Phantom

Sixteen

Lady Diana Mars, emerging into the hall from the drawing room, intercepted Hawke and Congreve making a beeline for the dining room. She was radiant. All emerald silk, bare white shoulders, and diamonds, her lustrous auburn hair swept up and held in place with jeweled combs. She was beautiful as always and Hawke told her so. He took her hand to kiss it, happy to see that the engagement ring Ambrose had given her was still in place. Hawke had a vested interest in that ring. He’d almost died diving a wreck off Bermuda trying to find it.

“Alex, you darling boy, listen,” she said. “Sir David arrived about ten minutes ago. He seems a bit… agitated. Clearly something on his mind. He’s out on the terrace now, smoking his cigar. He asked if he might have a quick word in private before we go into dinner. Do you mind awfully?”

“Would it matter?” Hawke smiled. “I’m still in his employ, last time I checked.”

“The old seafarer’s just out there, through the drawing room door. I’ll call off the turtle soup until you two guests of honor arrive at the table.”

Hawke strode through the room and pushed through the tall door out into the cool evening. Trulove had his back to him, standing stiffly at the low granite balustrade that overlooked the formal gardens and the Thames below, a ribbon of silver in the moonlight.

“Sir David,” Alex said quietly as he approached, not wanting to startle the man.

The director of MI6 turned and regarded him with a smile, not a warm smile exactly, but certainly friendly enough under the circumstances. Trulove, whom Hawke considered one of nature’s immutable forces, was a former Royal Navy admiral and a great hero of the Falklands War. He was a tall, well-built fellow, imposing with his close-cropped white hair and weather-beaten face. His intense blue eyes were clear, seeming to have escaped all the wind and salt and rain earned during decades on the bridges of various Royal Navy warships.

“Alex, good of you to come out here. I felt what I had to say was best said in private.”

“Indeed, sir. I-”

“I may owe you an apology. I was utterly beside myself when you went AWOL without a word to me. But… now that I have an inkling of your reasons, it’s becoming rather clear to me that you felt you had no choice but to act as you did.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Indeed, had you come to me with a request to venture alone into what was, to me, so obviously a KGB death trap, I would never have agreed to it. Never. It looked a suicide mission, frankly.”

“That was my thinking, sir. Were I in your position, I most certainly would not have allowed it either.”

“My God, Alex, what were you thinking? We both know these Russian bastards want your head for killing their beloved Tsar. And yet you decide to go waltzing into their top-secret training facility in the middle of Siberia? Based upon some Kremlin-generated rumor?”

“I had no choice, Sir David. It was worth my life to learn the truth, whether or not the Tsar’s daughter, Anastasia, and our child were still alive. And, if they were alive, and held captive there, I was determined to bring them out. Whatever it took. If not, well-”

“Yes. And whether it was raw courage or sheer foolhardiness, it’s not for me to judge. I’m just glad you made it out in one piece, Alex. The service would be greatly diminished without you. No one is irreplaceable, including me, but you… you come close.”

“I appreciate that, sir.”

“Lady Mars tells me you were able to bring your son out? Is that true?”

“Yes, sir. Alexei is sleeping upstairs as we speak.”

“How marvelous. Do you think I might catch a glimpse of him?”

“Well, we could peek in after dinner, I suppose. But if we wake him, Miss Spooner will have our heads.”

“I believe they’re waiting for us. Shall we go in to dinner?” C said.

“Delighted, sir. I was quite sure I was coming out here to have my head handed to me. Thank you for letting me retain the use of it.”

C laughed and put his arm around Hawke’s shoulder as they started for the door. Startled, Hawke realized it was the first time Trulove had ever done anything remotely like this unmistakable show of affection.

He’s actually glad to see me, Hawke thought, somewhat astounded.

T he dinner, Alex thought, had been splendid. The lamb was cooked to pink perfection, redolent of garlic and rosemary from the garden, and the wine, a 1959 Petrus, was beyond belief. Even C had been relaxed and cheerful during the meal. Now that he and Hawke understood each other once more, it was back to business as usual. Both men were glad they’d cleared the air.

Hawke was seated next to Diana, whom he adored. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why she and Ambrose had yet to wed. Clearly they were madly in love. But, as the old saying went, unless you’re under the tent, you have no earthly idea what’s really going on in a relationship.

The dinner dishes were cleared. The candles still flickered on the happy faces around the table and Cole Porter floated in from a turntable in the drawing room. Coffee was served. Ambrose fired up his pipe, Sir David his cigar, and Alex his electronic cigarette. As long as you didn’t inhale the bloody vapor, he discovered, you could manage it. Besides, he saw Ambrose smiling at him with approval.

Hawke saw C push back from the table, all the jollity flown from his face. Whatever was coming was deadly serious and, in all likelihood, it would be aimed directly at him.

“I’d like to raise a glass to our lovely and brilliant hostess for an absolutely smashing dinner party. Wonderful food, wonderful wine, and, of course, wonderful company.”

“Hear! Hear!” everyone said, raising their glasses toward the hostess.

“But now the party’s over, isn’t it, Sir David?” Diana said with a laugh. “We now turn to the affairs of men.”

“Good God, I hope not,” Congreve said, unable to contain himself. Hawke and Diana laughed out loud. C didn’t even crack a smile.

“I want to talk about this recent unprovoked attack by the Nevskiy, a Russian submarine, on an American cruise ship. I received a call from Brick Kelly, the CIA director, a few hours ago. Apparently two torpedoes were fired. The ship went down in less than an hour. At least seven hundred innocent people lost their lives. It would have been worse had not an American sub been in the immediate vicinity, surfacing to pluck many survivors out of the water. Alex, your man in Miami, he was aboard that ship. He actually saw the torpedoes approaching?”

