Tsar

1

War and peace. In Alexander Hawke’s experience, life usually boiled down to one or the other. Like his namesake late father, a hero much decorated for his daring Cold War exploits against the Soviets, Hawke greatly favored peace but was notoriously adept at war. Whenever and wherever in the world his rather exotic skill set was required, Alex Hawke gladly sallied forth. Cloak donned, dagger to hand, he would jubilantly enter and reenter the eternal fray.

He was thirty-three years old. A good age, by his accounts, not too young and not too old. A fine balance of youth and experience, if one could be so bold.

Alex Hawke, let it first be said, was a creature of radiant violence. Attack came naturally to him; the man was all fire. Shortly after his squalling birth, his very English father had declared to Kitty, his equally American mother, “He seems to me a boy born with a heart ready for any fate. I only wonder what ballast will balance all that bloody sail.”

He was normally a cool, rather detached character, but Alex Hawke’s simmering blood could roil to a rapid boil at very short notice. Oddly enough, his true nature was not readily apparent to the casual observer. Someone who chanced to meet him, say, on an evening’s stroll through Berkeley Square would find him an amiable, even jolly chap. He might even be whistling a chirrupy tune about nightingales or some such. There was an easy grace about the man, a cheery nonchalance, a faint look of amusement uncorrupted by self-satisfaction about the eyes.

But it was Hawke’s “What the hell” grin, a look so freighted with charm that no woman, and even few men, could resist, that made him who he was.

Hawke was noticeable. A big man with a heroic head, he stood well north of six feet and worked hard at a strict exercise regimen to keep himself extremely fit. His face was finely modeled, its character deeply etched by the myriad wonders and doubts of his inner experience.

His glacial blue eyes were brilliant, and the play of his expression had a flashing range, from the merriment and charm with which he charged his daily conversation to a profound earnestness. His demeanor quickly could assume a tragic and powerful look, which could make even a trivial topic suddenly assume new and enlightening importance.

He had a full head of rather untamable jet-black hair, a high, clear brow, and a straight, imperious nose. Below it was a strong chin and a well-sculpted mouth with just a hint of come-hither cruelty at the corners.

Picture a hale fellow well met whom men wanted to stand a drink and whom women much preferred horizontal.

HE’D BEEN DOZING on a pristine Bermuda beach for the better part of an hour. It was a hot day, a day that was shot blue all through. The fluttering eyelids and the thin smile on Hawke’s salt-parched lips belied the rather exotic dream he was having. Suddenly, some noise from above, perhaps the dolphinlike clicking of a long-tailed petrel, startled him from his reverie. He cracked one eye, then the other, smiling at the fleeting memory of sexual bliss still imprinted on the back of his mind.

Erotic images, fleshy nymphs of pink and creamy white, fled quickly as he raised his head and peered alertly at the brightness of the real world through two fiercely narrowed blue eyes. Just inside the reef line, a white sail shivered and flipped to leeward. As he watched the graceful little Bermuda sloop, the sail turned to windward again, and from across the water he distinctly heard a sound he loved, the ruffle and snap of canvas.

No question about this time and place in his life, he thought, gazing at the gently lapping surf: my blue heaven.

Here on this sunlit mid-Atlantic isle, peace abounded. These, finally, were the “blue days” he had longed for. His most recent “red” period, a rather dodgy affair involving a madman named Papa Top and armies of Hezbollah jihadistas deep in the Amazon, was mercifully fading from memory. Every new blue day pushed those fearful memories deeper into the depths of his consciousness, and for that he was truly grateful.

He rolled over easily onto his back. The sugary sand, like pinkish talc, was warm beneath his bare skin. He must have drifted off after his most recent swim. Hmm. He linked his hands behind his still damp head and breathed deeply, the fresh salt air filling his lungs.

The sun was still high in the azure Bermuda sky.

He lifted his arm to gaze lazily at his dive watch. It was just after two o’clock in the afternoon. A smile flitted across his lips as he contemplated the remainder of the day’s schedule. He had nothing on this evening save a quiet dinner with his closest friend, Ambrose Congreve, and Congreve’s fiancée, Diana Mars, at eight. He licked the dried salt from his lips, closed his eyes, and let the sun take his naked body.

His refuge was a small cove of crystalline turquoise water. Wavelets slid up and over dappled pinkish sand before retreating to regroup and charge once more. This tiny bay, perhaps a hundred yards across at its mouth, was invisible from the coast road. The South Road, as it was called, had been carved into the jagged coral and limestone centuries earlier and extended all the way along the coast to Somerset and the Royal Naval Dockyard.

Fringed with flourishing green mangrove and sea-grape, Hawke’s little crescent of paradise was indistinguishable from countless coves just like it stretching east and west along the southern coast of Bermuda. The only access was from the sea. After months of visiting the cove undisturbed, he’d begun to think of the spot as his own. He’d even nicknamed it “Bloody Bay” because he was usually so bloody exhausted when he arrived there after a 3-mile swim.

Hawke had chosen Bermuda carefully. He saw it as an ideal spot to nurse his wounds and heal his battered psyche. Situated in the mid-Atlantic, roughly equidistant between his twin capitals of London and Washington, Bermuda was quaintly civilized, featured balmy weather and a happy-go-lucky population, and it was somewhere few of his acquaintances, friend or foe, would ever think to look for him.

In the year before, his bout of nasty scrapes in the Amazon jungles had included skirmishes with various tropical fevers that had nearly taken his life. But after six idyllic months of marinating in this tropic sea and air, he concluded that he’d never felt better in his life. Even with a modest daily intake of Mr. Gosling’s elixir, called by the natives black rum, he had somehow gotten his six-foot-plus frame down to his fighting weight of 180. He now had a deep tan and a flat belly, and he felt just fine. In his early thirties, he felt twenty if a day.

Hawke had taken refuge in a small, somewhat dilapidated beach cottage. The old house, originally a sugar mill, was perched, some might say precariously, above the sea a few miles west of his current location. He had gotten into the very healthy habit of swimming to this isolated beach every day. Three miles twice daily was not excessive and not a bad addition to his normal workout routine, which included a few hundred situps and pullups, not to mention serious weight training.

His privacy thus ensured, his habit at his private beach was to shed his swimsuit once he’d arrived. He’d made a ritual of stripping it off and hanging it on a nearby mangrove branch. Then a few hours sunning au naturel, as our French cousins would have it. He was normally a modest man, but the luxuriant feeling of cool air and sunlight on parts not normally exposed was too delightful to be denied. He’d gotten so accustomed to this new regime that the merest idea of wearing trunks here would seem superfluous, ridiculous even. And-what?

He stared with disbelieving eyes.

What the bloody hell was that?

2

A small rectangular patch of blue had caught his eye. It lay on the sand, a few yards to his right. Raising his torso and supporting himself on his elbows, he eyed the offending item. Detritus washed in from the sea? No, clearly not. It seemed that while he’d slept, serene in his sanctum sanctorum, some invidious invader had arrived and deposited a blue towel on his shore.

The thing had been scrupulously arranged on the beach by the silent marauder, at right angles to the surf, with four pink conch shells at the corners to hold it in place. There was, too, in the middle of the dark blue towel, a fanciful K richly embroidered in gleaming gold thread. Above the initial was a symbol he thought he recognized, a two-headed eagle. A rich man’s beach rag.

Bloody hell. No sight of the owner. Where had he got to, this cheeky Mr. K? Off swimming, Hawke supposed. Why, of all places, should he drop anchor here? Surely, the sight of another man-a nude man, for God’s sake-sleeping peacefully here on the sand would be enough to encourage an intruder, this K whoever the hell he may be, to look elsewhere for solitude?

Apparently not.

At that moment, a woman appeared from the sea. Not just a woman but perhaps the most sublimely beautiful creature Hawke had ever seen. She emerged dripping wet. She was tall, with long straight legs, skin tanned a pale shade of café au lait. She was not quite naked. She wore a small patch of white material at the nexus of her thighs and, over her deeply full and perfect pink-tipped breasts, nothing at all.

She wore a pale blue dive mask pushed back above her high forehead, and damp gold tresses fell to her bronzed shoulders. He had never witnessed such raw animal beauty; her presence as she drew near seemed to give him vertigo.

She paused in mid-stride, staring down at him for a moment in frank appraisal. Her full red lips pursed in a smile he couldn’t quite read. Amusement at his predicament?

Hawke cast his eyes warily at the mangrove branch some ten yards away. His faded red swim trunks hung from a bare branch among the round, thick green leaves. Following his gaze, the woman smiled.

“I shouldn’t bother about the bathing suit,” she said, her wide-set green eyes dazzling in the sun.

“And why should I not?”

“That horse has already left the barn.”

Hawke looked at her for a long moment, suppressing a smile, before he spoke.

“What, if I may be so bold, the bloody hell are you doing on my beach?”

“Your beach?”

“Quite.”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

She was carrying a clear plastic drawstring bag containing what looked to be small pink conch shells and other objects. Hawke also noticed a line looped around her waist, strung with a few small fish. His eyes had been far too busy with her extraordinary body to register the spear gun in her right hand.

“Look here,” Hawke said, “there are countless coves just like this one along this coast. Surely, you could have picked-”

“The shells here are unique,” she said, holding up the bag so it caught the sun. “Pink Chinese, they’re called.”

“No kidding,” Hawke said. “Do they come in red as well?”

“Red Chinese? Aren’t you the clever boy?” she said, laughing despite a failed attempt at a straight face.

For the first time, he heard the Slavic overtones in her otherwise perfect English. Russian? Yes, he thought, suddenly remembering the double-headed eagle above the monogram, the ancient symbol of Imperial Russia.

She continued to stare down at his naked body, and Hawke shifted uncomfortably under her unblinking gaze. The intensity of her stare was causing an all too familiar stir, both within and without. He thought of covering himself with his hands but realized that at this late juncture, he would only appear more ridiculous than he already did. Still, he wished she’d stop looking at him. He felt like a bloody specimen pinned to the board.

“You have an extraordinarily beautiful body,” she said, as if stating a scientific fact.

“Do I, indeed?”

“Light is attracted to it in interesting ways.”

“What on earth is that supposed to mean?” Hawke said, frowning. But she’d spun on her heel in the sand and turned away.

She strode lightly across the sand to the blue towel and folded herself onto it with an economy of motion that suggested a ballet dancer or acrobat. Crossing her long legs yoga-style before her, she opened the tote bag and withdrew a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. Then a slender gold lighter appeared in her hand. An old Dunhill, Hawke thought, adding rich girl to his meager knowledge base. She flicked it and lit up, expelling a thin stream of smoke.

“Delicious. Want one?” she asked, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

He did, badly. “You must have missed the ‘No Smoking’ sign I’ve posted out there in the surf.”

No response to that. She plucked one of the violently pink shells from her bag, dropped it onto the sand beside her, and began sketching it in a small spiral notebook. She began whistling softly as she drew and soon seemed to have forgotten all about him.

Hawke, who felt that her skimpy white triangle of pelvic cloth gave her an unfair advantage, rolled over onto his stomach and rested his head on his forearm, facing the girl. In truth, he would have loved a cigarette. Anything to calm his now disturbed mental state. He found he could not take his eyes off her. She was leaning forward now, puffing away, elbows on her knees, her full, coral-tipped breasts jutting forward, rising and swaying slightly with each inhale and exhale of the cigarette.

Watching her body move to adjust the shell or flick an ash, he felt his heart miss a beat, then continue, trip-hammering inside his ribcage. It seemed to ratchet, and each thud only wound him tighter.

She smoked her cigarette, not bothering with him anymore, staring pensively out to sea every few moments, then plucking her pencil from the sand once more, resuming her sketch. Hawke, transfixed, was faintly aware that she seemed to be speaking again.

“I come here every day,” she said casually over her shoulder. “Usually very early morning for the light. Today I am late, because…well, never mind why. Just because. You?”

“I’m the afternoon shift.”

“Ah. Who are you?”

“An Englishman.”

“Obviously. Tourist?”

“Part-time resident.”

“Where do you live?”

“I’ve a small place. On the point by Hungry Bay.”

“Really? I didn’t think anything lived out there but those nasty spider monkeys twittering in the wild banana trees.”

“Just one small house still standing on the point. Teakettle Cottage. You know it?”

“The old mill. Yes. I thought that ruin blew away three hurricanes ago.”

“No, no. It survived,” Hawke said, feeling inexplicably defensive about his modest digs.

“Squatter’s rights, I suppose. You’re lucky the police don’t rout you out. Bums and hoboes aren’t good for Bermuda’s tourist image.”

Hawke let that one go. She was staring at him openly again, her eyes hungry and bright. He avoided those riveting emerald searchlights only by looking out to sea, scanning the horizon, looking for God knows what.

“You’ve got an awful lot of scars for a beach bum. What do you do?”

“Alligator wrestler? Wildcat wrangler?”

The girl, unsmiling, said, “If you’re so damned uncomfortable, just go and get your swim trunks. I assure you I won’t watch.”

“Most kind.” Hawke stayed put.

“What’s your name?” she suddenly demanded.

“Hawke.”

“Hawke. I like that name. Short and to the point.”

“What’s yours?”

“Korsakova.”

“Like the famous Russian composer Rimsky-Korsakov.”

“We’re better known for conquering Siberia.”

“What’s your first name?”

“Anastasia. But I am called Asia.”

“Asia. Very continental.”

“I’m sure that’s an amusing joke in your circles, Mr. Hawke.”

“We try.”

“Hmm. Well, here’s Hoodoo, my chauffeur. Right on time.”

She pulled a tiny white bikini top from her magic bag and slipped herself into it, one pale and quivering breast at a time. Hawke, unable to stop himself from missing a second of this wondrous performance, found his mouth had gone dry and his breathing was shallow and rapid. Her rosy nipples were hard under the thin fabric, more erotic now that they were hidden.

Hawke again felt the stirring below, suddenly acutely aware of his missing bathing trunks. He quickly turned his thoughts to a humiliating cricket match from long ago, Eton and Malvern at Lord’s, a match he’d lost spectacularly at age twelve. That painful memory had successfully obliterated ill-timed desire in the past, and he prayed it would not fail him now.

