Patriot

CHAPTER 29

Hawke watched carefully as Putin sat back in his blue-and-white wicker chair. He saw the Russian appraising him through narrowed eyes. For perhaps the first time since they had shared a cell in the hellish Russian prison called Energetika, he believed Putin was recalculating his measure of the Englishman he’d happily called his friend for years. Calling into question his true motives for being here aboard his yacht.

“I’m glad we understand each other, Alex. I think that’s a healthy place for us to be, don’t you?”

“To our continued good health,” Hawke said, raising his glass.

Putin matched this gesture of goodwill and said, “Now. Your turn, Lord Hawke. I want to know what you think about the big players I’ve mentioned. Where does the British government believe they now stand, politically, economically, militarily?”

Hawke said, “I agree with your assessment of Beijing. Fiercely militaristic and spending billions on defense. They’re hell-bent on twenty-first-century world dominance, and only our two nations stand in their way. But you leave out North Korea. They are the primary wild card in China’s hand. And Beijing will play that card as long and hard as they are allowed to. We are just as much to blame as you, of course. But my advice? You would do well not to play so cozy with those maniacs in Pyongyang, Volodya. It makes you look bad.”

“Ah, Alex my friend. You bring up Babyface in Pyongyang. If someone could arrange for me to have five minutes alone in a small room with that mad dwarf, that’s all I’d need. Unlike our Chinese friends, there is no love lost between Moscow and Pyongyang.”

“I hear rumors that he’s taken ill,” Hawke said.

“Let’s just say I’m working on that and leave it at that, shall we? So. China is ascendant, Russia has temporarily stalled, midair. What about the West? What about you Brits? More important, what about the Americans?”

“Descendant.”

“Really? Tell me why.”

“I’m sure I don’t have to. It would be not only impolitic but borderline treason for me to discuss the difficulties of our closest allies at this moment in time.”

“Then I’ll discuss it for you. You don’t even have to nod your head, Alex. To be honest, I was sorry to see McCloskey go. Finally an American president with a good head on his shoulders. An understanding of realpolitik. And the stomach to adjust for a rapidly evolving world. There was mutual respect there, between the two of us, for a time at any rate. Now? This new president? None. Too many blunders in too short a time in office. Eyes off the ball, as it were.”

“For instance?”

“For instance, the new American president pulls all the troops out of Iraq prematurely, despite all the sound advice of his generals to the contrary. Now, what? Now ISIS and the radical Muslim offshoots of al-Qaeda are knocking on the doors of Baghdad. The president fails to close his southern borders to thieves and murderers and empties the Cuban and American jails of the ones he’s already caught. He defunds and cripples his military every chance he gets. And yet he draws red lines in the Syrian sand that he has no intention of backing up. Yes?”

“Go on.”

“But, somehow, the Muslims, al-Qaeda, always get a pass. He opens the gates at Guantanamo and returns their most feared commanders back onto the battlefield in return for, what? A deserter? A single traitor to his own service and country. You tell me, Alex. Just what are we to make of such a man as this Rosow? A man who says global warming is his biggest fear?”

“You tell me.”

“I will be glad to. He’s in over his head, that’s what I think. Despite all his promise as vice president. He needed a couple of more years of tough seasoning under McCloskey, but that was yanked away from him by the Chinese assassin. No fault of his own, of course, merely swept along by the tides of history. Rosow realizes it, but there’s nothing he can do about it, is there? I think he’s headed for a nervous breakdown. Or an impeachment. His enemies in Congress grow restive.”

“You would appear to be pushing him in that direction, Volodya. Every chance you get you poke a stick at him. You completely humiliated him over Syria, and you’re still kicking his butt around out there. Upping the ante in the Ukraine, Estonia. Next thing he knows you’ll be marching into Poland, the Czech Republic, or Hungary. Really putting his feet to the bloody fire.”

“Bullshit, Alex. You think I base my foreign diplomacy and policy on the latest transient to inhabit the White House? Don’t be absurd. I have nothing against the man personally. Many people in Moscow find him quite congenial, very intelligent, even a brilliant statesman. I am simply pushing the agenda in my direction. If Rosow gets in my way, that’s his problem.”

“Bullshit, Volodya. Could it be more obvious? A weakened West is in your best interests. The weaker the American government and military, the stronger the Russian government and military. Especially in light of your need for ever bigger and better borders. New and improved maps of the motherland. And, more especially, in light of the newfound strength of your other quasi enemy. The Chinese. Are you quite sure you’re not having this very same conversation with your little friends in the Red Army? Seems to me you’re always hosting lavish receptions at the Kremlin for Li Xingping and his Communist puppets.”

“No comment. You may sometimes forget that you are an English spy, but I do not. But I will say this, and you can take it for what it’s worth. It’s a poor dog that cannot wag his own tail, is it not, Lord Hawke? You once taught me that old American aphorism. Tell that to the American president. We’ll continue this conversation later aboard Tsar. Now, what shall we all have for dessert? Aliana? What do you wish for, my darling?”

“Nyet, nyet,” she replied and helped herself to another slice of aspirin.

Ambrose paused in his celebration of the alluring Aliana for a moment and stole a glance at Vladimir Putin jousting with Alex Hawke. Here was, if ever there was one, a formidable adversary. Hawke might be somewhat charmed by him for the moment, temporarily under his spell, and that was dangerous ground. Putin had an odd air about him. A combination of paranoia and ruthless aggression that was a bit frightening to watch firsthand. At least Ambrose was here to keep an eye on his old friend if nothing else.

The importance of the KGB murder case in Monte Carlo seemed to be fading before Congreve’s very eyes. Nonetheless, he was very glad he’d come along. After lunch, Putin and Hawke were off on some kind of unlikely boy’s own undersea adventure or other. A new toy of Putin’s, a minisub that could accommodate three but which Congreve had wisely suggested might be more comfortable with two. Besides, he was anxious to get over to Monte Carlo and dig into the murder mystery. The case had grasped his attention despite the lack of urgency now displayed by the Russian president.

Already, he’d been informed by Putin’s secretary that the president had made arrangements for a driver to pick him up at the Hôtel du Cap main entrance immediately following the luncheon. He was being ferried a short distance along the Corniche to Monte Carlo, to the morgue to be precise, to view the body of the president’s murdered friend. He would then confer with the lead detective investigating the murder and an inspector from Interpol. Together, Ambrose told Putin, he hoped they could solve this mystery for him.

All this skullduggery sounded far more palatable when Congreve was informed that the Russian president had booked the Imperial Suite at the Hôtel de Paris in Monte Carlo for the chief inspector’s stay. It was the most famous and luxurious hotel in town, the sight of much intrigue over the years, and Congreve had always been curious about it.

Hawke and the Russian president, it was quite obvious, seemed to have better things to do than investigate murder cases. For Congreve, however, criminal investigation was the soul and lifeblood of his being. His brain was already itching to go.