Phantom

Forty-four

London/Moscow

“All right, Alex,” C said, standing up and walking around his solid mahogany desk. “I will at least consider it.”

A solemn Sir David Trulove went over to one of the many broad office windows overlooking the Albert Embankment and the Thames. He stood gazing out, his hands clasped behind his back like an old captain on the quarterdeck. Hawke knew what the old admiral was thinking. He wasn’t happy about Hawke’s request, but he knew he couldn’t turn it down, either. For all of Hawke’s problems with his irascible superior, the man could usually be counted on to do the right thing.

He turned around and looked at Hawke to find him thumbing through a magazine.

“Fine. Go to Moscow. Just as long as you understand that we are both due in Washington. One week from today we meet with the American president McCloskey and his staff. The United States is pressuring us to take immediate joint action before this computer cyborg, or whatever the hell it is, strikes again.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“After all, Alex, I am sympathetic to your situation. The bastards are after your son, for God’s sake.”

“I appreciate your understanding, sir.”

“I’d be a right bastard myself if I didn’t understand a man’s desire to protect his own son from murderous thugs. That horrific incident in Hyde Park would be enough to push any man to the edge.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s settled, then. Now. These wizards at Cambridge. Have they made any progress regarding the hacker who cracked Dr. Cohen’s AI files?”

“No, sir, not beyond his name. Darius Saffari. Origins unknown. He seems to have erased his tracks. But Congreve spoke again to Dr. Partridge yesterday. They are still using the quantum supercomputer to try to find this man. His application to Stanford lists his home address as San Diego, California. According to local police, no one by that name ever lived there. Same thing with his MIT records in Boston. Phony address in Boston. Then he goes off the grid.”

“According to Partridge, whom I also spoke to at some length this morning, this Darius character could well be behind these hideous attacks in London, Israel, and the States. The most dangerous man in the world, that’s how he described him. But their multimillion-dollar quantum can’t seem to find him. I have little faith in computers, Alex, showing my age, I suppose. But I do have faith in you. And I want you to find this fellow, wherever the hell he is, and put an end to him. Are we clear?”

“Perfectly.”

“All right, go to Moscow. Do whatever’s necessary. Try not to get yourself killed before you save the world, will you?”

“Do my level best, sir.”

Trulove didn’t reply and Hawke knew he’d been dismissed.

“C oncasseur?” Hawke said.

“At your service. How are you, Alex?”

“Delighted with your efforts to rattle a stick inside the Tsarists’ nest. Brilliant conception and execution, I must say.”

“And my compliments to the two chaps you sent here to Moscow. Jones and Brock. Quite a pair. Very inventive. A couple of right bastards and tough as stink, the both of them. I wish I had chaps like that here.”

“Despite all your best efforts, however, the Tsarists still don’t seem to be taking us very seriously, do they?”

“The attack on Putin with dirty bombs, you mean.”

“Yes. You got to me in the nick of time on that. Thanks.”

“I’m well paid. I think I can guess why you rang me up. Based on this latest attack, you want to send them an even stronger signal.”

“No. Actually, Ian, I want to obliterate them. Putin can’t do it; he’s politically hogtied, but we can.”

“Take them out completely, you mean?”

“Precisely what I mean. I’m headed your way as soon as I can make the arrangements. Do you have any preliminary thoughts, Ian?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Your timing might be good. Vasily, my paid informant inside the club, happened to mention the other day that the Tsarists’ annual dinner is coming up shortly. Lavish affair at the mansion. That means they’ll be descending on Moscow in droves, coming in from all over the world. Attendance of around three hundred if I had to hazard a guess.”

“The president of the thing, what’s-his-name-he attends, obviously?”

“Yes. Name is Kutov. Ex-KGB General Vladimir Kutov, the one who found the naked chap hanging from his flagpole. He hosts the meeting. Apparently everyone attending is obliged to stand up and raise a glass. Tell him what a big fucking deal he is. He likes that kind of thing.”

