Patriot

CHAPTER 19

The north coast road, which twisted and curved beside the dark and heaving midnight sea, was an oilslick with rain. Hawke wound up the revs. The vintage Norton Commando snarled up a steep and misty hill. Cresting it, he could see Congreve’s home spread out below like a small and twinkling village overhanging the sea. The property had been in Congreve’s wife’s family for generations and the two newlyweds were seldom happier than the times when they were in residence there.

Hawke braked at the hilltop, took in the enchanting vision below, and accelerated down the hillside. A moment later, he roared between the large stone pillars and the massive wrought-iron gates at the entrance to Shadowlands.

“Ah, there he is, now, darling,” Congreve said to his wife, Lady Diana. He put down his English newspaper, stood up, and bent to throw another log on the open fire. The couple always repaired to the library after supper, either for a game of gin rummy or quiet reading before bedtime. On a rainy night like this, there was nothing more conducive to a good night’s sleep than quiet time by the fireside before retiring.

“Who on earth, at this hour?” Diana said, looking up from her needlepoint.

“Alex Hawke. Can’t you hear his signature motorcycle growl?”

Diana made a show of looking at her wristwatch.

“Bit late for a social call, isn’t it, darling?”

“It’s not social, dear. It’s business.”

“Oh. Marvelous. What mayhem are you two up to now? You two have already engineered one bloody shootout on this island that practically destroyed his lovely cottage. Isn’t that enough excitement on this little island for one season?”

“Apparently not. He rang when you were upstairs dressing, just before dinner. There’s been another murder, apparently. Another spy bites the dust. Would you like to sit in and learn the gruesome details of the case or retire to the sanctuary of your boudoir?”

“Another murder? The latter, thank you. I’ll leave you two boy detectives to your beloved cloaks and daggers. Please do apologize to that dear man and tell him he’s invited here to dinner Thursday a week… I’m going up. Good night.”

She folded her book, rose, and drifted upstairs just as the front door gong sounded throughout the darkened rooms of the ground floor.

“I’ll get it!” Ambrose cried. No staff tonight, he’d given them all the night off as it was a Sunday evening.

“Sorry about the hour,” Hawke said, soaked to the skin, shedding his sodden leather jacket and hanging it on one of the pegs in the hall. “Couldn’t be helped,” he said, using his fists to clear the water from his eyes.

Ambrose stepped aside, ushered his friend through the door, and shut it against the raging weather. “Come along, I’ve got a roaring fire in the library. Just the thing for you.”

Hawke followed him down the wide hall hung with shadowy portraits of yore.

Ambrose plowed ahead, saying over his shoulder, “You know, it’s odd. I was just thinking at dinner that we could use a little intrigue around here. Haven’t told Diana, of course, but I’m coming down with a mild case of island fever. The floors are rising up and the walls are closing in. Even my beloved Sherlock Holmes is not providing the electric juice I crave.”

Ambrose waved his friend into the room and went straight to the drinks table. “Sit down, sit down,” he said and Hawke collapsed into the chair recently vacated by Lady Mars.

“I’ve got just the cure, Constable,” Hawke said, crossing his long legs. “How does murder sound?”

“Murder? The mere mention of the word sets the sleepy neurons alight and shocks the dormant nervous system into vibrant life once more!”

“Few men on this earth would have quite that reaction, Constable.”

“Well. More’s the pity. Murder cures a host of ills, does it not?” Congreve said, smiling at his own small attempt at wit as he poured a glass of whiskey for himself. “Tell me. Who has murdered whom. And where? And why?”

“Start with where. The murder occurred less than twenty-four hours ago in Monte Carlo.”

“Exotic locale. Good start. Who’s our victim?”

“Russian. Some kind of KGB bigwig. A general, I believe. Putin’s pal, apparently.”

“That, too, sounds marvelous. Am I invited?”

“You’re to be the lead investigator in the case. At the specific request of the president of the United States, if that name rings a bell.”

“Really?”

“That’s what Brick Kelly told me tonight. He wants your brain on the thing, apparently.”

“President Rosow is second to no one in his ability to judge the capacities of his fellow man. How delightful! When do we leave?”

“Tomorrow morning, Hawke Air, 0700. Be ready at six, I’ll pick you up. I wanted to brief you so you could sleep on it. That’s why I’m here tonight. First stop, Washington. We’re meeting with the president in the Oval Office tomorrow evening at six.”

“Have a sip of something, Alex, you’re still shivering.”

“Rum, please. Gosling’s if you’ve got it. Neat.”

“Of course I’ve got it. Lightning in a bottle. Now. Pray tell. Why on earth is the American president even remotely interested in this little murder in Monte Carlo? Say when, please.”

