the feathers tonight. Or, if she did, if he even should. His heart was in another place, after all.

The woman looked at her diamond wristwatch and said, “Oh Lordy! It’s way past my bedtime!”

His lonely heart was back in England. It was with Nell, the woman who cared for and protected his son, Alexei. It was with her that his heart had once more found some small measure of peace and solace.

“Hello? Are you in there, Lord? I asked you a question,” Crystal said.

“Sorry. I was listening to the distant cry of the seabirds. And please don’t call me ‘Lord’ or ‘Lordy,’ Crystal. My name is Alex, as I told you when we met. You sound like the Apostle John, addressing Jesus, if you must know.”

Crystal leaned forward to give him the benefit of her very unapostolic cleavage and smiled.

“The birds. Isn’t that sweet? You’re listening to the birds.”

“Yes. Lovely, isn’t it? Those are petrels, you know.”

“Petrels.”

“The Storm Petrel, to be exact. So named by ornithologists because it is always the first bird to appear as a harbinger of bad weather. The sight of petrels heralds an approaching storm, you see, to seaman everywhere.”

A brief silence fell. In that moment, she placed her hand on his thigh, stroking him with a repetitive motion that was not unwelcome. Like it or no, it had been a very long time indeed.

“So, Mr. Hawke, Alex, do I get a personal tour of this floating gin palace or not? I got more curiosity in me than a roomful of female cats in heat.”

“Ah. Lovely image. Would you like to go up forward? Brilliant view of the harbor at twilight from up there on the bow deck.”

“No. Not up forward. I’d like to go down below-ward.”

“Not much to see down below, I’m afraid. Standard-issue yacht configuration. Galley and saloon amidships, two staterooms forward, owner’s stateroom aft.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Hmm. It’s got beds somewhere, I’ll bet.”

Hawke laughed. “Well, I suppose there are a few of those down there, yes.”

“Well, hell, Lordy, let’s go get a look at them. Test out them springs.”

“Well, interesting notion, Crystal. But there is Pelham, you see, and—”

“Pelham. That old coot. Can’t you give him the rest of the night off?”

“Ah. Coot, did you say? Not really. You see, my dear woman, Pelham, that old coot, as you call him, happens to be a lifelong friend of mine, actually, and—”

Her eyes were gleaming in the candlelit gloom, soft one moment, and then hard; Crystal had turned what is sometimes referred to as a gimlet eye upon him. Not a woman who cherished criticism, apparently.

Hawke returned the stone-cold glance in kind. The woman had crossed a line. People insulted Pelham at their peril on this boat.

And, at that awkward moment, as if on cue, Pelham crystallized on deck.

“Dreadfully sorry to disturb, m’lord, but there’s a call on the encrypted ship-to-shore, sir. Caller wouldn’t give his name, I’m afraid.”

“He didn’t have to. I know who it is. Thank you, Pelham. I’m sorry, Crystal. I need to take this call. Business, you see. I shan’t be long I don’t think. Please ask Pelham for anything you need.”

She still looked awfully put out, to put it mildly.

“Swell,” she said, unable to keep the sarcastic peevishness out of her voice.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Hawke murmured under his breath, disappearing below. Women, he thought. Hell hath no fury and all that. No place for them on a small boat. You needed space, to parry and thrust… and, sometimes, to escape.

Hawke descended the wide mahogany steps and settled into the small leather chair at the nav station. It was just forward of the galley. He took a deep breath and removed the transceiver from its cradle on the radio.

“Brick,” Hawke said to the CIA director. “What’s up?”

“Bad news, m’lord,” the Virginian said, in his soft southern drawl.

“Blurt it out.”

“I will, I will, as soon as you’re sitting down, old man.”

“Sounds bad. Tell me.”

“Your late, unlamented colleague, Artemis Payne.”

“Spider? He’s dead. What about him?”

“Artemis, apparently, was not, as we both imagined, the end of the current nightmare, Alex.”

“No?”

“No. He was maybe just the beginning. Maybe Spider was working for someone besides himself. Someone who had lots of other little spiders running around.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Deadly serious, I’m afraid. You’ve heard of a Kremlin biggie named General Nastase Borkov? ‘Nasty,’ as he’s known far and wide.”

“Yeah. A very bad actor. At the very top of the pyramid, or close enough. Volodya’s right-hand man and BFF inside the Kremlin.”

“BFF?”

“Best friend forever, a rather dated expression, now.”

“What?”

“Never mind, Brick. What happened to Borkov?”

“He was spending a long weekend aboard Putin’s new yacht, Tsar, in Monte Carlo harbor. He went to the casino, got pissed on vodka cosmos, took a woman back out to the yacht. Now he’s dead. Your pal Volodya, or President Vladimir Putin, as those of us not in his inner circle call him, rang me up at 0600 this morning and — by the way — you been talking to him lately?”

“No. Not for months.”