“Ian, if you had to identify a single individual in the Tsarist organization who is hell-bent on making my life hell these days, who would that person be?”

“Without any question, that would be Kutov himself. He was the late Tsar’s staunchest ally during the coup that put Putin in prison and Korsakov in power. He knows you killed his beloved Tsar. And he’s one of only two or three people in Moscow who know about your clandestine relationship with Putin. Drives him out of his bloody mind. That’s why you two remain at the top of his shit list. And it’s a very long list indeed.”

“And my son?”

“He knows it was Putin who saved your son and his mother from the execution Kutov himself had ordered at Lubyanka. To him, with all due respect, your son and his mother are simply unfinished business.”

“They’re going down, Ian. All of them. And you and I are going to make that happen.”

“I look forward to it with keen anticipation. The world will instantly be a better place. Let me know when you’re arriving and where. I’ll pick you up.”

“Putin’s well aware of what I’m doing and obviously supports it, given the dramatic events in Portofino. He’s sending one of his planes for me. Day after tomorrow. I’ll be landing at his small airfield near his private dacha outside St. Petersburg. You know where his dacha is?”

“Alex, please.”

“Sorry. I’ll tell him you’re driving me down so he won’t send a car. He told me we’d be doing some wild boar hunting using night-vision rifles. You up for that?”

“You’ve made my day. Seriously, I’ve been bored blind ever since Stokely Jones and Harry Brock left town. What a pair.”

“Done. See you soon. Cheers, Ian.”

H awke’s plane touched down on Russian soil right on schedule. Three in the afternoon, St. Petersburg time. As the sleek jet neared the end of the runway, he could see Concasseur standing beside a black Audi, waiting for him. Hawke was looking forward to working with his old comrade in arms again. He was as good a man in a fight as you could ask for. He also spoke fluent Russian, which would be important in executing the plan Hawke had been sketching out in his mind on the flight from London.

The two old friends embraced and clapped each other on the back. They’d not seen each other since Hawke had interviewed the man for the Moscow job, running Red Banner.

Hawke had no luggage to speak of, just weapons and extra mags of ammunition in the black nylon carryall he tossed into the Audi’s boot. He wasn’t planning to be here long. He shed his black leather jacket and tossed it in as well. It was warmer than he’d expected.

“How far to the dacha?” Hawke asked, once they were on the rough, two-laned road.

“A good half hour. Is that long enough to tell me your plan? If it’s not, the plan’s too bloody complicated to work.”

Hawke laughed. “Haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

“Have you?”

“No.”

“As the Yanks say, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

Hawke spent the drive time discussing a broad outline of his plan with Concasseur. The man was enthusiastic, to say the least, and contributed a number of nuanced changes that only strengthened Hawke’s idea. With a little help from Putin, they just might pull this off, Hawke told him.

“Something will go wrong,” Concasseur said. “It always does.”

“Of course it will. It’s what keeps it interesting. The thing that keeps us coming back for more. Am I right?”

“Always right. Sir.”

“I never figured you for a ‘yes man,’ Ian.”

“Damn right. I’m not stupid. Here we are. The first checkpoint. Let’s hope this guard has my name as well as yours.”

“He does, Ian. I told Putin you were coming. Ever met him?”

“Never. We don’t seem to travel in the same circles.”

“Piece of work,” Hawke said, gazing up at the tall evergreens that lined the drive leading to Putin’s dacha. “You’ll see.”

“You two are, what, friends? I can’t believe it.”

“Yeah. We met in prison. Shared a bottle of vodka in his cell. Bit weird, isn’t it?”

“Oh, you have no idea how weird it is, Alex.”

“He likes me for some reason. What can I say?”

“It’s insane is what it is, actually, mate. I seriously doubt that there’s anything more bizarre in the entire annals of espionage. And I include fiction.”