Hawke waited until the crystal tumbler was nearly full.

“When!” he said, and then Congreve handed him the drink. “And, thank you.… Because Vladimir Putin called the president, who called the director of the CIA, and specifically asked for you and me to investigate it. number one. Brick immediately called me. And here’s the crux. Rosow loves the notion of someone on our side getting cozy with the Russian leader at this particular moment. Tensions at a boiling point all around the world, as you well know. China, North Korea, Syria, Yemen, Iran, Saudi, Iraq, Ukraine, you name it. Frankly, I don’t know how Rosow keeps them straight.”

“With all due respect to the American president, Alex, I’m not so sure he does.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m uneasy about the position our American cousins seem to be finding themselves in lately. In fact, I would venture to say they are at their weakest state in a century or more. And Washington leaders seem to have trouble everywhere they turn, not all of it from their enemies.”

“Self-inflicted,” Hawke said, scratching the stubble on his chin.

“The military is practically being dismantled, Alex. The borders to the south are nonexistent, flooded with immigrants and spiced up with not a few terrorists. China is ascendant, Russia is on a real estate acquisition binge, the Middle East is aflame, and the Americans are setting free the worst of the worst al-Qaeda commanders from Guantanamo. I don’t get it.”

Hawke looked away, lost in thought. Then he sat forward and gazed directly at Congreve.

“You’re quite right, you know. Putin’s brazen invasions of his neighbors? Crimea and Ukraine being just the beginning? Troops massing at the Estonian border? Threatening Poland and the Czech Republic?”

“And zero response from Washington,” Congreve said, nodding his head. “Nobody’s got a hand on the tiller if you ask me.”

“Other factors as well. Look, even my friend Brick Kelly at CIA can’t bring himself to admit this. But if you don’t think this is all about politics, you’re not thinking straight. The president’s poll numbers are in the tank and the elections are coming up. He can’t seem to do anything right. Putin’s walking all over him. According to Brick, Rosow believes that if you and I can solve this high-profile murder in a timely fashion, Putin will owe him one. Thus, saving his ass.”

“A big solid, as the Americans say. Born of desperation, I’d say.”

“Yes. But how the game is played, at least from President Rosow’s perspective. Putin and POTUS will then host a show on the world stage that will make both of them look good, I imagine.”

“Incredible game, politics.”

“And we’re just scratching the surface here. God knows what is really going on.”

“So we go to Monte Carlo and nab the perp, hand him over to your pal Volodya, the newly self-elected tsar of Russia, and then what?”

Hawke took a swig of his rum and considered the question.

“Well, I’m just guessing here, of course. I’m a novice at duplicity on this level. But were it me, I would mass Russian troops and tanks on the bridge that joins Russia to tiny Estonia. Threaten imminent invasion over some trumped-up Estonian miscue or other. Maybe have my dupes fire on Russian troops. Set a deadline of twenty-four hours.”

“Then what?”

“Then the American president calls an emergency meeting of the UN Security Council. He flies to New York, goes before the council, and gives Putin a very public tongue-thrashing over his recent violations of international law. Says this American president has had just about enough of it. Draws a line in the sand. That the U.S. and its NATO allies are prepared to send troops, tanks, and warships to help tiny Estonia to defend its sacred sovereignty.”

“Gives Putin a deadline?”

“Exactly. Short and sweet. Make it tight.”

“The whole world holds its breath? Edge of their seats?”

“Right again. The two of them go off the grid somewhere and meet in secret. Let’s say, Malta. No word leaks. The press is going wild. For forty-eight hours, say. Then what?”

“Let me guess. Putin and Rosow emerge into the sunlight. They call a joint press conference somewhere, Zurich maybe, or Reykjavik, and announce that the world has gotten too dangerous for the two superpowers to push each other to the brink. Putin announces he is unilaterally pulling all his troops and weapons back from the Estonian border.”

“Correct.”

“Rosow salutes the Russian president,” Hawke said.

“Exactly. They embrace for the cameras,” Congreve said.

“Yes,” Hawke smiled. “And then?”

“And then?”

“They kiss.”

“On the lips?”

“Maybe.”

“I look forward to our meeting with your Russian friend, the Great Dictator. But something tells me this dead KGB officer is nothing more than his idea of a honey trap,” Ambrose replied. “Putin is no fool. I’m sure he has a wild card up his sleeve, Alex.”

Hawke paused a moment and said, “Yes. I suppose we simply have to play the cards we’ve been dealt and see who leaves the table a winner.”

The chief inspector expelled a long stream of blue smoke and said, “Hmm.”