“Well. That’s odd. He seemed to know all the details of the deaths of our two CIA officials in both Maine and Paris. And he seemed to have a working knowledge of your role in bringing the Spider matter to… closure. You and Congreve. How you two lured the killer to Bermuda and took him out at your cottage. And since we three are the only living souls who know exactly what happened that night, well, that’s why I’m naturally curious about your speaking to—”

Hawke kept his rising anger in check.

“I have not spoken to Putin, Brick. All right? I would never do that without telling you immediately. Are we clear on that?”

“Yeah, yeah. Well, be careful of what you say from now on. There might be someone close to you who shouldn’t be.”

“Thanks for the heads-up, Brick.”

“You’re welcome. Anyway, Putin was not aboard the yacht on the weekend. The chief steward found Borkov in his stateroom sometime early next morning, dead of a massive coronary. He immediately called the Kremlin. Putin, upon hearing the very familiar M.O., put two and two together and called me. Said Borkov’s death sounded suspiciously like the work of Artemis Payne. A seductress who packs a heart attack. Was his information on the recent death of Payne accurate? I told him it was. And was he correct about your role in the matter? When I told him yes, he asked me to see if you would look into the present matter, the Borkov thing. As a personal favor to him.”

“Hold on. I’m supposed to investigate the murder of a top KGB guy?”

“I can always say no. But—”

“But what? Doesn’t KGB usually clean up its own messes?”

“Listen, Alex, I’ll be honest with you. I called the president immediately after Putin hung up. Told him the facts. POTUS was adamant. He definitely wants you to do it. Rosow says he’ll call C personally and ask for MI6 assistance in getting to the bottom of this. Assistance, in this case, meaning you.”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Think about it a moment. Rosow and Putin are toe to toe over Russia’s new desire to acquire more and more real estate that used to belong to them but doesn’t anymore. Crimea and the Ukraine have made the West look like a hobbled giant. The rest of Ukraine will soon fall to the Russians and we won’t even squeal. CIA intel is that Estonia is the next item on Putin’s shopping list. He considers it already his, anyway, and he will have it. Washington is toxic these days, Alex, and our military is running on fumes. Our friends don’t trust us, and our enemies don’t fear us. I’ve never seen it this bad. And, since Rosow’s hands are tied, meaning he can hardly start World War III to prevent Vlad from doing whatever earthly hell-raising he wants to do, you appear to be the White House’s best option at the moment.”

“In what sense?”

“A fox in their henhouse, that’s you, Alex. Gather intelligence inside the Kremlin. Pick Putin clean. Feed him misinformation about NATO’s planned retaliatory war games; I don’t know specifics yet. Those I’ll need to hear from the White House. You’ll tell him he’s pissed off the wrong generals at NATO HQ. The American people have him down for a nut job. Tell him anything you want. Say that the Chinese are secretly planning to make a massive incursion across his Siberian border to lay claim to his vast lumber forests. Make it all up. You’re good at this stuff, remember?”

“What about UN sanctions? They always work.”

“Sanctions? Work? Seriously?”

“That was a joke, Brick. The synonym for joke in my book is UN sanctions. But, hold on, you went along with Rosow on this loony idea?”

“Yeah. Because the president’s right for a change. By inviting you, Putin’s handing us an opening ripe with possibilities. All good. You two have the weirdest of all historical political alliances, but you do seem to get along, correct? For God’s sake, Alex, he wants you to come over to his side! He’s open about it! This guy has no shame, no fear. You cannot make this stuff up. Even le Carre couldn’t make it up. It’s as if George Patton and Hitler were somehow secretly best buds all during the Battle of the Bulge… I mean — it’s just too offing weird to—”

“Calm down, Brick. I’ll do it. I’ll do it.”

“What? You will?”

“Putin saved my son’s life, Brick, remember? When Anastasia gave birth to Alexei, Volodya personally stepped in and stopped some KGB tsarist goons from bashing my newborn baby’s skull against the walls of the Lubyanka Prison maternity ward.”

“You do owe him a favor, I suppose.”

“You think? I put him back on the throne. My son still has a price on his head, Brick. Because I took out the old-guard KGB’s beloved Count Korsakova, and freed Putin from his prison. Which indeed put him back on the throne. But, duty always calls, doesn’t it. Tell the president I’m in, I’ll go see Volodya. See what I can dig up.”

“Good call. The president will be delighted. He wants you at the White House so he can brief you before you go to Monte Carlo. Tomorrow evening. I’ll be there, too, to hold your hand. Oh, and by the way, President Rosow has asked that you bring your friend Chief Inspector Congreve along for the ride.”

“As in, Ambrose, the real brains of the outfit?”

“Something like that, yes. Rosow’s got a major Sherlock Holmes fetish and he knows Congreve’s a serious Sherlockian as well. So. Will Ambrose do it? Go to Monte Carlo?”