Seemingly unaware of his agonizing predicament, she quickly gathered her things and leaped to her feet as a small center-console Zodiac nosed into the cove. At the helm was an elegant black man, lean and fit, with snow-white hair. Hoodoo was dressed in crisp whites, a short-sleeved shirt, and Bermuda shorts with traditional knee socks. He smiled and waved at the beautiful blond girl as he ran the bow up onto the sand. There were two big outboards on the stern. Must be four strokes, Hawke thought. They were so quiet he hadn’t even heard the small boat’s approach.

Hoodoo hopped out of the inflatable and stood with the painter in his hand, waiting for his passenger. He looked, it occurred to Hawke, like a young Harry Belafonte whose hair had gone prematurely white.

Asia Korsakova paused, looked down at Hawke carefully, and said, “Good eyes, too. An amazing blue. Like frozen pools of Arctic rain.”

Hearing no response from him, she smiled and said, “Very nice to have met you, Mr. Hawke. Sorry to have disturbed you.”

“Yes. Lovely to meet you, too, Asia,” was all Hawke could muster as he turned and lifted himself to say good-bye.

“No, no, don’t get up, for God’s sake, don’t do that!” She laughed over her shoulder.

Hawke smiled and watched her take Hoodoo’s hand, step gracefully into the bobbing Zodiac, and perch on the wooden thwart seat at the stern. Hawke saw the name Tsar stenciled on the curve of the bow and assumed this was a tender to a much larger yacht.

“Good-bye,” Hawke called out as the small boat swung round, turned toward the open sea, and accelerated out of the cove.

Whether she’d heard him or not, he wasn’t sure. But Anastasia Korsakova did not turn back to look at him, nor did she acknowledge his farewell. Having deeply resented her intrusion, was he now so sorry to see her go? He’d always been amazed at the way the face of a beautiful woman fits into a man’s mind and stays there, though he could never tell you why.

His eyes followed the little white Zodiac until even its wake had disappeared beyond the rocks.

He stood up, brushed the sand from his naked body, and fetched his faded swimsuit. After donning it, he walked quickly into the clear blue water until it was knee high and then dove, his arms pulling powerfully for the first line of coral reefs and, beyond that, his little home on the hill above the sea.

Mark Twain had said it best about Bermuda, Hawke thought as he swam.

Near the end of his life, Twain had written from Bermuda to an elderly friend, “You go to heaven if you want to, I’d druther stay here.”

Maybe this wasn’t heaven, but by God, it was close.

3

The Russian president’s helicopter flared up for a landing on the roof of the brand new GRU complex. GRU (the acronym is for the Main Intelligence Directorate, or Glavonoye Razvedyvatelnoye Upravlenie) was a source of some amusement to President Vladimir Rostov. The frequency with which each new regime changed the names and acronyms of various institutions was a holdover from the old Chekist days: secrets within secrets.

Every breathing soul in Moscow knew this building for exactly what it was: KGB headquarters.

Vladimir Vladimirovich Rostov was a lean, spare man, a head or more taller than most Russians, with a dour demeanor and a long, pointed nose like that of a Shakespearean clown. He walked with an odd stoop, like some faux act of courtesy, simultaneously genteel and insinuating, a walk much parodied behind his back in the hallways of the Kremlin.

His moniker, the Grey Cardinal, spoke volumes.

At this moment, gazing down at the gleaming grey streets of Moscow from the sleet-streaked window of his helicopter, he looked grey and tired. He was within a nose of entering his eighth decade. Although it would be political suicide to admit it, he was feeling every year in his bones as he arrived back in the capital at the end of a long journey. He was returning from naval maneuvers on the Barents Sea.

The endless flight to Moscow, aboard a Tu-160 strategic bomber, had been cold, rough, and uncomfortable. Still, he was happy, all things considered. He’d managed to enjoy two exhilarating days at sea observing military exercises. Russia’s reborn Northern Navy had been surprisingly successful in the long-awaited war games. Indeed, the Russian Navy, he would soon report to the GRU, was nearly back to full strength after a decade-long hiatus.

From the bridge of the Peter the Great, a nuclear cruiser, the president had stood in freezing rain observing night launches of his newest Sukhoi fighters, taking off from the nearby aircraft carrier. Then, at dawn the next morning, had come the true reason for his visit. A new intercontinental ballistic missile was to be launched from the Ekaterinburg, Russia’s latest nuclear submarine.

The missile, a sea-based version of the Topol-M called Bulava, was Russia’s most powerful offensive weapon to date, at least three years ahead of anything in the American arsenal. It carried ten independently targeted nuclear warheads and had a range of 8,000 kilometers.

The Bulava launch, to the great relief of all present, had been spectacularly successful. It was believed the Russians now had a weapon fully capable of penetrating America’s missile defense systems.

At dinner in the fleet admiral’s cabin aboard his flagship that evening, the Bulava Program officers had described how the initial velocity of the new missile would, in fact, make all of America’s missile defense systems obsolete. This was a quantum leap forward, and this was the news President Rostov would be carrying home happily to Moscow.

All had gone exceedingly well, Rostov thought, settling back against the helicopter’s comfortable rear seat cushion. His report at that morning’s top-secret meeting with Count Ivan Korsakov and members of “the Twelve” would be positive, full of good news. This was a good thing, Rostov knew. Count Korsakov was the most powerful man in the Kremlin, and he had little tolerance for bad news. Rostov had learned early in their relationship that for the count, order was the ultimate priority.

On that most memorable day, pulling him aside in a darkened Kremlin hallway, Korsakov had whispered into his ear that Putin would soon be gone far, far away. And that then he, Vladimir Rostov, would become the second-most-powerful man in all Russia.

“Second-most?” the Grey Cardinal had said with his trademark shy grin.

“Yes. You will be president. But we all know who really rules Russia, don’t we, Volodya?” Count Korsakov had laughed, placing a paternal hand on his shoulder.

“Of course, Excellency.”

Korsakov-the Dark Rider, as he was known-secretly ruled Russia with an iron fist. But since he had no official title or position inside the Kremlin, only a handful of people at the highest echelons knew that Korsakov was the real power behind the throne.

As the president’s army MI8 helo touched down on the rain-swept rooftop, he saw his defense minister, Sergei Ivanov, striding out to meet him. A light December rain was turning to snow, and the rotor’s downdraft was whipping the man’s greatcoat about his slender frame. Nevertheless, Ivanov wore a huge smile. But it was pride in his new HQ, not the sight of the presidential chopper, that gladdened his heart.

Sergei’s headquarters, built at a cost of some 9.5 billion rubles, was the new home of the Russian Main Intelligence Directorate, the GRU. In an exuberant burst of construction, it had been built in just three and a half years, a miracle by Moscow standards. Thus, the minister’s smile was justifiable.

The two men shook hands and hurried through the rain to the glassed-in arrival portico.

“Sorry I’m late,” Rostov said to his old KGB comrade.

“Not at all, Mr. President,” Sergei said. “Still time for us to have a quick look around the facility before the Korsakov meeting. I promise not to bore you.”

Overlooking the old Khodynka airfield on the Khoroshevskiy Highway, the GRU’s new headquarters stood on the site of an old KGB building long laughingly referred to as “the aquarium.” It had been an eyesore, a decrepit reminder of the old Russia. This glass and steel structure was huge, some 670,000 square feet, containing the latest in everything. Defense Minister Sergei Ivanov had seen to that. This was, after all, the New Russia!

Inside the building were a plethora of high-cost secrets and state-of-the-art communications technology. Nevertheless, a large portion of the funds budgeted had been expended toward the construction of the wall that surrounded the building. On their way down to the Situation Room, Sergei assured the president that his new wall could withstand the assault of any tank on earth.

“I’ll have to ask our tank commanders about that,” Rostov said. Long experience had made him skeptical of Russian military claims.

But during the brief tour, Rostov found himself deeply impressed with the new Situation Center. As was his habit, he chose not to show it.

He casually asked one of the nearby officers, a young colonel, exactly what situations the Situation Center had been designed for.

“Why, practically any situation at all, Mr. President,” the man replied, beaming proudly.

“So, did you follow the American Senate hearings on arms appropriations on C-SPAN last night?” Rostov asked, matching the underling’s toothy smile tooth for tooth. “That was a situation worth following!”

“Well, not a lot, sir,” the man said, fumbling for words. “Some situations are-”

A general stepped forward to cover the younger man’s embarrassment. “That’s more the job of the SVR, Mr. President.”

SVR was the External Intelligence Service. Of course, Rostov knew it well. When Rostov had been head of the KGB, he had been personally responsible for that service’s complete overhaul.

“Really?” Rostov said, eyeing the general with some amusement, “The SVR’s job, is it? Isn’t that fascinating? One learns something every day.”

Embarrassed eyes were averted as Rostov smiled his shy, enigmatic smile, nodded briefly to everyone in the room, and took his leave. Korsakov was waiting upstairs.

“The man’s a fool,” Sergei Ivanov said in the elevator. “My apologies, sir.”

“That ridiculous little general? Yes. Somebody’s son or nephew, isn’t he?”

“He is. Putin’s nephew.”

“Get rid of him, Sergei. Energetika.”

Energetika was a maximum-security prison on a desolate island off the Kronstadt naval base at St. Petersburg. The facility was unique in the history of Russian prisons. It had been deliberately built atop a massive radioactive-waste site. Prisoners who entered those walls had a death sentence on their heads whether they knew it or not.

Rostov’s predecessor, the steely-eyed prime minister who’d overstayed his welcome, was a guest there even now. Rostov wondered briefly if his old comrade Putin had any hair left at all now.

The elevator came to a stop, and they stepped off.

“We’ve come a long way, Sergei Ivanovich. Eight years ago, we had more important things to do, even in the military sphere, than build fancy administrative buildings. But the GRU is the eyes and ears of the Russian Army, the entire Russian state to a significant degree. Its workers deserve such modern conditions.”

It was true. After the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, Soviet intelligence services had embarked on a decade of serious decline. The much-feared KGB, where Rostov had spent his former life, had been an institution in free fall. A great many Soviet spies had defected and sold their secrets to Western intelligence agencies. Communism was dead. MI-6, the formidable British intelligence service, had simply declared its mission accomplished, packed up, and headed home.

Better dead than red, the Brits and Americans used to say.

That era was clearly over.

The Dark Rider, Count Ivan Korsakov, had appeared to save Mother Russia.

With Rostov at his side, Korsakov would now restore Russia to her rightful place in the world.

On top.

4

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Count Ivan Ivanovich Korsakov, KGB code-named Dark Rider, said from behind his crimson curtain.

His bottom-of-the-barrel voice, amplified, had a disembodied quality that added to the anxiety of everyone within earshot. He could see them, but they could not see him. Few people, beyond his closest confidants in the Kremlin, were ever privileged to gaze upon Korsakov’s countenance. He moved and worked in the shadows.

Never interviewed by the media, never photographed, he was rich beyond measure. The most powerful man in Russia was a very private man.

But everyone in the New Russia and, to some extent, nearly everyone on the planet felt the emanations of that vastly powerful intellect. In the dark, secret chambers at the heart of the Kremlin, Count Korsakov reigned as a virtual Tsar. Inside those thick, red brick walls, erected in the fifteenth century, it was even whispered that one day Korsakov might lose the “virtual” part of that title.

President Rostov, and his siloviki, the twelve most powerful men in Russia, filed into Korsakov’s private conference room. This splendid gallery, with its huge gilded chandeliers, had been allocated to the count by presidential fiat. It was for Korsakov’s personal use whenever matters of state security needed to be discussed at the new GRU headquarters.

The gilt-framed pictures adorning the paneled walls depicted the count’s great passion, airships. From an engraving of the first hot-air balloon ever to fly, the one that soared above Paris in 1783, to oil paintings of the great Nazi zeppelins, they were all there. One huge painting, Korsakov’s favorite, depicted the German ZR-1 on its infamous night raid over London, its gleaming silver hull glowing red from fires raging in the streets below.

The room was dominated by a table Rostov himself had ordered built from his own design. It was long and could easily accommodate up to twenty-five people on all three sides. It was the shape that was so unusual. The table was a great equilateral triangle, fashioned in gleaming French-polished cherry wood. At the triangle’s point, of course, stood the count’s large leather armchair, now occupied by Rostov. It was the president’s idea of a small joke: there could be only one head at this table.

Behind Rostov’s chair hung the very same red velvet curtain made famous during Stalin’s reign of terror. At the Kremlin during certain kinds of gatherings, Stalin would sit behind this very curtain, listening carefully to conversations, words of which could often come back to haunt those who uttered them. At the end of the room opposite Stalin’s red curtain hung a beautifully carved and gilded two-headed eagle, the ancient symbol of Imperial Russia.

Now, behind the old worn curtain sat Count Korsakov. Like Stalin before him, he was the wizard who pulled the strings of true power.

The Twelve seated themselves along the three sides of the brilliantly polished table. Place cards identified their seating assignments, and the solid gold flatware and elegant red china permanently “borrowed” from the palace of Peterhof meant breakfast would be served. At that moment, a troupe of waiters, resplendent in white jackets with golden epaulets, appeared and began serving.

Rostov entered only when they were all seated, taking his place at the “point.” He smiled as a servant seated him, warmly at some, coolly at a few, pointedly ignoring others completely. The tension increased dramatically when one of the Twelve who’d been ignored accidentally elbowed his goblet, spilling water across the table. A waiter quickly mopped up the mess, but Rostov’s icy stare sent the man even lower in his chair.

Beside each golden water goblet on the table was a small gift, presumably from the count. Rostov picked up his present and examined it: a small gold cloisonné snuffbox bearing the image of Ivan the Terrible. Rostov got the joke. This was clearly to be a very special occasion. It was even Fabergé, he saw, turning it over in his hand.

“Good morning, comrades,” the familiar disembodied voice boomed from hidden speakers. It sounded as if a subwoofer somewhere needed adjusting. But the count’s tone was unmistakable. Heads will roll today, Rostov thought, smiling to himself, heads will roll.

“Good morning, Excellency!” the Twelve replied, nearly in unison and perhaps a bit stridently.

