Patriot

CHAPTER 77

There was a rap at Hawke’s stateroom door.

Irritated, because he was tired and because he never took naps but now felt he needed one, he swung his long legs over the side of the bed and crossed the room to the door. Pity the poor person who might be disturbing him for naught.

It was Harry Brock. Brock and his sidekick, the kid the Raiders all called Gator. Catching himself about to say something prickly, while feeling enormously grateful for all the heroics that Harry and Gator had displayed ashore that day, Hawke said, “Why, Harry, I was just thinking about you two gentlemen. I see they patched you up down in sick bay. What’s up?”

“Do you mind if we step inside? It’s kinda important,” Harry said.

“Come in. Have a seat over there and I’ll grab my robe.”

Hawke sat down on the small leather sofa facing the two warriors. “All right, gents, what’s on your mind?”

“Have you met Gator Luttier, sir?” Harry said.

“I’ve not. Gator, is it? You did a hell of a job up on that mountain last night. You and Mr. Brock.”

“Thank you, sir,” Gator said, and looked over at Harry to jump in.

“Gator came to see me about an hour ago,” Harry said. “He wanted to tell me about something that happened up in that blockhouse we took out. Soon as I heard what Gator had to say, I thought it was something you needed to be aware of. Like, now.”

Hawke sat back and lit a cigarette, all hope of any rest dashed. “Go ahead, Gator. Tell me what happened.”

“Well, sir, we went in together, see, me and Harry. He took the top floor, me the bottom. Blew the door and found a bunch of guys in there playing poker, Cuban enlisted men and a couple of Russian officers. We weren’t expected and we shot ’em up pretty good. Mr. Brock, well, he got hit and knocked unconscious. That was upstairs and, hell, I didn’t know a damn thing about it, though. I had one man down, Russian, still breathing. He was hurt plenty bad. Sucking wound in the chest. Knew he wasn’t going to make it, but, still, I tried to comfort him a little, like you do, you know. All the rest were dead. He wanted to talk. Crazy talk. About how fucked everything was. How the Russian military didn’t want to go to war with America. It was all that damn warmonger Putin. Him and somebody called ‘Uncle Joe.’ They were the ones would get everybody killed and—”

“Uncle Joe? Who the hell is that?” Hawke suddenly leaned forward. “Go on, Gator.”

“Well, it was all Uncle Joe this and Putin that. Whoever this Joe cat is, he seems to be running the circus. And then he really got my attention when he said something about a guy called the ‘Colonel.’ Said that was the one secretly doing all the dirty work for Putin. Said he was the one who shot down that civilian airliner over China. An op he ran from somewhere or other in Siberia. Well, at that point he was pretty delirious, but I felt like I had to keep him talking. And here’s the thing about it, sir. What I felt you needed to know about. This guy, the colonel? He’s an American.”

“What?”

“Yessir. I know because I used to work for him. Did a security job for him at an oilfield in Saudi. He signed my paychecks. His name is Beauregard, Colonel Brett Beauregard from Port Arthur, Texas.”

Hawke could not contain his surprise. “Beauregard! You don’t mean to say you actually worked for Vulcan, Gator?”

“I did, yessir. Before the colonel got himself in all that hot water and went to ground. He’s back, looks like, and working for Putin. He was working here in Cuba until recently, the guy said, coordinating Cuban special operations for Uncle Joe.”

“For Uncle Joe. Not Putin, but Uncle Joe. Is that what he said? Were those his precise words?”

“Yessir.”

“What else did he say?”

“Not much. He died.”

Hawke didn’t say a word. Just got to his feet and started pacing back and forth, puffing his cigarette.

Finally he stopped and said, “Harry, I’m going to need your help. I’m finally starting to get an understanding of how this all fits together.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean all of it. Cuba, that goddamn Feuerwasser demonstration, bringing down that airliner and using a bloody Yank to do it! Exploiting American weakness, throwing everybody off their game… so he can… redraw the map of the world. And convincing himself that nobody will do one damn thing about it.”

“I got a feeling that ain’t exactly true,” Gator said.

“Whatever do you mean?” Hawke replied.

“I mean I got a suspicion you’ll do something about it, sir.”

Hawke laughed. He liked this kid. A lot.

“Gator, I want you and Mr. Brock here, and Mr. Jones, to meet me up in the war room in exactly thirty minutes. I need to get my thoughts together. And, right now, if I can find him, I need to ring up Ambrose Congreve in the U.K. — I hope to God he’s back from Siberia — and see if he’s found out who the hell this Uncle Joe character is. Our number one mystery man at the moment.”

The two got up. Harry paused at the door and said, “Isn’t that what they used to call Joe Stalin? Uncle Joe?”

“That’s right, Harry. But he’s dead. Oh, and do me a favor while you’re waiting. Create a digital file for all the stuff you can get on Siberia. Sat maps of the region in question, thermal overprints, you know the drill. Standard stuff.”

“We going there next, boss?”

Hawke just smiled and closed the door behind them.

“Hullo? Alex? Is that you on the line?”

“It is indeed, Ambrose. I’m still aboard Blackhawke, steaming for Key West. Listen, I’m so glad you’re home safe. I’ve just found out some information regarding recent events in Siberia. During your ill-advised adventure with Halter, did you two run across someone called ‘Uncle Joe’?”

“We did indeed. It’s a long story, I’m afraid. But I’m very glad you called. I’ve been worried sick about Professor Halter since I got back here.”

“Why is that?” Hawke said.

“I think he may have feigned a heart attack in order to save my life. As I said, it’s a long story. But he’s either dead of a heart attack in Siberia, or they’ve got him in some dreadful cell in Lubyanka Prison in Moscow, KGB goons torturing him to death for his splendid treason. I’ve got to do something to help him soon. Or at least find out the truth. Bring his body home to Cambridge for a proper burial in St. Paul’s Cemetery if need be, Alex.”

“As it happens, I’m planning another Siberian excursion at the moment. Like to tag along? With your brains and my charming personality, we’re bound to be able to get Halter out of there, one way or the other. Are you in? Diana will kill me, dragging you back there so soon. But there you have it.”

“Of course I’m in, damn you! Why didn’t you tell me you were going! When and where shall I meet you?”

“St. Petersburg central rail station. My pilot’s waiting for me at Key West, Ambrose. I intend to fly nonstop to St. Petersburg on the Gulfstream. Let’s agree to meet at the rail station. Checked the rail schedules already. The Red Star, a Trans-Siberian express, pulls out at midnight. Can you be there?”

“Of course. Just the two of us? It could get very spicy when Mr. Putin learns you’re poking about in his backyard, even more than you have been.”

“Then you’ll be happy to hear that I’m planning on bringing a few friends along for the ride. Mr. Jones, for one, likes to travel to exotic locales. As does our perennial favorite, Mr. Brock. And then there are a few other invitees, including a young chap whom I’ve only just met in Cuba. Fellow named Gator, for some reason or other. Rather one of those one-man-army type of chappies, if you get my drift.”

“Good idea, Alex. And, right now, the way things are going in the world, I would say we may well need a couple of one-man armies for Hawke’s historic invasion of Russia.”

Hawke smiled and said, “‘Hawke’s invasion of Russia,’ did you say? I bloody well like that. Let’s reconvene in the ticket agent’s office at the St. Petersburg rail station, shall we? Say, at eleven sharp the night of? I’m already ordering your billet online.”

“The game is afoot, as the celestial Sherlock Holmes used to say.”

“I would say that Holmes, as usual, got it right. Don’t forget your cloak and dagger, Constable.”