“Try and stop him. An exotic murder mystery in a famous watering hole? He lives for this stuff. Brick, you know that.”

“I’m going to send a government Gulfstream G650 over there to Bermuda to pick you two up. I’ve booked a two-bedroom suite for you two lover boys at the Hay Adams right across the street from 1600. Our meeting with POTUS is scheduled for 1800 hours tomorrow evening.”

“And transport to Monte Carlo?”

“Same G-stream smoking out of Andrews at 0700 next morning. You’ll fly to Nice. An air force chopper will meet you at a remote part of the field and ferry you over to Monte Carlo harbor. Tsar, Putin’s personal floating pussy palace, has a pad on the stern.”

“You make it sound like you think this is all going to be one big laugh riot, a fun-filled holiday.”

“You don’t?”

“Fun? I have to be honest, Brick. I’m going into this with my eyes wide open. To be serious for a moment, I have to say, something about the whole thing smells funny.”

“Everything I touch smells funny these days, Alex. It’s the way the world is right now. A big hot mess. It’s starting to stink from the core. There’s no there there, anymore. Know what I mean?”

“I worry about Alexei. Despite your attempt to portray this new adventure in the most lighthearted fashion, I am about to put myself and my family in an unusually vulnerable situation by doing this.”

“I realize that. But, just remember. Your family at least has round-the-clock security at the highest level from Scotland Yard’s Royalty Protection squad. Buckingham Palace has nothing on you. Wills and Kate should be so lucky.”

“I know. Like I said, Brick, I’m worried.”

“I don’t want you to be. You’re going to be walking a very fine line over there. I need your full attention. So, tell me. What can I do for you? What will help you?”

“I’m doing you guys a rather large favor, am I not?”

“You certainly are.”

“Thought so. I want Alexei and Nell living in the White House until this is over. Under full Secret Service protection. Round the clock. Same level as that enjoyed by the president and his family.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“You’re serious.”

“Deadly.”

“Well, what the hell. The White House. Uh, yeah, why not. I think I can arrange that.”

“It’s a deal breaker, Brick. I’m serious.”

“I trust your instincts at least as much as my own, Alex, perhaps more. Don’t worry. I’ll make it happen.”

“Good. I’ll ring Nell in London and tell her to pack up. My pilot will ferry them to Andrews AFB as soon as she’s able to put the move to Washington together. G’night, Brick.”

“They’re going to be fine, Alex.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

He hung up.

Hawke had been below at the nav station on the radio with Brick perhaps ten minutes, if that. Yet when he emerged up on deck, he saw no sign at all of Crystal. It had stopped raining, and Pelham was removing and stowing the canvas awning he had so thoughtfully rigged for the evening.

“Ah. My dinner guest?”

“No longer with us, m’lord.”

“So I see. Kidnapped, perhaps? Abducted at gunpoint?”

“She left quite voluntarily, sir.”

“Any message of farewell for the host?”

“Perhaps five minutes after you went below she took out her mobile and placed a call. Perhaps one-minute duration. Then she climbed up on the cabin top, stripped off her dress, and dove into the harbor. When last seen, she was swimming rapidly toward that large yacht out near the harbor mouth. Celestial, I believe she’s called. Quite a good swimmer, too, I would say…”

“Was she… what’s the phrase I’m looking for?”

“Naked?”

“That’s the one. Was she naked?”

“No, sir, she was not. Madame was wearing a brassiere and a pair of panties. Both pink.”

“Pink, you say? I see. I need to know these things, you understand. The… uh… details. It’s my business. And, uh, God is in them, as someone once said.”

“Certainly, sir. Seemingly meaningless details to mere mortals such as I may prove of vital importance to someone in your line of work.”

“Precisely. I’ll be back in about an hour. Please don’t wait up. Leave the dishes in the galley. I’ll wash up when I return. You go to bed, old possum. Taking my motorcycle over to Shadowlands to have a little chat with Chief Inspector Congreve. Something’s come up, you see.”

“So I inferred, m’lord. As the chief inspector is wont to say, it would seem that the game is afoot once more.”

“Do me a favor will you, old soul? Lock up tight and turn on the perimeter security system after I leave. Something about our guest this evening that didn’t quite add up.”

“I could not agree more.” Pelham sniffed. “That woman smelled to high heaven.”

“Perfume.”

“I do not refer to the lady’s perfume, m’lord.”

“That’s a bit stiff, Pelham.”

“A gentleman never hurts anyone’s feelings unintentionally, m’lord.”

Hawke smiled.

“I imagine she’ll be back.”

“I would certainly hope not, m’lord.”

“Well…”

“It is my belief that you dodged a bullet this evening.”

“Metaphorically speaking, of course?”

“Indeed not. Literally.”

“Crystal? Oh, please, Pelham. She’s simply a gay divorcée out trolling for her next husband.”

“If you insist, m’lord.”