Of the thirteen men assembled at the table, only the Russian president was utterly silent. He smiled indulgently at the others, a smile of almost paternal amusement. The good news he carried allowed him to seem relaxed and in good fettle. The others at the table all exhibited a greyish pallor and seemed unable to control their darting eyes, nervous tics, and trembling limbs. This was despite the fact that many of them were wearing both the Hero of the Soviet Union and the Hero of Russia stars on their uniforms. Such was the enormous power of the one known within the Kremlin walls as the Dark Rider.

“Everyone enjoy the tour, I trust?” Korsakov said.

Heads bobbed and a number of Da, da, da’s could be heard. The president’s head was one of the few not to bob. He’d learned a trick early on, a way of not automatically agreeing with everything Korsakov said. He planted his right elbow squarely on the table and made a fist of his right hand, placing it firmly under his chin and keeping it there for the duration of any meeting. No mindlessly bobbing head for the president of Russia!

“LET US BEGIN, comrades,” Korsakov said. “We welcome President Rostov home from the Barents Sea, and we anxiously await his report on the sea trials of our new Bulava missile systems. But our first order of business will be to clean up a little untidiness. At a Kremlin meeting one year ago today, I gave this group two very simple things to remember. I insisted that you pay your taxes. To the last ruble. And I insisted that you engage in no political activity that could in any way be construed as harmful to our beloved president. Does everyone here recall that?”

An uncomfortable silence descended upon the room. Even the waiters were aware of the tension and stepped away from the table. The president’s two security officers, a pair of bulky Ukrainians who’d remained by the door, now moved along one wall.

“Apparently, not everyone remembers. I would like for General Ivan Alexandrovich Serov please to stand.”

The general, old, bald, and gone to fat, managed to get to his feet, knocking over his water goblet again as he did so. His face had gone a deathly shade of pale, and his right hand, holding the snuffbox he’d been inspecting, trembled uncontrollably.

“Thank you, General. Now you, Alexei Nemerov. Stand up, please.”

Nemerov, a thin, waxy figure with wispy blond hair, stood, his eyes blazing behind his round steel-rimmed spectacles. He realized he’d been deliberately seated next to the general, and they now stood side by side. Both were visibly shaken, one with fear, the other with rage.

“Excellency, there has been some mistake,” Nemerov said, glaring at the red curtain as if his eyes could pierce it, as if his hands could reach the man behind it, strangle the life out of him before he could-

Korsakov’s voice was low and full of menace. “There certainly has been a mistake, Alexei! Both of you seem to have forgotten why you have risen to such exalted stations in our glorious New Russia. Sitting atop your billions, lounging in your villas at Cap d’Antibes. You are here today only because I trusted you. And you will be gone today because I no longer do.”

Rostov’s two bodyguards, who had entered the room unnoticed, now edged along the wall until they stood directly behind the two traitors. Each took a step forward, silent and unseen by their intended victims. The other eleven averted their eyes from the bloody drama sure to come.

Serov and Nemerov staggered against the table. Both felt the sudden press of cold steel at the bases of their skulls, and both closed their eyes, waiting for the inevitable.

“Where chaos reigns, order retreats,” Korsakov said. “Let order reign once more.”

It was a signal. The two gunmen fired simultaneously, the hollow-point Parabellum rounds spattering bits of skull and a fine mist of pinkish-grey brain matter into the air above the table, gobs of cerebral tissue spattering the shocked faces of the men seated directly across the table from the victims.

Before the two dead men could collapse to the floor, the president’s bodyguards had grabbed each corpse under the arms and quickly pulled them away from the table, dragging them toward the door now being opened by one of the waiters.

“Close the door, please,” Korsakov said when the bodies had been removed and the waiters had removed their unsightly broken china and cleaned up a bit of the mess. The bloody napkins used by the men most affected by the carnage were replaced with crisp white linen.

“And let’s continue. Please, gentlemen, enjoy your breakfast. I have a few more comments to make before the president gives us a report on the Barents Sea naval exercises. Anyone have any questions? No? Good. Let me tell you what this meeting is really all about. I promise you will find it most interesting.”

Here, Korsakov paused, giving the Twelve, now the Ten, a chance to compose themselves. When he saw that they were following Rostov’s lead and had begun to sip their short glasses of “little water,” what Russians called their beloved vodka, and push around the eggs and pickles and sausages on their plates, he continued.

“First, regarding our own internal issues, particularly the recent Chechen atrocities, I would say that we must learn to look at all problems all-sidedly, seeing the reverse as well as the obverse side of things. In given conditions, a bad thing can lead to good results, and a good thing can lead to bad results. The massive loss of civilian life at Novgorod was regrettable, but we shall turn it to our advantage, believe me.

“The world is once more in chaos, gentlemen. That’s because it has no bipolar symmetry. Since the catastrophic collapse of the Soviet Union, there has been only one superpower, the United States of America. There is no longer any global counterbalance to enforce a sense of symmetric order on our planet. The Europeans try and predictably fail miserably. The Chinese would gladly try, but their nuclear arsenal is woefully inadequate, at least as of the moment. Everyone agree?”

There was murmured assent, everyone still too much in a state of shock over the recent violence to respond normally.

“Only two global powers have any realistic chance of challenging the United States, two governments capable of bringing back balance, restoring order and political symmetry: our own and, at some point in the future, the Chinese. Personally, I would much prefer our own humble motherland to take the lead on this battlefield.”

With laughter and applause, relaxation returned to the body language of the Ten. Although the smell of cordite and the coppery scent of fresh blood still hung in the air, the two dead colleagues were already fading from the collective memory.

“Good, good. So let me propose a notion to remedy this crisis, shall I? This morning, I tell you that our immediate goal is to stop the American encroachment on post-Soviet territories. To do that, I suggest that we reclaim the lost republics of our former Soviet Union. Not all at once, too provocative, but rather one bite at a time. We will begin perhaps with little Estonia, such a thorn in our side. A great deal of the groundwork there has already been done. At a subsequent meeting, I will inform you of the actual timing and strategy. Once the West has digested that and thinks we’re done, we will take them all back! Either by force or by subterfuge, but we will take them back.

“When we have accomplished the reintegration of our beloved motherland, we will look beyond those new boundaries, east and west. Because I tell you, gentlemen, the only way to protect our borders is to expand them!

“Returning our beloved Russia to her rightful place as the dominant world power will require nothing less than a new revolution! It will not be easy. As Chairman Mao once said, ‘A revolution is no dinner party.’ But we will prevail, gentlemen, we will prevail!”

Rostov got to his feet first, clapping his hands loudly. The other soon followed, leaping out of their chairs and applauding vigorously. This went on for at least five minutes, until Count Korsakov spoke again.

“Thank you all. I appreciate your sense of duty and love of country. But to achieve this glorious rebirth and revolution, we will need to keep the West from interfering. Keep their noses out of our nest. We will need a ruse de guerre, a trick, a distraction that prevents any counterattack by our enemies when our tanks roll. Any thoughts?”

General Arkady Gerimosov, who had perhaps drunk more “little water” than his comrades, spoke first.

“We could distract them by taking out New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles, Excellency? A most persuasive ruse de guerre, non, mes amis?”

The laughter in the room was explosive, but not everyone thought it was funny. Some of them privately thought it was a seriously good idea. Korsakov was not amused.

“A most entertaining idea, General Gerimosov, but, as Napoleon once said, ‘There are but two powers in the world, the sword and the mind. In the long run, the sword is always beaten by the mind.’ And on that note, there being no further business until the president’s presentation later on, this meeting is adjourned.”

“Volodya?” Korsakov said, speaking privately to the president via an earbud in Rostov’s ear.

“Excellency?”

“I desire a private word with you. I wonder if you might excuse yourself for a few minutes and join me in my office?”

“Indeed. I’m on my way.”

Rostov put his napkin to his lips, smiled at his colleagues, and slipped behind the curtain to see the wizard.

“Yes, Excellency,” Rostov said to the silhouetted figure sitting in the shadows. He took his usual chair, crossed his legs, and lit a cigarette.

“There is a man who needs watching, Volodya.”

“Who and where, Excellency?” Rostov replied.

“An Englishman named Hawke. I have some history with his family. He recently moved from London to Bermuda. He has somehow become involved with my daughter, Anastasia. A romantic liaison, perhaps. Perhaps not. He would appear to be a private citizen, extraordinarily wealthy. But I’ve reason to believe he’s MI-6. Or perhaps just a freelance operative for hire.”

“He needs watching or killing?”

“Both. For now, just watch. Contact my private security force on Bermuda. A Mr. Samuel Coale on Nonsuch Island. The old American NASA downrange tracking base. He’ll know what to do. When it’s time for Hawke to go, I will inform you. Then I will want you to contact Mr. Strelnikov. Paddy Strelnikov. An American gun of mine. He’s the only one I would send up against this Englishman.”

“He’s good, is he, this Brit?”

“Perhaps the best. He has caused our comrades in Havana and Beijing no end of trouble. Also, I am worried about my darling Anastasia. My daughter has been…unhappy since the untimely death of her husband, Vanya. She seems quite taken with this Hawke. It is troubling. I don’t want him in our nest.”

“Perhaps you should tell your daughter to steer clear of this man, Excellency. She is, after all, the soul of obedience.”

“Perhaps. But for a time, maybe, he will make her happy. And besides, who knows what she might learn from this Englishman in the meantime, eh, Volodya?”

Rostov nodded.

“Where is Paddy Strelnikov now, Excellency?”

“On assignment in America. Taking care of business.”

5

The road ahead looked like a frozen snake. Black and glistening in his headlights, slithering out there, disappearing into the distant snow-white hills. Paddy Strelnikov had his high beams on, but still, mostly all he could see was swirling snow. Wet stuff, soft blobs of it hitting his windshield. Splat. The wipers were working okay, but he still couldn’t see shit.

He found the stalk of the left side of the wheel and put the dims back on. Yeah. That was better, less snow and more road.

Strelnikov didn’t know from driving out in the middle of nowhere at night in the middle of a freaking blizzard. He was a Russian emigrant from Brooklyn, f’crissakes, where they had normal highways. The BQE, the Long Island Expressway, hell, even the Santa Monica Freeway out in L.A., et cetera, those he could handle. This road? North Dakota? Forget about it, brother. This was freaking Mars.

He glanced at his chunky gold watch, saw what time it was, and accelerated, fishtailing a little. He watched the red needle climb past eighty, ninety. He hoped to hell this automobile had traction control. He thought they had a switch for that on these new cars, but he hadn’t been able to find one. He wasn’t exactly sure what traction control was or even where he’d heard about it. TV commercial, probably. Whatever it was, it sounded good to him. When it had first started snowing hard, he’d pulled into a rest stop and looked for the switch.

Good luck. There were a whole lot of knobs and switches on the dash, way too many, in fact, but not one of them said anything about traction control. It was no wonder Detroit was going down the toilet. Nobody had a clue how to work the damn cars anymore. Somehow, a few years back, some genius in Motown had decided everybody in America wanted dashboards to look like the cockpits of a 747. Now, they all did, and nobody had a clue what button did what anymore.

He’d looked around inside the glove box for some kind of a manual, but of course there was none. Just his rental contract and a folded map of North Dakota, which he did not need, and his.38 snub-nose, which he hoped he would not need. He really did not have time to dick around with this car anymore so he’d pulled back out onto the I-94 highway and kept on heading west, hoping for the best.

Maybe traction control was even standard on this thing, automatic, he told himself now, speeding up a little. But about an hour ago, he’d almost skidded into a ditch. Twice. The road conditions were so bad back there it had been like trying to drive a friggin’ schoolbus across a frozen lake.

The car, a black Mustang coupe rented at the Bismarck airport Hertz counter, had a good heater, at least, once you finally found the knob that turned it on. He’d come across it only by accident, looking for the traction-control thingy, just like he’d finally found the button that turned the radio on. At least a previous renter had punched in some pretty good radio stations. Must have been some fuckin’ electronics engineer or jet pilot or something who’d done that. Whatever happened to two knobs, over and out?

There was an all-night talk show out of Chicago he’d been listening to. Pretty good reception, and the show was good, too, called The Midnight Hour with your host, Greg Noack. Tonight’s topic was capital punishment, of course, because tonight was the night old Stumpy was going to ride the needle.

Everybody in the country, not just Chicago, was talking about Charles Edward Stump, a.k.a. Stumpy the Baby Snuffer. Yeah, talking about Stumpy’s impending execution, et cetera. This case had gotten media attention worldwide, not just the tabloids, either.

Mr. Stump was, in fact, the reason Fyodor Strelnikov, known since childhood as Paddy, was driving through the Badlands of North Dakota on this most miserable night in December. The execution was scheduled to take place at midnight tonight, which was, he saw, looking at his watch, exactly two hours and six minutes from now. Stumpy’s sayonara party was going down at Little Miss, prison slang for the Little Missouri State Penitentiary just outside the town of Medora, North Dakota.

Distance to the joint from here was approximately sixty-seven miles.

Paddy snugged the pedal a little closer to the metal. He had time to do what he had to do, but he didn’t want to cut it too close. Get in, make his delivery, and get the hell out of this friggin’ state. You had to figure the joint would be mobbed, all the protesters and media crawling all over the place. He stuck the needle on 100 miles per hour.

“The real question is, is Charles Stump insane?” a caller said on the radio.

“Insane?” Greg Noack said. “Anybody who kills eight newborn infants in their incubators while their mothers are sleeping in the maternity ward down the hall is completely off his nut, man!”

“That’s my point exactly, Greg. Stumpy’s not guilty by reason of insanity. Can’t right-wing geniuses like you and Rush Limbaugh understand that!”

And on and on like that the calls went. The armies of bleeding hearts were out in force on the airwaves tonight. Apparently, in addition to the media forces gathered for the last two days, there were three or four hundred people standing in the freezing cold outside the prison gates at Little Miss. They were lighting candles, good luck in this weather, protesting the death penalty, et cetera, claiming Stumpy was emotionally distraught at the time of the murders, he’d been abused by his insane mother, blah-blah.

Like that made it okay, like Stumpy shouldn’t stretch hemp because he was a victim, too. Right. We’re all victims now. Hitler was a fricking victim. His mommy was mean to him when he pee-peed in his pants. Here you got a guy, at this moment probably the most despised human being on the planet, and still, the governor was, even at this late hour, considering a stay. A stay? Politics. Enough said. The trial jury, at least, had had the balls unanimously to put Stumpy down as a stone baby killer.

