Phantom

Thirty-six

London

Alex Hawke smiled as he hung up the dressing room telephone and went back to his packing. He and Sir David Trulove had just concluded that a strong warning had been delivered to the Tsarists. Hawke’s crack Red Banner counterterrorist team in Moscow-Ian Concasseur, Stokely Jones, and Harry Brock-had successfully conveyed an unmistakable message. And now C was going to provide Hawke’s son with heavily armed security round the clock. Hawke and Congreve were leaving for California today to question Dr. Waldo Cohen’s widow about her late husband’s suicide.

Three MI6 plainclothes security officers had already arrived at Hawke’s large house on Belgrave Square. Two were to be posted near the main street entrance, the third inside the home, posted on the fourth floor near the boy and his recuperating guardian, Nell Spooner.

But neither Hawke nor Trulove had any illusions that the young son of Alex Hawke was safely out of danger. Nor was Hawke himself exactly out of the woods. Still, Alex was comforted by the notion that, at minimum, he’d bought himself some time. He intended to find a way to ensure Alexei’s safety himself.

Hawke threw his shaving kit, matching silver hairbrushes, and a couple of P. G. Wodehouse novels into the open leather seabag on the table. He’d read all the Jeeves and Wooster novels many times, but never tired of them. They were the only things that could make him laugh when he least felt like it.

“M’lord,” Pelham said, floating into his dressing room, “you don’t intend to wear that jacket on this sojourn, I’m sure.”

“This jacket? Yes. Why, is something the matter with it?”

“A number of things. The color, of course, is ghastly. A poisonous shade of blue. But the real difficulty lies in the fact that it glimmers.”

“Glimmers?”

“The fabric. It’s shiny, sir. No more need be said.”

“Pelham, I’m going to California. Everything glimmers in California. I assure you this jacket will go entirely unnoticed.”

“If you say so, sir. In point of fact, I came upstairs to raise another matter.”

“Yes? Go on,” Hawke said, peering at his jacket in the mirror. It was a bit flash, to tell the truth. He shed it and slipped into a thin black cashmere blazer over grey flannel trousers. He looked at Pelham, who nodded his approval.

“You were saying?” Hawke said.

“All this new household staff you’ve hired, m’lord. Underfoot, nosy, and frightful gossips.”

“Pelham, you should consider yourself fortunate. You now have a cook, parlormaid, chauffeur, laundress, and butler to lord it over.”

“With respect, I am the butler.”

“The word doesn’t begin to do you justice. During all those years when it was just the two of us. But now we have a child in the house, Pelham. And his bedridden nanny. And his bedridden nanny’s private nurse. You simply cannot keep up with all that, dear fellow. It wouldn’t be fair of me to let you try. Besides, you’re king of the castle now, lord of the manor while I’m away.”

Pelham uttered the smothered “ahem” he always used to express irritation.

“It is not my intention to ‘lord it,’ as you put it, over anyone, dear boy. You have never once ‘lorded it’ over me. If I must accept this unfortunate situation, I shall most certainly follow your sterling example.”

“Very kind. That’s settled then. Now. As to ties-how about this one?”

“They don’t favor neckwear over there, sir.”

“Really? How on earth would you know that?”

“The telly, sir. Have you not perhaps seen a program called Real Housewives of L.A.?”

H awke was meeting Congreve at his private hangar at Gatwick in one hour. His airplane was wheels-up half an hour after that. If he was going to be on time, he needed to get cracking. He looked at his watch. Alexei was taking his nap, but Hawke needed to say good-bye. This would be only the second time they’d been apart since their Siberian train journey together. It was so recent, and yet it felt like they’d always been together.

The two of them, against the world.

He cracked the door to the nursery and peeked inside. Alexei had crawled out of his bed and was on the floor playing with his fleet of wooden boats. The very same ones Alex had used to re-create the great sea battles of the Royal Navy when he was a child. He’d held on to them all these years, not because he’d expected to have a son one day, but because he had so desperately hoped he would.

“Daddy! Look! A boat!”

Hawke crossed the room and sat on the carpet next to Alexei.

“Yes. Your grandfather was on a boat like that during the war. A destroyer. Slightly larger version, of course.”

“Daddy, is Spooner going to die? Because the bad horse ran over her?”

“Of course not. She’s going to be good as new. She just needs a week or so in her bed and then-”

“I don’t like her nurse.”

“Really? Why not?”

“She smells funny.”

“But she’s very nice. And she likes you awfully much. She told me so herself. She said you were the best little boy in all the world.”

“I like her.”

“Come give Daddy a hug. I have to go away for a few days.”

“Away?”

“Yes. To another place. Remember when Daddy went to France and Russia? Like that.”

“Not home?”

“Don’t cry, come give me a kiss good-bye. I’ll be back before you know it. All right?”

Alexei, his eyes brimming with tears, hugged his father as hard as he could.

“I love you, Daddy. More than anything in the whole wide world.” Hawke could feel his son’s hot tears wet upon his cheek.

“And I love you more than the whole wide world, too. Be a good boy while I’m gone. Spooner’s going to read you a story in her room every night. Say your prayers and go straight to bed when Pelham tells you to, okay?”

“I like Pelham.”

“He took such good care of me when I was your age. I like him, too. More than most people, in fact.”

Hawke picked his son up in his arms and kissed each cheek.

“Good-bye, Alexei. I’ll miss you.”

“Bye, Daddy.”

“M ay I come in?” Hawke asked at Nell Spooner’s door. She was propped against her pillows, reading a book he had given her called Amsterdam, a novel by Hawke’s favorite living English author, Ian McEwan.

“You were right,” she said, putting the book down. “It’s truly wonderful. He writes like an angel.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Much better today, thank you very much. Are you headed to the airport?”

“I am. I just wanted to say good-bye.”

“Then come sit on the bed, hold my hand, and say it properly.”

Hawke sat, taking her hand.

“Nell, I am so sorry. So very sorry this happened. I swear to you, I will never let it happen again.”

“Well, that’s very sweet. But you have to understand this is what I do. I protect people. Or try to, anyway. And sometimes I get hurt. This is not the first time, or the worst time, and it will probably not be the last. Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

“And my son. You saved his life, Nell. Twice. And mine, too, probably. I don’t think I could live without him now. I don’t know how I lived without him before.”

She smiled and squeezed his hand.

“He’s a little you,” she said.

“Or I’m just a big him,” Hawke said, and she smiled.

“You know, Alex, when I first accepted this assignment, it was just a job. But, now, I feel, I don’t know, like it’s so much more than that. How to say it? It’s not my job to be protective of him anymore. I feel protective of him. Does that make any sense?”

“It does. I tried to thank you, in the hospital, for what you did. Your incredible courage. I don’t think I did a very good job. But I do thank you, Nell, for saving him. For saving both of us.”

“You’re very welcome, sir. Now, you’d better go. You’ve got a plane to catch.”

“There’s an MI6 officer in the house, just arrived this morning. He’s in a small room at the head of the stairs. His name is John Mills. I’ve asked him to stop by and introduce himself. See if there’s anything you need or want.”

“What I want is a curry with you in that little restaurant in Mayfair. When I’m back on my feet. Nurse says it won’t be long now.”

“First night I’m back. Date?”

“Date.”

Hawke leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

“See you in a few days, Nell.”

“Be safe, Alex.”

“You, too,” Hawke said, and rose from her bed and walked to the door and pulled it closed behind him.

He paused outside her door for a moment and smiled. For the first time since age seven, when his parents had been murdered, he had a very real sense of family under his own roof.

So much for the heart as hard as flint, he thought.