“That’s correct, sir. Stokely Jones and his new bride were beginning their honeymoon. He happened to be on deck when they were launched, saw their wakes, and warned the captain.”

“And SSN 75, the U.S. nuclear submarine Texas, was shadowing Nevskiy just prior to the attack. The American commanding officer avers that he has sonar confirmation of the Russian sub’s screw signature, the sound of her outer torpedo doors opening, tubes flooding, and two torpedoes launched. This evidence is incontrovertible. The Russians sank that cruise ship, period.”

Congreve said, “What do they have to say about it? Knowing the Kremlin, they deny it, of course.”

“Except for the presence of the Texas, yes, they would, certainly. Putin called the White House immediately. Deepest regrets. Insisted the Kremlin had no prior knowledge of this attack. The sub is returning to her home port at Sevastopol. The captain will be arrested and interrogated by the KGB. So the question is this: Was this a skipper gone rogue? Was this an accident? Or was this a deliberate attack on America by the Russians for reasons as yet unknown? Answers are vitally important because the West finds itself in the midst of a dangerous diplomatic firestorm.”

“What was President McCloskey’s response?” Congreve asked C.

“He told Putin that, based on the U.S. sub’s report, he was immediately taking all American air, sea, and land forces to DEFCON 3. Depending on what explanations he hears back from the Kremlin within the next forty-eight hours, he will go to the next highest state of readiness, DEFCON 2. That’s one level shy of all-out war.”

“The Russians can come up with a lot of excuses in forty-eight hours. We need proof of what really happened on that sub,” Hawke said.

“Absolutely,” C said. “Right now, U.S. Navy divers are sifting through the debris field on the ocean floor. They will examine every last scrap of those two torpedoes looking for evidence of either a misfire or a deliberate launch. Not much to go on but at the moment it’s all we’ve got.”

“Next steps?” Hawke said, already having a pretty good idea where all this was heading.

“The CIA and the NSA are all over this, naturally. But they’re stretched pretty thin at the moment and they’ve asked for our help. Kelly specifically mentioned you, Alex. And your Russian counterintelligence operation based in Bermuda, Red Banner. Since you are already working in tandem with the CIA, it’s a good fit for something like this.”

“It’s exactly why it was created, as you well know, Sir David.”

“So, Hawke, old fellow. Will you be staying for dessert?” Trulove asked, smiling at him.

“I appreciate the offer, sir, but I think not. If you all will excuse me, I’ll take my leave. It seems I suddenly have a rather pressing engagement.”

“Good man,” C said as Hawke stood and kissed Diana on the cheek. “You’ll keep in touch with me this time, won’t you?”

Hawke smiled and said, “Hourly updates, sir.”

“Not that in touch. I’ve other matters on my platter. Good hunting, Alex. I trust you’ll get to the bottom of this in short order.”

Hawke put a hand on Congreve’s shoulder. “Ambrose, I wonder if I might impose on Diana’s hospitality. Is it possible that my son and Miss Spooner might remain here at Brixden House until this current assignment is completed?”

“Absolutely, darling,” Diana said to him. “Don’t be silly. We’d adore to have Alexei with us.”

Hawke paused, thinking. “One other thing you should all be aware of. Alexei, being the grandson of the late Tsar, has been the subject of death threats from certain elements in Moscow. Gaggle of thugs calling themselves the Tsarists. There was an incident on the Red Arrow train en route to St. Petersburg. Ambrose, would you ask your colleagues at Scotland Yard to send a few chaps out here to keep an eye on things?”

“I’ll put a call in immediately,” Congreve said.

“Thank you. I’ll run upstairs and kiss him good-bye and then I’ll be off. Sir David, would you like to accompany me? I promised you a peek at him.”

“I was going to insist on it.”

“One final thing. Just thought of it in fact. Ambrose, if anything … bad… should happen to me, I wonder if you would do me the very great honor of being Alexei’s godfather. He has no one else, you see, and-”

“The honor is all mine, Alex. Thank you for your faith in me. I’m deeply moved.”

And with that Hawke and Sir David Trulove quickly left the room and headed for the upper reaches of the house. Two men off to save the world once more, Ambrose thought, watching them striding up the staircase, realizing he might never see either of them again.

He puffed away at his pipe, wondering whether the world would ever again sail with such serenity through space as it seemed to do a hundred years ago.

C ongreve walked Hawke out to his car, the familiar Bentley Continental he called the “Locomotive,” parked in the forecourt.

“How can I help you, Alex, get to the bottom of this Russian thing?”

“Good of you to ask and I may indeed call upon that oversized brain of yours before this is all over. But, for now, I already have a plan as to how to get to the bottom of it.”

“How, may I ask?”

“By going straight to the top.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“I mean I’m going to pay a little visit to my dear friend and former cellmate, Prime Minister Vladimir Putin.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly serious.”

“And just how do you plan to manage it?”

“Simple, actually. I’m going to ring him up tonight. I have his private number in my wallet.”

“You ought to be careful, dear boy. To sup with that Russian you’ll need a very long spoon.”

“Did I ever tell you he and I got thoroughly pissed? A bottle of vodka in his cell in that awful radioactive prison, Energetika?”

“I don’t believe you did.”

“Hmm. It’s true. We got rather chummy.”

“I must say, Alex, that, after all these years, you still have the power to shock and amaze me.”

Hawke climbed behind the wheel and the Bentley’s monstrous engine exploded to life.

He smiled at Congreve.

“Good. May it always be thus, as your idol Mr. Sherlock Holmes might say.”

With that, Alex Hawke and his great grey Locomotive roared out of Brixden House’s graveled forecourt and disappeared down the winding drive into a warm summer’s night, pearlescent moonlight and shadows of indigo blue showing the way.