But Paddy Strelnikov knew that Stump’s train went a lot farther than that.

A whole lot farther.

Strelnikov had made Stumpy his personal hobby when the powers that be in Moscow had given him this current assignment a couple of months ago. Before writing up his report, he’d read all the trial transcripts, bought a few drinks for people here and there, interviewed nurses on duty that night, the K-9 guy who’d found the little bodies in their shallow graves, the arresting detectives, the ME, the whole nine yards.

Then he’d gone to have a little chitchat with Mrs. Stump in the Lorraine, Illinois, loony bin where she’d been doing crossword puzzles since 1993. Oh, the stories that little ninety-two-pound, white-haired, wack-job chick could tell.

According to Mom, who was wearing an attractive housecoat with sleeves that wrapped all the way around and fastened with heavy buckles at the small of her back, little Charlie, when he was just a tyke, had amused himself by putting insects, goldfish, rodents, and then abducted kitty cats inside an old microwave he kept in the basement. Zapped them at full power. Then he’d graduated to higher life forms.

Nurse Stumpy, her golden boy, had been abusing and killing infants and children for years, his mom told Paddy, with a gleam in those weirdly protruding blue eyes, and then, what he’d do, Stumpy began calling the victims’ families around Christmastime, taunting them by implying that their babies were still alive. And how did she know all this? Because she was upstairs, listening in on the other line, that’s how. This was the Stump family’s idea of holiday entertainment, their special holiday greeting card.

And that’s the final report he’d made, the report he’d sent to his boss, who’d told his boss, who’d told his boss, et cetera, and that’s how come he was out here in the middle of friggin’ nowheresville making sure everything was copacetic in connection with this particular execution. There were to be no loose ends, et cetera, in the case of Charles Edward Stump.

The Wiz, as he privately called his boss, didn’t like loose ends. And the Wiz ruled his world. Paddy, he was just muscle for hire. He knew that. Accepted it. He was a gun, that’s all. But by God, he was a good one. He was a fuckin’ Howitzer.

Strelnikov saw the fluorescent green exit sign for Medora coming up and moved over to the right lane. He’d take a little-used two-lane state road from here the rest of the way to Little Miss. He reached over and shut off the radio. He couldn’t stand to hear those people defend that moron anymore. Even now, just thinking about it, Paddy was shaking his head at the stupidity that seemed to run in the Stump family.

For instance, it takes a real numbskull to get the death penalty in a state that doesn’t even have the death penalty.

Charles Edward Stump had been convicted on eight counts of first-degree murder. Stumpy, who was twenty-seven years old at the time of the killings, had been a male nurse at the Fargo General Hospital, working in the maternity ward. Hello? Background check? So, one dark night three years ago, nobody knows why, Nurse Stump had gone into the incubation ward and suffocated all of the newbies, one after another, with a pillow.

Lights out, kiddies!

Then, according to the transcripts Strelnikov read, he had gathered up all of his little victims into a pair of pillowcases, walked out of the hospital, and got into his car. He drove south from Watford City, where the hospital was located, and transported the dead babies just across the Little Missouri River. He parked on a dirt road outside Grassy Butte and buried them in a mass grave in a deeply wooded area just inside Theodore Roosevelt National Park.

An autopsy later revealed two of the babies had been buried alive.

If Stumpy had had even half a brain in his head, he might have noticed the word national in Theodore Roosevelt National Park. National meant it was a federal crime. And now it was the feds who were going to tuck Stumpy onto his cozy little gurney and put him to sleep permanently tonight.

Blue lights flashing in Strelnikov’s rearview mirror snapped him back to reality.

“Great,” he muttered, slowing down and pulling over to stop on the shoulder. Hell, he was only doing a hundred. Somebody on Mars had a problem with that? He reached over and popped the glove compartment, his fingers closing around the little snub-nose. He shoved it under his right thigh, the grip sticking out where he could get it if it came to that.

A second later, the cop was standing outside his window, shining a flashlight in his face. He wound the window down, cold air and snow blowing in, and said, “How you doing, officer?”

The cop bent down, shining the light in Paddy’s eyes. Then he directed it into the backseat, where something shiny had caught his eye.

“What the hell is that?”

“An alligator case.”

“What’s in it?”

“What’s in it?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Hairbrushes. Soap. Perfume bottles, et cetera. For my lady’s bath. I’m a salesman. I sell these things.”

The cop looked at him a second. Paddy was used to it. He knew he didn’t look like a traveling salesman. He looked like a professional wrestler in a shiny navy-blue suit two sizes too small.

“Driver’s license and registration, sir.”

“Yeah, well, hold on a sec.” He reached inside his breast pocket and pulled out his driver’s license. The license wasn’t in his wallet, no, it was wrapped inside five crispy one-hundred-dollar bills with a rubber band around it, just in case of a situation like this one. He handed it to the cop, who played his flashlight on it.

“What’s this?”

“That would be my driver’s license, officer. Wrapped inside five hundred spanking-new U.S. dollars.”

“Sir, you-”

“Officer, look, I’m in kind of a hurry here, and I’d appreciate it if you’d just give me my license back and take the rest as a small token of my undying gratitude.”

“Look, pal, I-”

“Okay, okay, I gotcha.”

Strelnikov stuck his hand back inside his pocket and pulled out a neatly packed wad of cash.

“Five thousand dollars. That’s my final offer,” Paddy said, giving the guy his killer smile, the one he’d learned on the streets of Brighton Beach and Coney, use it just before you punch some scumbag’s lights out. “Christmas is right around the corner, you know, officer. Five large could come in very handy.”

He could tell from the look on the cop’s face which way this thing was going to go. Due south.

“Okay, sir, I’m going to ask you to step out of the vehicle. Now. Keep your hands up where I can see them.”

“Look, you’re making a fatal mistake here, officer.”

“Out of the car, sir,” the trooper said, backing away with his hand on his holster. “Now!”

The honest cop didn’t see the ugly little snub-nose appear just above the windowsill. Maybe he’d missed that word, fatal. Too bad, it was a key word.

Pop pop, went the.38. Two of the best, smack dab in the middle of the trooper’s noggin.

“Buh-bye,” Paddy said, looking out the window at the dead man splayed in the red snow as he accelerated away, the Mustang fishtailing wildly on the icy shoulder of the highway.

Hey. Shit happens.

All you can do is try, right?

6

Teakettle Cottage perched on a narrow coral precipice some fifty feet above the turquoise sea. It was a study in simplicity. The cottage was perfectly suited to Hawke’s needs. In addition to satisfying his desire for peace, the precariously situated house provided a sense of “living rough.” Hawke’s more romantic instincts, which he would never admit to possessing, equated roughness with reality.

He had discussed this rather arcane notion over cocktails one rainy evening with the brainiest man he knew, the famous criminalist Chief Inspector Ambrose Congreve of Scotland Yard.

Congreve had said that Hawke’s very human instinct, he suspected, equated the sheer discomfort and occasional violence of living directly on the sea with some guarantee of authenticity. Living always on the very edge of things the way Hawke did, with the attendant lack of safety, provided Hawke, Congreve believed, with a measure of truth.

That, Hawke had informed his friend, was laying it on a bit thick. But while Hawke much preferred to swim on life’s surface, Congreve tended to dive deep. It’s what had made their lifelong friendship such a lasting and successful one. In the cloak-and-dagger world they inhabited, they needed each other.

Hawke’s modest limestone house was partially hidden in a grove of ancient lignum vitae, kapok, and fragrant cedar trees. Coconut palms lined a sandy lane that finally arrived at the house after winding through a mature banana grove. The layout of the house proper was an exercise in minimalism: a broad coquina-shell terrace that overlooked the Atlantic fanned out from a rounded, barnlike main room open to the elements.

A crooked white-bricked watchtower on the seaward side of the domed house formed the teakettle’s “spout.”

The large whitewashed living room, with its well-worn Spanish-tile floors, was furnished with old planter’s chairs and cast-off furniture donated or simply left behind by various residents over the years.

The massive carved monkey-wood bar standing in one corner had been donated by Douglas Fairbanks Jr., who’d lived in the house on and off for many seasons. At one end of the bar stood an ancient but still operable shortwave radio. The old set was rumored to have been used by Admiral Sir Morgan Wheelock, commandant of the Royal Navy Air Station Bermuda during World War II. From Teakettle’s terrace, he’d monitored the comings and goings of U-boat and German merchant marine traffic just offshore.

Rumor also had it that Teakettle was once a safe house for briefing British spies en route to assignments in various Caribbean stations. Having heard that rumor, Hawke delighted all the more in his tiny home, his little den of spies.

The battered mahogany canasta table where Hawke took all of his indoor meals was allegedly a gift of Errol Flynn. Flynn sought refuge in the cottage for a few months in 1937, during a particularly stormy period in his marriage to Lili Damita. Leafing through the faded guest book one rainy night, Hawke saw an entry in Flynn’s own hand, saying he’d found Teakettle “a perfectly ghastly house, no hot water, pictures of snakes plastered all over the bedroom wall.”

There was plenty of hot water now, and Flynn’s snake pictures were mercifully long gone. There were only two pictures in Hawke’s bedroom now: an old black-and-white of his late parents seated in the stern of a gondola on their honeymoon in Venice and a picture of his late wife, Victoria, taken when she was a child. In the photograph, she was sitting on an upper limb of an old oak tree on a levee beside the Mississippi River.

On a table in the bedroom’s corner was an old Victrola, a Cole Porter disc still sitting on the turntable, next to it a Royal typewriter. Hawke had seen Hemingway’s name scrawled in the guest book. Papa had apparently stayed at Teakettle a few times, too. He’d visited the island during a fishing tournament, staying on as a guest of Flynn, working like mad to finish his book Islands in the Stream. Hawke could imagine him over there in the corner, shirtless and sweating in Bermuda shorts, sipping Cinzano from the bottle and banging away on the Royal.

Hawke took great comfort in his strange little house. Oddly enough, considering his substantial real estate holdings, it offered him a sense of abiding peace he’d not found elsewhere. In addition to his small room, there were three other bedrooms. Hawke had chosen the smallest for two reasons. It had three large windows, framed with vivid purple bougainvillea, that opened directly onto the sea. And the most intriguing thing of all was that it had a secret door, one that concealed an escape hatch.

At the back of his cedar-lined closet, a door-sized panel slid upward to reveal a serpentine staircase of hand-hewn coral. The narrow steps curved down to the most perfect fresh saltwater pool you could imagine, a fairly large deep-water lagoon, sheltered within rock walls but with a sizable opening to the sea. The deep blue pool was edged with jade where it washed over the rocks. He’d had a wooden dock built and kept his pretty little masthead sloop tied there, the Gin Fizz.

Hawke had indulged himself with one expensive eccentricity. Knowing his bedroom was some twenty feet directly above the surface of the lagoon, he’d had a three-foot-diameter hole cut in the floor and installed a gleaming brass fireman’s pole in the center of it. This system allowed him to slip naked from bed of a morning, still half asleep, grab the pole, and slide into the water below without even opening his eyes until he was three feet below the surface.

It was a lovely way to wake up.

He’d paddle around for ten minutes or so in the pool of sea-blue water, swim out into the open Atlantic, and commence his five-point daily regimen.

The newly devised fitness program was straightforward enough.

First, a 500-yard open-water swim, breaststroke or sidestroke, to be completed in less than twelve minutes, thirty seconds. A minimum of eighty pushups, four sets of twenty in two minutes. He would do the last set with one arm. Next, a minimum of eighty situps in two minutes. A minimum of eight dead-hang pullups. And finally, a 1.5-mile run along the beach to be accomplished in less than eleven minutes, thirty seconds. This run was always completed wearing combat assault boots, namely his old Oakleys from the Royal Navy.

Hawke was first and foremost a warrior, and he placed his emphasis on strength and speed but with no premium on bulking up. Bulk just makes you slow, especially when running in soft sand in combat boots.

He prized speed above all else. Speed through the water, speed over the ground, and speed of thought in rapidly evolving combat situations. He’d long ago lost his awe for the heavily muscled bodybuilding types. They always looked ferocious but were never a match for a fast, highly trained martial artist. Reggae god Jimmy Cliff had said it best, as far as Hawke was concerned.

De harder dey come, de harder dey fall.

One and all.

Morning routine done, Hawke would climb the winding steps back to his room, pull on a pair of faded khaki shorts and a T-shirt, and join dear old Pelham for some marvelous breakfast or other. This was the kind of simple, idyllic life he’d long dreamed of. And now that dream seemed to be coming true.

The old mill house had been electrified during the war years, but at night, Hawke preferred candles in wall sconces, oil lanterns, and the kerosene Tonga torches ringing the open terrace. On cold, rainy nights, Pelham got a roaring fire going. The fireplace had a lovely mantel of old Bermuda cedar inlaid with polished pink conchs. Atop the mantel was a model of Sea Venture that Pelham had found in Hamilton. The English vessel, en route to rescue Jamestown settlers, had suffered an unfortunate encounter with Bermuda’s reefs, and thus Sea Venture had provided Bermuda with its first European settlers.

Hawke had tried to persuade the feisty octogenarian to stay put at Hawke’s London house in Belgravia, but Pelham, the family retainer who’d practically raised Hawke from boyhood, wasn’t having any of it. So here they both reigned in squalid splendor, two happy bachelors in paradise. The fact that a half-century separated their birthdays mattered not a whit. They’d always enjoyed each other’s company and were long accustomed to each other’s idiosyncrasies.

It was six P.M. Hawke’s dinner invitation at Shadowlands was called for eight sharp. The lovebirds, Ambrose and Diana, had only just arrived from England a few days earlier. Hawke was looking forward to a quiet evening spent in the company of two dear friends.

Outside, soft dusk cooled the waning day. Hawke stood at his steamy bathroom mirror, shaving. He’d been ignoring his beard for some few days and was sure his friend Congreve would not approve should he darken Lady Mars’s door unshaven. No doubt, Ambrose would cast a stern eye on his hair as well. His unruly black locks threatened to brush his shoulders. If it got much longer, he’d let Pelham have a whack at it with his kitchen shears.

In the dense banana grove beyond his opened window, the tinkle and zing of nocturnal insects kept him company while he shaved. Another thing he liked about this island: the simple music of everyday life. The birds, the bees, the Bermudians. Every passerby you met seemed to be either singing or whistling some tune or other all day long. Bermudians were happy people. Hawke was happy, too.

“But I say,” Hawke suddenly sang out loud, simultaneously lifting his voice and his chin, scraping the straight razor’s blade upward along his throat, “dat de women of today, smarter than de man in every way…”

He put his straight razor down on the sink and stared at himself in the mirror.

Where on earth had that strangled lyric come from? He had a terrible singing voice and seldom used it. At his school in England, there had been two choral groups: the headmaster had named them the Agonies and the Ecstasies. Hawke had been a proud member of the former group. Couldn’t sing a note. He smiled, picked up his blade, and continued shaving, picking up the tune with gusto.

“Dat’s right, de woman is smarter, dat’s right, de woman is smarter…”

Someone was knocking at his bathroom door. Pelham, come to complain about the noise, no doubt.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” came the voice outside.

“What is it?”

He was still warbling the old calypso tune when Pelham rapped again on the loo’s louvered door.

“Yes?” Hawke said, cracking the door an inch with his bare foot.

“Telephone for you, sir.”

“Who is it?”

“A young lady, I believe.”

“Did she give her name?”

“No, m’lord, she did not.”

“What on earth does she want?”

“I couldn’t really say, sir. Something about a painting, sir.”

“Painting? We don’t need any painting.”

“Yes, sir. She’ll pay a fee, but not more than a hundred Bermuda dollars an hour.”

Hawke uttered something unprintable and splashed hot water on his face. Grabbing a towel from the door hook, he wrapped it round his waist and strode down the short hallway that led to the great room. A vintage Bakelite black telephone, the only phone in the house, sat where it always had, at one end of the monkey bar.

Pelham had followed him down the hall and now moved quickly behind the bar. He got busy with a jug of Mr. Gosling’s rum and ice, slicing a juicy lime within an inch of its life, preparing the evening restorative.

Hawke glanced at Pelham with a thin smile. Both men knew it was a bit too early for sundowners, and both also knew this mixology business was only Pelham’s sly ruse for the most blatant form of eavesdropping.

“Hello? Who’s this?” Hawke demanded, snatching up the receiver.

“Is this Hawke?”

“That depends. Who is this?”

“Anastasia Korsakova. We met earlier today, you may recall. I was just telling your…friend that I’m interested in painting you. I pay my models well, but I won’t be bullied.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“You. I want to paint you.”

“Paint me? Good Lord. To what end?”

“I’m an artist, Mr. Hawke. I’m having a one-woman show at the Royal Academy in London come spring. I’m doing a series of male figures. Life-size.”

“Why are you picking on me?”

“There is no need to be rude. I think you’d make a good subject, that’s all. And based on your rather quaint…lodging, I assumed you might be a man who’d find the money attractive. Surely you’ve done some modeling in your time, Mr. Hawke. A hundred an hour is not easily come by on this island.”

Modeling? Hawke stifled the urge to laugh out loud and said, “Miss Korsakova, I’m terribly flattered by your offer. But I’m afraid I must refuse.”

“Why?”

“Why? Well, any number of reasons. I’m a very busy man, for one. I imagine this painting business would require a good deal of sitting around. And I don’t at all like sitting around.”

“Your schedule didn’t seem too full this afternoon. Sleeping on the beach.”

“That was a catnap.”

“Look, I could paint you reclining, if you’d like. You could even sleep on the divan, for all I care. Wouldn’t bother me.”

“May I ask where you got my number?”

“Friends.”

“Friends of mine?”

“Hardly. I would scarcely imagine we travel in the same social circles, Mr. Hawke. No, friends of mine found the number of your cottage for me.”

“You have friends who know my number?”

“I have friends who know everything.”

“Well, look here, it’s been lovely chatting with you, Miss Korsakova, but I’m afraid I’m late for a dinner engagement.”

“Will you consider my offer, Mr. Hawke? I’m really most anxious to get started on you.”

Hawke held the phone away from his ear a moment and accepted a frosted silver cup with a sprig of mint from Pelham. It was really a bit early, but what the hell. He took a sip. Delicious. A fleeting image of a nude goddess emerging dripping from the sea appeared suddenly before his eyes as he put the phone back to his ear.

Get started on me?

“Sorry,” Hawke murmured, sipping. “Rum delivery man at the door.”

“Well?” Korsakova asked, impatience frosting the word.

“I’ll sleep on it.”

“Do that. I call you first thing in the morning.”

The line went dead.

“Bloody hell,” Hawke murmured to Pelham. “She wants to paint my picture.”

“So I inferred, sir.”

“Ridiculous. Absolute rubbish.”

“Are you going to do it?”

“Are you completely mad?”

Pelham’s bushy white eyebrows went straight up.

“Really, m’lord. One hundred smackers an hour is nothing to sniff one’s nose at. Pretty good gravy, in my view, sir.”

Hawke laughed aloud, threw his head back, and took another healthy swig of Pelham’s delicious concoction before padding off toward his bedroom to strap on the black tie and his Royal Navy dress uniform. It was Saturday night. Congreve had told him they still dressed for dinner at Shadowlands. A quaint practice, but, to Hawke, anyway, an agreeable one.

The muffled strains of the calypso song soon resumed from down the hall, his lordship singing at the top of his lungs, “Smarter than de man in every way!”

“Trouble in paradise.” Pelham sighed to himself, wiping clean the varnished bar and smiling at his reflection.

“Trouble in paradise,” echoed Sniper, Hawke’s pet parrot, who’d just flown from his perch and alighted on Pelham’s shoulder. Hawke had cared for the bird, a black hyacinth macaw, since childhood. Despite her name, her color was a glossy ultramarine blue. She was almost eighty years old, had a very sharp tongue, and would probably live to see one hundred.

“Oh, hush up,” Pelham said, and slipped the bird a few crackers from the bowl on the bar.

“Thanks for nothing, buster,” Sniper squawked.

“Do sod off, won’t you?” Pelham replied.

7

Paddy Strelnikov waltzed into the warden’s office at Little Miss Penitentiary at eleven o’clock. Sleet was rattling against the windowpanes. Stumpy’s midnight date with destiny, in a little more than an hour, was going to happen right down the hall. Hell, he’d seen them getting ready, coming up the stairs to the warden’s office.

The door at the end was open, and you could see inside to the pale green tile walls of the death chamber. Bright lights, like an operating room. Medical equipment. There was a lot of activity, and Paddy, catching a glimpse of the gurney, was curious about all of it. But he was on a mission.

It had taken Strelnikov ten minutes just to negotiate the Mustang through the mob scene of press and protesters at the gate. Then another twenty or so to get through the check points at Wing Block D, the maximum-security building at the rear of the Little Miss complex.

It was a long three-story building made entirely of concrete block with a guard tower rising at either end. In addition to the warden’s office, D Block was home to Death Row. Sixty-one inmates were awaiting execution, including some of the most notorious pedophiles, sexual sadists, and serial killers west of the Mississippi.

Little Miss had replaced Terre Haute Correctional Facility in Indiana as the federal government’s new special confinement unit for inmates serving federal death sentences. A couple of botched lethal injections (needles passing right through veins and injecting the sodium chlorate into the muscle) had led to public protests and the shutting down of the Indiana facility. Powerful lobbyists in Washington had made sure the new federal correctional complex ended up in North Dakota.

No one was ever quite sure who’d hired all of these expensive lobbyists, but no one much cared, either. In Washington, someone was always pulling the strings. Often, the true maestro went unseen and unnoticed. Like back in Russia.

Overhead, searchlights and TV lights lit the snowy skies like a Hollywood premiere. Lots of excitement when you pan-fry a guy as world-famous as Charles Edward Stump, when he walks that lonely last mile.

The warden, named Warren Garmadge, a short, wide toad of a man in a double-wide paisley tie, stood right up when the deputies escorted Paddy Strelnikov into his flag-bedecked office. He stuck out his meaty hand, a big smile on his face. He seemed to be having a good time, being on TV a lot recently. Interviews and all, CNN, Fox, all the biggies. Also, he saw the beautiful alligator carrying case in Paddy’s hand and figured it had his name on it.

He stuck his hand out, and Strelnikov shook it.

“Mr. Strelnikov, welcome to Little Missouri Prison. I’m honored you made time in your busy schedule to pay us a visit,” the warden said, showing off his white Chiclet-capped chompers. Guy was a real pol, you could tell that by the firm, slightly moist grip of his fat little hand.

“Exciting time to be here, Warden Garmadge,” Paddy said, taking one of the two red leather chairs facing the warden’s desk. He put the case on the floor beside him, casual like, no big deal. Make the guy wait for it.

“Everything’s going according to schedule, you’ll be glad to know,” Garmadge said, plopping down in his big executive swivel chair.

“A lot can happen in an hour,” Paddy said, lighting up a big Cuban stogie he’d been saving for this meeting. He had another sticking out of his breast pocket with his hankie, but he made a point of not offering it to the warden. What he did, he crossed his legs at the knee, lifting the material of his grey silk trousers so that it draped nice, and smiled, expelling a stream of fragrant smoke at the warden.

“So. We’re all right? We’re a go?” Paddy said.

“Yeah. Don’t worry. The governor has given me every assurance that there will be no last-minute surprises. As you know, the governor and I had a meeting of the minds on that subject one month ago.”

Paddy laughed. “Yeah, an expensive meeting, from our point of view. What’d we finally do for hizzoner the governor? Two-fifty large? Two-seventy-five?”

“I believe that was the number.”

“Which one?”

“The latter.”

“Yeah, the latter, that’s right.” When shitbirds like this guy used phrases like the latter, it made him want to punch their friggin’ lights out. Paddy looked casually around the office, one wall covered with photos of the warden with a lot of people nobody he knew had ever heard of. Local pols, police officials, et cetera. Martians.

“You ever witness an execution, Mr. Strelnikov?” Garmadge asked him.

“You mean other than the ones where I was personally pulling the trigger?”

The warden shifted in his chair, laughed uncomfortably, and said, “Yes, I mean a…court-ordered execution.”

“Just one. Allen Lee Davis back in 1999. You familiar with that one?”

“Old Sparky, down there in Starke, Florida.”

“Yeah. Starke was the only weenie roast I ever saw up close and personal. Soon as they flipped the switch, smoke and flames started to spurt out from Allen Lee’s head, must have been flames a foot long or more. Like blue lightning coming out from under the little metal yarmulke on his head. Burned his eyebrows and eyelashes right off. It was some shit to see, I’ll tell you. They shut the power down, then cranked it two more times before he finally fried. Must have taken him twenty minutes to check out, stick a fork in him, boys, he’s done.”

Garmadge was impressed, you could see it.

“Well, we pretty much got that all figured out now here at Little Miss. What happened down in Starke was, see, the saline-soaked sponge inside that little metal skullcap is meant to increase the flow of electricity to the head. In that case, the sponge was synthetic, which generated the problem. Starke uses only all-natural sponge now, and that solved that issue pretty much.”

“Gone green, huh, warden? All-natural sponges?”

He smiled. “Lethal injection is much more humane, as you’ll see down the hall in a few minutes,” the warden said, glancing up at the clock, eager to move on.

“Humane, huh? I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, warden, some of these animals you got sitting on Death Row don’t deserve humane.”

“Well, there is that,” he said, coughing into his fist.

Strelnikov got to his feet.

“Anyway, I won’t be sticking around for Stumpy’s send-off, warden. I’m only here to make a delivery from my employers and your benefactors.”

Paddy reached down and picked up the alligator case. Then he walked around the desk and placed it right in front of Warden Garmadge.

“Our organization is very grateful for your help over the years and especially your work with the governor in expediting tonight’s main event, warden. The management asked me to personally show their appreciation with this little memento.”

“Beautiful hide, absolutely gorgeous.” He was feeling up that case as if he had a raging hard-on under the desk.

“Isn’t it?” Paddy said. “Genuine alligator. Go ahead, open her up, warden.”

“This is for me? What the heck…”

The guy’s fingers were trembling as he twisted the gold-plated clasp on the top and finally pulled the case open. The case was lined in black velvet. The object resting inside caught the light and sent silvery shimmers across the walls and ceiling. Garmadge sat back and stared.

“Omigod.”

“Yeah. Something else, ain’t it? Here, let me remove it and place it on the desk for you.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a computer, warden. The Zeta. The Platinum Edition, by the way.”

“You’re kidding me. Looks like a sculpture of a brain or something.”

“That’s the idea. It’s our most popular design. You’ve seen the ads. ‘Zeta, the last word in computers.’ Get it?”

“No.”

“Zeta’s the last word in the Greek alphabet, I understand, but what the fuck. Some marketing bullshit. Kids have nicknamed it the Wizard or the Wiz, for short. See, the cord pulls out of the base of the brain stem. Let me plug it in for you, and I’ll show you how it works.”

“Where’s the keyboard?” the warden asked.

“Wherever you want it,” Paddy said. “Watch.”

Strelnikov found an outlet and plugged in the silvery machine. A small hidden lamp in the frontal lobe projected a virtual keypad onto the warden’s desktop.

“Holy smoke,” the guy said, tapping his fingers on the nonexistent keyboard.

“Hit enter,” Paddy said. “And there you go, you see the screen? It’s a holographic image. See? Kinda floats in the air above the brain.”

The Zeta machine was a piece of work, all right. From the supernaturally brilliant mind of Paddy’s ultimate employer, a very reclusive Russian multibillionaire who didn’t even have a name. Less expensive editions of the Wiz (with hardware made of mirror-polished aluminum, not platinum) would retail for about sixty bucks worldwide. Whole countries were already back-ordered for millions of these machines. India alone had ordered 10 million units at a discount price of fifty bucks. You didn’t have to be a mathematical genius to figure the margins, how much that did for the company’s bottom line.

“It’s engraved,” Paddy said. “Right here. ‘To Warden Warren Garmadge, with everlasting gratitude.’”

“The most fantastic-looking thing I’ve ever seen,” the warden said, stroking the sculpted brain’s polished surface.

“Yeah, well, the quesos grandes I work for can be very generous when people see things their way. In your case, it’s keeping these wild animals caged up. And taking a personal interest in Mr. Stump’s going-away party. Nice meeting you, warden. I’m going to take off now. Sorry to miss the big bang tonight.”

“Will you give your employer my deepest thanks when you see him?”

“See him?” Paddy laughed. “Nobody sees the big man. Nobody even knows his name.”

“Why not?”

“He’s the guy behind the curtain, warden. Like in that old movie, The Wizard of Oz? The boss of our operation? He’s the friggin’ Wizard himself.”

PADDY DROVE SLOWLY through the crowd gathered outside the prison gates. It seemed to have grown larger during the short time he’d been inside. The snow had let up some, now it was just cold, and hundreds of people were holding candles aloft, chanting some fruitcake-brotherly-love-a-weem-away song he couldn’t hear the words to because he had the windows up and the radio on.

WKKO Chicago was still on the air, and the airy-fairy tree huggers and Stumpy supporters were still calling in, some of them wailing in despair as the final minutes approached. He looked into the rearview mirror and carefully peeled off his walrus mustache and the bushy eyebrows. He left the white wig atop his bald head, thinking it wasn’t half so bad-looking as most of his wigs.

The show’s host, the hyperkinetic night owl Greg Noack, was going back and forth to a WKKO reporter he had standing with the crowd at the gate, and now Paddy could hear the song. It was “We Shall Overcome,” which Paddy thought was a slightly weird choice, since Stumpy was pure white trailer trash, not even a poor black dude who needed to overcome anything. But who could tell anymore what was correct or incorrect with these fruitcakes. In a country where “Merry Christmas” had replaced the F word as a big no-no, who could figure?

And Paddy wasn’t even a Baptist, f’crissakes. He was Russian Orthodox!

Then Noack broke in all excited and said there was breaking news coming out of Bismarck, and they were going live to their man Willis Lowry, standing with the press corps just outside the governor’s office on the capitol steps.

Lowry said, “In an amazing turn of events, Channel Five News has just learned that the governor has issued a last-minute stay of execution for Charles Edward Stump. Everyone here at the capitol is stunned at the news, because as late as eight o’clock this evening, the governor’s office was insisting there was no chance of a pardon. But now we’ve learned that-”

“Fuck me,” Strelnikov said, and turned off the radio. He reached over and grabbed his cell phone from the seat beside him. Flipping it open, he speed-dialed a number in New York.

“You watching TV? You believe this shit?” he asked Ruko, the guy who answered. “The asshole governor just pardoned the Stump. Hello?”

“Tell me you made the warden’s delivery,” the voice at the other end said.

“Done.”

“Good. Do what you gotta do, Beef.”

Because of his size and muscular build, all the boys in the old neighborhood had nicknamed him All-Beef Paddy. Pretty funny, right? Not.

The line went dead.

Paddy looked in his rearview. He could still see the prison back there, searchlights lighting up the sky. He pulled over onto the shoulder and set the emergency brake.

From his inside pocket, Strelnikov withdrew a small black radio transmitter. A tiny green light was illuminated. Paddy pushed one button, and the light turned red. Then he pushed a second button and held it down for three seconds. A signal went from his black box to a company Comsat satellite orbiting high above central North America.

The whole world lit up behind him, and a second or two later, the shockwave of the massive explosion rocked his rented Mustang nearly off its wheels.

Wing Block D, the toady warden, and all of the other illustrious doomed inhabitants no longer existed. It had been reduced to a pile of rubble by eight extraordinarily powerful ounces of Hexagon-based explosives carefully molded inside the hard drive of the Wizard computer Paddy had recently placed on Warden Garmadge’s desk.

“Pop goes the weasel,” Strelnikov said to himself, smiling.

Hexagon was another of the Wiz’s inventions, discovered when he was experimenting with the molecular structures of nonnuclear explosives. It was bright blue, had the consistency of putty, and one ounce packed a wallop one thousand times that of nitroglycerine. By sheer accident, the man had discovered the most powerful nonnuclear explosive on the planet.

To prevent discovery of the Hexagon bomb hidden inside every Zeta machine, the case arrived from the factory permanently sealed. Should hardware problems arise, the machines were simply replaced free of charge. Should someone try to force the computers open, the presence of air would immediately reduce the Hexagon inside to an inert powder.

Genius.

He pulled back out onto the highway and accelerated rapidly up the snaky black road. He had a plane to catch. He was going to L.A. and from there to some godforsaken burg in Alaska to get briefed on his next assignment. Something to do with fish, he’d heard. But first, and he’d put money on it, he’d be paying a little surprise visit to the governor of North Dakota. Sometime in the next hour, his cellphone would ring, and he’d be headed for the governor’s mansion. Can you say dead governor?

Fishing? In Alaska? What did he know from fishing? He was from Brooklyn, f’crissakes! But hey, a job was a job, right? Maybe he’d learn something.

Paddy smiled and turned the radio back on, looking for an oldies station. Life was pretty good, he had to admit. Yeah, his job kept him on the road a lot, but it was never, ever boring.

You kill three, four, maybe five hundred people over the course of a long and illustrious career, you think, well, it’s maybe going to get boring at some point, right? You say, you know, how many times can I do this and keep it interesting? It has to get old eventually, right?

It doesn’t.

It’s all about creativity, baby.

Bottom line? You have to find a new way through the woods every time out.

Name of the game.

8

Hawke gunned his motorcycle up the final hill before turning into a shady lane that wound its way down to Lady Diana Mars’s oceanfront property.

As part of his new program to simplify his life radically, Hawke had allowed himself only one toy on Bermuda, but it was perfection. The jet-black Norton Commando motorcycle, model 16H, had been built in 1949. The old bike had won the Isle of Man Race that year and had come fifth in the world championship. It was his favorite mode of transport and a perfect way to get around on the island’s narrow and sometimes traffic-clogged roads.

The roads could be dangerous. Native Bermudians, teenagers mostly, had affected a riding style of casual nonchalance. They sat sideways on the seat, like a woman riding side-saddle, and guided their bikes with one hand. They took insane chances on roads built for horses and carriages, overtaking on blind curves, racing wildly through traffic. Hawke himself had narrowly escaped disaster at their hands many times. The Wild Onions, he called them privately, rebels without a clue.

After crossing the narrow swing bridge, originally built to take the old Bermuda train over to St. George’s Island, he downshifted rapidly, delighting in the harsh blat-blat of the Norton’s exhaust. Royal poinciana trees on either side of the lane formed a tunnellike arch overhead, and the soft but fecund smell of dark earth and night-blooming flowers was almost overpowering in his flared nostrils.

The massive iron gates of the Mars estate were coming up quickly on his right, and he braked sharply.

He’d not visited Diana’s house yet and was exceedingly curious to see it. Vincent Astor had erected the legendary estate, called Shadowlands, in 1930. It was allegedly enormous, the house proper stretching out along a long, heavily wooded spit of parkland that ran parallel to the old, narrow-gauge railway tracks. In its heyday, Hawke had read, the house had boasted a large saltwater aquarium and Astor’s own private railway, a toylike train called the Scarlet Runner that ran around the property.

He leaned into the bike, accelerated hard, and crested the hill. As both wheels left the ground, Hawke got his first good look at Shadowlands. It was spread out along the coast, moon shadows turning the succession of white buildings magical shades of softest blue and white.

The house was not one building; it was more a cluster of connected houses, all white with white roofs. The complex included every possible style of “Bermuda roof.” He saw hipped roofs, fancy Dutch-influenced gable ends, raised parapets, shed roofs, and steep, smooth butteries. Various chimneys and towers completed the look. An architectural marvel, he had to admit.

Hawke smiled as he roared up to a covered portico, which he had to assume was the main entrance. He shut down his machine and climbed off, brushing the road dust from his white officer’s dinner jacket. He’d worn his Royal Navy Blue No. 2 regalia for the occasion, the Navy’s evening dress for formal dinners. It demanded a white waistcoat, miniature medals, and the three gold bands at the sleeves signifying his rank of commander.

Removing his helmet and straightening his thin, double-ended black satin tie, he took in Shadowlands with a sense of pure delight. This “house” Ambrose had invited him to looked more like a small fairy-tale village set along a cliff overlooking the sea.

Ambrose Congreve was suddenly standing at the opened door, bathed in buttery yellow light from inside the house. He was resplendent in beautifully tailored black evening clothes and shod in gleaming patent-leather pumps. He was still using his gold-headed ebony cane, Hawke was sorry to see, but the smile on his face and the angle of the well-used pipe jutting from one corner of his mouth told Hawke all was well with his oldest and dearest friend.

Hawke removed the key from his still-ticking machine and turned the bike over to a smiling young Bermudian in a starched white house jacket who promised not to run off with it. Hawke watched the young man wheeling it away and then turned to the legendary Scotland Yard detective.

“Hullo, old warrior,” he said to his friend. “Still using the swagger stick, I see.”

It was his leg. Ambrose had been tortured by a pair of Arab fiends in the Amazon jungle many moons earlier. They’d systematically broken most of the bones in his right foot, knee, and lower leg. Doctors at London’s King Edward VII Hospital who’d performed the knee replacement had originally thought he’d not regain use of the leg. But, not surprisingly, the tough old Scotland Yard copper had prevailed. After months of anguished therapy, with Diana’s love and encouragement at every painful step, he’d left the hospital for good. He’d walked out with a cane, but he’d walked out.

Hawke stuck out his hand, but Ambrose ignored it, stepping forward to embrace him. They stood that way for a moment, arms wound tightly around each other, neither saying anything, just two men exceedingly happy to see each other once more. Hawke, who was not normally given to leaky displays, had to use every ounce of his will to keep the tears that filled his eyes from spilling over.

“Alex,” Congreve said finally, clapping him smartly on the shoulder and stepping back to take his measure. “God, it’s good to see you looking so fit.”

“And you,” Hawke managed to croak as they entered the house side by side. “Where is everybody?”

“Diana will be down in a moment. She’s upstairs gilding the lilies. Let’s go out on the terrace, shall we, and have something lethal. What would you like, Alex?”

“Rum, please. Gosling’s if they’ve got it.”

Hawke followed Congreve through the main house, moving slowly down a long vaulted and torchlit hallway that led to the white marble terrace and the moonlit sea beyond. There seemed to be chaps in white jackets everywhere, all with shiny brass buttons and highly polished black shoes. Congreve had certainly landed himself in cushy surroundings, up a notch or two from his quaint cottage in Hampstead Heath.

“They’ve got it. You’re quite sure you don’t want a Dark and Stormy?” Ambrose asked.

“Never heard of it.”

“Really? Local favorite, practically the national drink of Bermuda. Rum, dark, of course, and ginger beer.”

Hawke nodded.

“Desmond,” Ambrose said to the lovely old fellow hovering nearby, “a pair of Dark and Stormys when you’ve got a moment…not too much ice. Ah, here we are! Lovely night for it, wouldn’t you say?”

The two men had arrived at the carved limestone balustrade surrounding a lower portion of the terrace, a curved patio directly on the sea. There was no wind tonight, Hawke noticed, and not a ripple on the ocean, all the way to the horizon. The light of the full moon on the glassy water was electric, producing an almost neon blue that was startlingly beautiful. A fishing boat lay at anchor, so still it might have been welded to the sea.

Desmond arrived with a silver tray, and each man took one of the icy sterling tumblers.

“Well,” Hawke said, taking a swallow of the potion, “let me raise a toast, then.” He lifted his drink and said, “To health. And to peace.”

“Peace and health,” Congreve said, lifting his own goblet. “Long may they wave.”

“Are you happy?” Hawke asked his friend, pretending to stare out to sea.

“I am,” Congreve said, his eyes shining. “Very.”

Hawke smiled. “Good. Then let’s get down to cases, shall we, Ambrose? Tell me, how does it look?”

“How does what look?”

“Come on. The bling-bling.”

“The bling-bling?” Congreve said, regarding Hawke as if he’d lost his mind. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“The rock, the ice, the D flawless. Remember?”

“The ring, do you mean, for heaven’s sake? My mother’s diamond?”

“Yes, of course, the ring, Constable. The diamond engagement ring. Was she floored? KO’d in the very first round, I’ll wager.”

“Still upright, I’m afraid. I haven’t given the thing to her yet.”

“Not given it to her? Really? Based on our last dinner conversation at Black’s in London, I should have thought the presentation was imminent. That’s why you two were coming out to the balmy mid-oceanic isles. Seal the deal or do the deed or whatever.”

“Hmm.”

“So. Where does the thing stand now? Are you engaged or not?”

“Bit difficult to say, really, isn’t it?”

“Not at all. You proposed to the woman. She accepted. I was there at Brixden House the night you dropped a knee, remember? That orchestral proposal? Berlioz?”

“Ah, yes. That’s correct. But there have been…complications. Things have arisen since then.”

“What kind of complications?”

“Well, I mean to say, difficulties.”

“Difficulties with what?’

“Communication, apparently.”

“Communication?”

“Hmm.”

“What about it?”

“It seems we don’t.”

“Don’t communicate?”

“Precisely. Don’t communicate my deepest feelings.”

“You’re a man. You don’t have any deep feelings.”

“I keep saying that.”

“She loves you.”

“I know. And I her.”

“Well? Give her the bloody ring, and get on with it! Is there anything on earth more symbolic of one’s deepest feelings? I mean, a diamond is forever. Isn’t that what they say?”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. You brought the rock along to Bermuda, one hopes. Ideal setting to bestow precious stones upon females feeling insecure about a chap’s deepest feelings, much less his honorable intentions.”

“Yes, yes, of course I’ve brought it. It’s upstairs in my shaving kit, awaiting the ideal moment. Perhaps on a sail in the moonlight. Something along those lines.”

“In your shaving kit? You’re kidding.”

“No, no. It’s safe as houses. I’ve got an old can of mousse a raser with a false bottom. It’s in the bottom of the can.”

“I suppose that’s all right if you trust the staff. I’d hide it someplace more original were I you. When do you intend actually to bend the final knee, then, old fossil? Full moon tonight, you know. How those facets will sparkle. I could excuse myself early and-”

“Alex, please. These things take time. Planning. I alone will know when the moment is right. Now, then, what are you up to? You certainly look tan and fit. No hint of the dreaded accidie about you.”

“Accidie? Is that more of your bloody French lingo?”

“Boredom, Alex, in any language. You show no signs of it, dear boy. What accounts for that? Keeping busy, are you, you and Pelham in that cozy little cottage of yours? Bermuda’s own odd couple, I must say.”

“Pelham and I? We’re not odd at all. A trifle eccentric, perhaps, rough and ready, but hardly odd.”

“So, what do you two hardy boys do with yourselves all day? To keep you both from going barking mad?”

“Pelham has his needlework in the evening. He’s taken up fishing, too, uses a monofilament hand line and reels them in by the bucket-load. Many’s the evening he fries up something he’s hooked in our little lagoon. Rockfish à la Pelham with a Gosling’s Black Seal rum sauce. Bloody marvelous should you ever be lucky enough to receive a coveted invitation to Teakettle Cottage.”

“Diana and I would be delighted. What else?”

“Bit of Scrabble or Whist on rainy nights, the two of us. I’m reading a lot. I finished Tom Sawyer, and now I’m on to Huckleberry Finn. Bloody marvelous, Mark Twain, I never realized. Did you know Twain adored Bermuda? Came here scores of times.”

“I need hardly remind you your dear mother was born on the Mississippi, Alex. Small wonder you find Mr. Clemens’s marvelous books so appealing.”

“I suppose you’re right. I do get a sense of her in those pages of his.”

“So, in a nutshell, you’re reading Twain by the fireside while Pelham lurks about down by the lagoon, harrying the finny denizens of the deep. That about it?”

“What else? We’ve a small stable on the property, and I ride on the beach most mornings. Good strong black horse named Narcissus, loves to run. Swimming a good deal helps, I suppose. Six miles a day. Which reminds me. I must tell you about the most remarkable woman I met this afternoon and-”

Lady Diana Mars appeared at Hawke’s elbow, all gossamer and glittering stones at the neckline and sparkling in her swept-up auburn hair. She was a beautiful woman with a fine mind and a generous spirit, and Congreve was damned lucky to have found her, especially so late in his life. Alex, along with everyone else, had put the renowned detective down for a lifelong bachelor. Diana had changed all that.

“Alex, you darling boy,” she said, going up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “It’s so very good to see you.”

“And you,” Hawke said. “You look lovely, Diana, absolutely radiant. And Shadowlands is wonderful.”

“I’ll give you the grand tour later if you’d like. We can even take the Scarlet Runner around the grounds. They’ve gotten the steam engine up and running again, apparently. But right now, I’ve got to go to the kitchen and see about dinner.”

“Just us three,” Hawke said. “What a treat.”

Ambrose and Diana looked at each other.

Diana said, “Well, yes, Alex, it was just the three of us until about an hour ago. We’ve a surprise guest for dinner. Ambrose hasn’t told you?” She looked at her man again, and Congreve frowned.

“Sorry, dearest, hadn’t got round to it yet,” Ambrose said, expelling a fragrant cloud of Peterson’s Irish Blend.

“Coward,” Diana said to her beloved, taking Ambrose’s hand and squeezing it.

“Well, who is this mystery guest?” Hawke asked, looking at the two of them, who were looking at each other. “Don’t tell me the monarch heard I was coming and arrived unexpectedly on your doorstep.”

“No, no, not Her Majesty the Queen, I’m sorry to say. But someone equally formidable. Tell him, dear, don’t keep the poor boy hanging.”

Ambrose looked at Hawke like a brain surgeon steeling himself to deliver a less than ideal diagnosis.

“Sir David Trulove rang me up earlier today, Alex. He just arrived in Bermuda late last evening. I offered to put him up, but he’s staying with some dear old friends who live here on the island, Dick and Jeanne Pearman. They’ve a lovely place over in Paget called Callithea. They’ve put Sir David in their guest house, Bellini.”

“C is here? On Bermuda? Why?”

C was the chief of MI-6, the British Intelligence Service. As far as Hawke knew, his idea of an extended vacation was a leisurely stroll to the corner concessionaire for a pack of his favorite smokes, Morland’s, a blend of Turkish and Balkan tobaccos with three gold bands on the filter.

“Well, good question. He’s been out inspecting the Royal Navy Dockyards all day. Lord knows why. Nothing but curio shops and a few restaurants out there now. At any rate, he called here rather early this morning looking for you. Sounded as if you yourself might be in a spot of eau chaud with the old boy.”

“Eau chaud?”

“Sorry. Hot water.”

“Just because one can speak French doesn’t mean one should.”

Congreve sighed and gave Hawke a narrow look.

“At any rate, he feels you dropped off his radar without much warning. I told him of our dinner plans with you tonight, and it would have been rude not to include him.”

Hawke was astounded. “What on earth would he be doing in Bermuda, Ambrose? C, of all people. He doesn’t take holidays, as far as I know. He barely takes food and water.”

“You’ll have to ask him, I’m afraid,” Ambrose said, getting his pipe going again.

“Oh, come on, Constable. Spill it. You must have some inkling. What does your gut tell you?”

“My gut? I wouldn’t trust my subconscious if it were only just around the corner.”

Hawke had known Ambrose Congreve for far too long not to suspect he was holding something back. He could feel the beginnings of tension surging into his neck and shoulders, and the feeling was not altogether unpleasant. Of course, he could be leaping to conclusions. C, the chief of British Intelligence, might well take a few days’ island time. He worked like a dog, round the clock, but the head of MI-6 was certainly entitled to some vacation now and then.

But he would not be calling around looking for Alex Hawke if something spicy wasn’t up. Would he?

Diana squeezed Alex’s hand and moved away. Hawke watched her floating across the moonlit terrace toward the house and thought she’d never looked lovelier. Congreve was a lucky man.

“Dinner will be served in one hour. I’m off for the kitchen,” Diana said, smiling back at the two men, “Sir David’s just arrived, Alex. I put him in the library. He said he had to make a few urgent calls, but he wanted a word with you before dinner. I have a feeling you’re in for quite a session.”

“So much for peace,” Hawke said to Ambrose after Diana had left them alone. “That’s what I bloody came here for, isn’t it? A little peace?”

“Qui desiderat pacem, praeparet bellum!”

“I’m sorry. What did you say, Constable?”

“‘Let he who desires peace prepare for war.’ Flavius Vegetius Renatus. Roman military strategist, fourth century.”

“Ah. I thought that might have been Flavius. Sounds like something the old bugger might say.”

Congreve was not amused.

“Vastly overrated, peace, I daresay,” Ambrose said, looking at his friend with narrowed eyes.

“Well, that’s a fairly bellicose comment, coming from one who fancies nothing so much as burrowing about in his garden amongst his bloody dahlias.”

“I have hidden depths, Alex. Even from you.”

Hawke took a long swig of his rum. “Ah, well, no matter. Easy come, easy go.”

“Another Dark and Stormy?”

Alex shook his head. “You know what this is all about, don’t you, Ambrose? Why C is here on the island?”

“Hmm,” Congreve said, and he meant it.

“Spill it.”

“Russians.”

“Russians?”

“Remember the hungry Russian bear, Alex? Remember the Cold War?”

“Vaguely. That was my father’s war, not mine.”

“Well, it’s back with a vengeance. Only this time around, it’s not cold. It’s hot as hell.”

9

The skipper of the Kishin Maru, a giant commercial fishing trawler sailing out of Shiogama, Japan, had been on the bridge for the duration of the sudden and appalling storm. The blow had appeared out of the clear blue, with nothing on radar or weather sat to indicate its approach or severity. Only a sharp drop of the mercury minutes before the storm hit had alerted the crew to what was in store for them.

The waves were mountainous, now thirty feet or more and building. Winds, now out of the northeast, were clocking at more than fifty knots. And the barometer was at 29.5 and still dropping.

The skipper’s trawler, normally in use as a pirate longliner, was now seining in the Gulf of Alaska for Alaskan pollock. Noboru knew he was inside the two hundred mile limit imposed by the Americans because of overexploitation, but at the moment that was the least of his problems. The sudden blow had caught him unawares and he was scrambling to secure his vessel.

Captain Noboru Sakashita’s trawler, owned by the giant Japanese fishing conglomerate Nippon Suisan, was accustomed to navigating dangerous waters. Indeed, it was company policy to push the edge of the envelope, as the Americans said.

Noboru’s company was run by a madman named Typhoon Tommy Kurasawa, a man who liked to live, and work, dangerously. He had one rule for his commercial skippers: Do whatever it takes to fill your holds. The ships in his fleet were all “pirates.” They carried no markings, to ensure that they could fish without restriction. These fishing pirates all flew “flags of convenience” to hide their owners’ identities. FOCs were sold by many countries with no questions asked.

Typhoon Tommy hated the Americans. But he loathed the Russians more. Russians shot first and asked questions later.

Just six months earlier, Noboru’s FOC trawler had been fired on by a Russian Border Coast Guard patrol vessel. The Japanese captain, under corporate orders, had been fishing the banks off Kaigarajima Island, part of the disputed Russian-controlled northern territories. It was there, in a place called the Kuril Islands, that the shooting took place.

When Noboru, under orders, had sailed outside the authorized area, the Russians had immediately fired flares in an attempt to get him to stop. He slowed his vessel, radioing Nippon headquarters for further instructions. Meanwhile, the Russians had launched dinghies loaded with armed men in an attempt to board him. That’s when he’d further ignored their orders and tried to escape. The border patrolmen in the small boats had opened up with machine-gun fire.

Three of Noboru’s crewmen had been killed instantly. Three others who had been wounded had fallen into the water and were taken captive aboard the Russian patrol boat. Later, the Russians claimed the illegal Japanese trawler had rammed their patrol boat and refused to stop despite repeated orders to do so. The Russian ambassador to Japan had taken this case to Tokyo, and there had been a very public trial. Protesters from Greenpeace had hounded the captain mercilessly every day outside the courthouse.

Noboru was lucky just to avoid the loss of his commercial license and even jail.

“Sir!” the radioman shouted above the noise of the wind. “We have an emergency distress beacon. Repeating SOS signal. Very close by, sir.”

Noboru stepped away from the helm and held out his hand for his binoculars.

“How close is the EPIRB?”

“Half a mile off our starboard bow, sir. You may be able to see him shortly.”

The captain stood at the rain-streaked windows and scanned the horizon as much as the shifting waves allowed. The emergency position-indicating radio beacon used a five-watt radio transmitter and GPS to indicate the precise location of a mariner in distress. It was odd, Noboru thought, that he’d heard no radio messages of a vessel in distress prior to the EPIRB broadcast. Whatever boat this raft had come from, she’d gone down in an awful hurry.

A minute later, he saw the life raft sliding down the face of a huge wave. It looked like a small red mushroom bobbing on the storm-tossed sea. By its size, he judged it to be an emergency offshore raft, two-man. Self-righting, with the bright red canopy top providing high visibility and protection from hypothermia. Probably from a small yacht and not a commercial vessel. That might account for the lack of a radio distress call prior to abandoning ship.

Yachtsmen tended to panic in an emergency.

“All back one-third,” the captain said.

The big trawler, already under just enough power to give her steerage in the huge waves, slowed even further as the crew made preparations to take the raft aboard.

THE TWO RUSSIANS sealed inside the enclosed circular life raft were ready to rip each other’s throat out. If they hadn’t both been so violently seasick, it’s possible they might have succeeded. The waves were tossing them around inside like a pair of dice in a cup. It was impossible to remain in any one place for more than a split second.

The stench of commingled vomit was contributing mightily to their extreme irritation with each other. Because of the sloshing puke, it was even harder to keep from sliding around inside, slamming into each other every time the raft crested a wave and started screaming down the other side.

“What is this fucking storm?” Paddy Strelnikov shouted at his companion. “I didn’t volunteer for any fucking typhoon duty!”

“Look, you think I did?” Leonid Kapitsa said. He was ex-merchant marine, a burly Russian émigré, maybe forty. He was probably KGB, secret police, just off the fucking boat, as far as Paddy was concerned. All muscle, no brain. Just the kind of guy you want with you when your life is coming to a speedy conclusion. The guy’s English was pathetic, so they were screaming at each other in Russian. In the old KGB days, field agents were trained in languages. Not anymore, obviously.

“It was flat calm when they launched us. Why didn’t they tell us it was going to get this rough?” Paddy shouted hoarsely.

“The storm came up fast. I don’t know. Maybe they didn’t know about it, either.”

“My ass. These big yachts have weather radar and shit. They know what’s going on. They knew we would-”

“They said we’d be floating out here for no more than an hour before the beacon got us picked up. It’s been three hours now. And they didn’t say anything about Hurricane Katrina showing up.”

“You were supposed to turn on that EPIRB thing as soon as the yacht was out of sight.”

“Yeah, well, I was too busy puking my guts out to remember.”

“Look, you’re the merchant marine guy. You’re not supposed to get sick. You’re supposed to know what you’re doing out here. That’s the only reason I agreed to have you along.”

“Wait-I hear something. You hear that?”

Paddy did. Japanese voices, shouting somewhere above them, muffled but very close. The wind was still howling, but suddenly the raft wasn’t bucking and yawing around so much anymore. It felt as if they were being lifted straight up out of the sea. Yeah, he could hear the gears grinding on a winch somewhere.

“Finally,” Paddy said. He tried to wipe his face clean but only smeared stuff in his eyes and made it worse.

“I’m going to be sick again,” Kapitsa said, and suddenly was.

“Ah, fuck,” Paddy said, trying to steer clear of the latest volley of projectile vomit to head his way.

IT WAS WARM and dry in the captain’s cabin just aft of the bridge. Paddy and Kapitsa sat on the only two chairs, wrapped in wool blankets and drinking steaming-hot green tea. At Paddy’s feet was a waterproof sea bag he’d had in the raft, a yellow duffel that contained some equipment and his personal items. Kapitsa had a bag, too, slightly larger.

Now that he’d had a hot shower, Paddy’s teeth had stopped chattering, and he felt halfway human again. The Japanese sailors had given them crew clothes, denims and T-shirts and wool sweaters that almost fit. The Japanese captain, who spoke pretty good English, sat at his desk. He had some papers he was filling out and was asking a lot of questions. Since it would never matter what he said, Paddy was having fun with the guy, making stuff up, whatever popped into his brain.

“You are Russian?” the captain asked.

“He is,” Paddy said, indicating Kapitsa and sipping his hot tea. “I’m a Russian-American. Third generation.”

“Your name?”

“First name? Beef. B like in boy, e-e-f,” Paddy said, carefully enunciating each letter, dead serious.

“What city you from in America, Mr. Beef?” the guy said, writing that down and then holding his pencil ready.

“Me? Orlando,” Paddy said, saying the first town that popped into his head. “You know, Mickey Mouse? Goofy?”

The captain smiled and nodded, getting it all on paper.

“You know why Mickey got so pissed at Minnie, right?”

“Mickey pissed at Minnie? the captain said, writing it down.

“Yeah. He said she was fuckin’ goofy.”

“Ah, yes,” the skipper said, looking now at Leo. “And what about him?”

“Him? Forget about him. He’s from frickin’ Siberia. Just put Siberia, that’ll be good enough. Every Russian postman knows where it is.”

“Last names?”

“Stalin and Lenin.”

“You joking?”

“No, no. Those are two very common names in Russia.”

“What happened to your boat? We did not hear a distress call.”

“Yeah, well, it happened pretty fast.”

“You were only two aboard?”

“Nah. There were some other guys. They didn’t get off in time. Tragic.”

“So. No other survivors?”

“Nope. Just us.”

“What was name of your vessel?”

“Lady Marmalade.”

“How you spell that?” He was actually writing all this shit down. Guy didn’t have a fricking clue.

“L-A-D-Y M-A-R-M-A-L-A-D-E.”

“How big?”

“Maybe a hundred feet. Maybe two hundred. Hard to say. I’m not into boats. And Orlando’s not a real yachty town, you know what I’m saying, Captain? Middle of the state, only a couple of dipshit lakes in the orange groves.”

“What happened to yacht? Fire? Explosion?”

“Beats the shit out of me. I think we just got knocked over by a big-ass wave. She rolled upside down and didn’t come back up for air.”

“You very lucky to get off.”

“You think so? You weren’t inside that frickin’ life raft, Cap.”

“Okay. You get some sleep now, Mr. Beef. I will radio news of your rescue to my company.”

“That won’t be necessary, Cap,” Paddy said, pulling the little snub-nose out from under his blanket. “We don’t want to be rescued quite yet.”

“What you-what you want?” the captain said, his eyes suddenly gone saucer wide.

At Paddy’s nod, Leo Kapitsa got out of his chair and went over to lock the captain’s cabin door. Then he went around behind the captain, standing behind his chair. He placed both hands on the captain’s head, cupping his temples. Then he began to apply pressure, gentle at first, the increasing it in tiny increments, just enough to make the pain excruciatingly unbearable.

“What do we want?” Paddy said. “We want to take care of business and go home, that’s what we want. But first we want you to get on the horn and order a lifeboat lowered.”

“Lifeboat?”

“Here’s the deal, Skipper. Your boss Tommy Kurasawa fucked with the wrong Russians back there in the Kuril Islands. Could you stand up for me a second? Help him up, Leo. Gently, gently.”

Kapitsa lifted the captain straight up out of his chair by the head. The guy looked as if he was going to have kittens.

“We brought you a little something,” Paddy said. “Take a look.”

Paddy had unzipped the sea bag and taken out a large metal disc about four inches thick and twelve inches across. It was a dull grey color and had a digital display panel blinking red on one side. Paddy stood up, took the disc over, and placed it on the seat of the captain’s chair. Thing was heavier than it looked. Must have weighed twenty-five pounds, including five pounds of the explosive sky-blue putty known to terror cognoscenti as Hexagon.

“Sit him back down,” Paddy said, and Leo let go of the guy’s head, letting him drop two feet onto the top of the disc. Paddy pointed the gun at the captain’s nose and spoke softly.

“Pick up that phone to the bridge and order the lifeboat ready, Cap. We’re going to be running along now.”

“You leave ship on lifeboat?”

“Exactly,” Paddy said, reaching between the captain’s trembling legs to key a code into the disc’s arming mechanism. “Here’s the thing. This object you’re now sitting on? Now that I’ve enabled the system, it’s extremely pressure-sensitive. That’s why Mr. Lenin has his hand on top of your head. You lift your ass up even a fraction of an inch off the pressure plate? Boom. There’s enough explosive packed inside that thing to break this boat in half. So you want to be very, very careful, okay?”

“Bomb?”

“Bomb, exactly. It’s set to go off at some point in the very near future. But it’ll go off sooner if you raise your ass. Got that? Okay. Pick up the phone. Call the bridge and tell them about preparing the lifeboat. Mr. Lenin-san here is an expert seaman, so you don’t have to worry about us getting away safely, okay?”

“Can’t get up?” Noboru said. “Leave chair?”

“Wouldn’t advise it. Absolutely not.”

“What I do?”

“If you’re a good boy and don’t move, after we’re safely away from your boat, I’ll turn the bomb off with this remote thingy. Then you can get up. Otherwise…well, I can’t vouch for your personal safety.”

The captain, whose natural skin color was a greyish yellow, had gone more over to the grey side.

“Pick up the phone and call the bridge,” Paddy said, “and don’t try anything funny. I speak perfect Japanese.” He gave him a quick burst, asking the captain in Japanese where he kept the good sake locked up.

While Paddy and the captain were talking, Leo had gotten two Russian submachine guns out of his bag. The subguns were Bizon 2s. The Bizon was new, designed by Mikhail Kalashnikov’s son, Victor. Pretty straightforward weapon with a folding stock, standard black AK-74M pistol grip, and, at the muzzle, a small conical flash suppressor with teardrop ports. The magazine, aluminum, held sixty-four rounds.

Leo hefted the gun. Short and light, it was only twenty-six inches long. He looked at the subgun’s selector switch and moved it to what he called the “group therapy” position. Full auto. He didn’t anticipate much excitement with the Japanese fishermen up on deck, but you never knew. He put the weapon on the captain’s desk, pulled the portable sat phone from his bag, and handed it to Paddy.

When the guy on board the Russian megayacht Belarus answered his call, Paddy told him they had pretty much wrapped things up here and were ready to leave the Kishin Maru. They would be boarding the lifeboat within the next five minutes. He would call again once they were at sea, but Kapitsa had advised that they’d be able to arrive at their prearranged GPS coordinates for a pickup in one hour.

“Sit tight, Cap,” Paddy said to the captain as he went toward the door followed by the big Russian.

“Head,” the captain said in a strangled voice. He was clutching the arms of his chair, his knuckles showing white with the strain.

“Head?” Paddy said. “Fuck’s wrong with his head?”

“He means the bathroom,” Leo told him, going out into the companionway with his Bizon submachine gun out in front of him. “He’s gotta go.”

“Bad idea, Cap. Seriously bad idea. I’d try and hold it if I were you, think about something else.”

Paddy took one last look at the captain sitting there on the pressure-sensitive plate bomb and then went out and pulled the door closed behind him.

Nice touch, he thought to himself, the pressure-plate idea. He’d have to remember to send corporate an appreciative note about that.

10

Hawke entered the book-lined library and saw C sitting quietly by the fireside. The room was an octagonal tower, bookcases on all sides rising two stories tall, with a clerestory window at the top. Sir David Trulove had a small volume of poetry lying open in his lap and had removed his gold-rimmed glasses. He was pinching the bridge of his nose and seemed lost in thought. A wine-red-shaded table lamp cast him in shadow.

The former admiral, one of nature’s immutable forces, was a great hero of the Falklands War. Tonight he seemed subdued. It was out of character and gave Hawke pause.

“Good evening, sir,” Hawke said, as mildly as possible. “Nice surprise, finding you here on Bermuda.”

“Ah. The reclusive Lord Hawke,” Sir David Trulove said, closing the book and looking up at him with an unreadable expression. He placed the slender volume on an end table beside the telephone and got to his feet, extending his hand. The older man was a good inch taller than Hawke, exceedingly fit, with a full head of white hair, furious white eyebrows, and a long hawklike nose. Noble was the word that came to mind.

Tonight, in perfectly cut evening clothes, with his lined sailor’s face and clear blue eyes, hard as marbles, he looked like some Hollywood movie director’s vision of a very elegant English spy. He was elegant, all right, but with a backbone of forged Sheffield steel.

“Do you read Yeats at all, Alex?” Trulove said, glancing down at the splayed book on the table.

“No, sir. Most poetry eludes me, sorry to say.”

“You really shouldn’t give up on it. I can’t abide much poetry myself, but Yeats is sublime. The only truly heroic poet we have, I suppose. Well. Surprised to see me here, are you?”

“A bit. Mind if we sit?”

“Not at all. Would you be comfortable sitting over there?”

Alex nodded and took the other fireside chair. The old worn leather felt good, and he collapsed into its embrace. He was conscious of C’s unwavering eyes and stared back at the older man. Neither looked away. It was a game they played, one that, so far, neither had lost.

“Having a splash of whiskey myself. Join me?” C said, his eyes drifting past the decanters on the sideboard and up toward the shelves of books rising to the octagonal skylight above. A narrow railed parapet ran around the room at the second-story level, looking hardly substantial enough to support a bird, much less a human being with a stack of books in his hands.

“No, thank you, sir.”

“Alex, I hate to disturb what is no doubt a pleasant interlude in your life. God knows, after your last assignment, you’ve certainly earned your respite. But I’m afraid we must speak about a situation that may require your involvement.”

He looked at Hawke, making him wait a beat. Both men knew perfectly well the precise three-word phrase forthcoming from the lips of the head of British Intelligence. He did not disappoint.

“Something’s come up.”

“Ah.” Hawke tried not to betray the pulse-quickening feeling that always accompanied hearing those three magic words from his superior.

“Are you fully recovered from your maladies? Jungle fevers gone? No recurrence?” His hard eyes regarded Hawke attentively. Hawke had very nearly died of an assortment of tropical diseases, including malaria, in the Amazon recently. There were some in C’s inner circle at the old firm who believed Hawke might never fully recover.

“Clean bill, sir. Never felt better, to be honest.”

“Good. I’ve made an appointment for you tomorrow morning with a friend of mine here on Bermuda. At St. Brendan’s Hospital.

Chap named Nigel Prestwick. Internist. Quite a good man. Used to be my personal physician in London before he came out.”

“I’d be happy to see him, sir,” Hawke said, trying to hide his irritation. He’d yet to meet the doctor who knew his body better than he did, but it was obvious C was taking no chances. Hawke was secretly pleased. This level of concern boded well for an interesting assignment.

“I very much doubt that. Your feelings about physicians are no secret. Nonetheless, your appointment is at nine sharp. No food or drink after midnight. After your physical, I’d like you to meet me out at the old Naval Dockyards. You’ll find a car and driver waiting outside the hospital. I’m looking at some real estate out there, and I would value your opinion.”

“Real estate, sir?”

“Yes. Let’s skip the chase and cut to the denouement, shall we?” C said, leaning forward and putting his hands on his knees.

“Fine with me.”

“It’s the Russians.”

“Back to the good old Cold War, are we?”

“Not yet. A lukewarm peace, perhaps. But it won’t last. There’s a distinct chill in the air.”

“A new turn for the worse?”

“You remember when Mother Russia was the sworn enemy of democracy and freedom?”

“I do.”

“She’s swearing again. Like a bloody sailor.”

“I’d really no idea.”

“Good heavens, Alex, have you read a newspaper lately? Turned on your television?”

“Don’t have a telly. And my reading pretty much centers around a pair of chaps named Huck Finn and Nigger Jim at the moment. I did hear something about critics of President Vladimir Rostov, journalists, getting bumped off at a rather alarming rate, but I’m afraid that’s about it.”

Sir David rose to his feet, clasped his hands behind his back, and began pacing back and forth in front of the hearth as if he were stalking the poop deck while enemy mastheads climbed the far horizon.

“These recent political assassinations are the tip of the iceberg. Our relations with the Russians have just about bottomed out. Last summer, Russia signed a billion-dollar arms deal with Hugo Chavez, the charming Venezuelan chap you had a run-in with recently. Chavez wasted no time in fantasizing aloud about using Venezuela’s new weapons to sink one of our aircraft carriers, the HMS Invincible, which is in the Caribbean at this time. Last week, the Russians delivered highly sophisticated SA-15 antiaircraft missiles to Iran. We know why, too. To defend Iran’s nuclear sites, a clear threat to the balance of power.”

“The new Russia’s sounding a lot like the old Russia.”

“If that’s not enough, the Sovs-excuse me, the Russians-are building a bloody billion-dollar Bushehr reactor for Iran, which will produce enough spent plutonium to produce sixty bombs minimum.”

“These are not our friends.”

“How much do you know about the Grey Cardinal and the Twelve?”

“Sorry? Grey Cardinal?”

“Kremlinese for Rostov. Tells you a bit about how he’s regarded.”

“Don’t know a great deal, sir. Ex-KGB. Strong, silent type. Cold as ice. Impossible to read.”

“Hardly. He’s a passionate, emotional man who is extraordinarily good at concealing his true feelings.”

“A good poker player.”

“As a matter of fact, yes, he loves the game.”

“I hope you’re not going to ask me to lure him into a few hands of five-card stud. Cards are hardly my strong suit, sir.”

A brief smile crossed C’s lips.

“Vladimir Rostov is not a democrat. Nor is he a Tsar like Alexander II, a schizophrenic paranoid like that pockmarked dwarf Stalin, or a religious nationalist like Dostoyevsky. But Alex, he is a little of all of these. And that is just what the Russians want in a leader right now. He is nashe, even though he frequently drinks Diet Coke instead of vodka.”

“Nashe?”

“Russian word for ‘ours.’ Symbolic for the new Russian pride in all things Russian. A reaction against the groveling, humiliating embrace of Western culture during the nineties, guilty embarrassment at being caught at a McDonald’s wolfing down a Big Mac, slurping Pepsi instead of quaffing vodka like a true Russian. Listening to the Dixie Chicks on the radio.”

“I would also imagine it is quite refreshing not to have your brave leader stumbling around the Kremlin knocking over the samovars.”

C smiled. “I miss Yeltsin, actually. Look here, I have our abbreviated Rostov dossier, which you can read at your leisure. But let me give you a quick sketch as a basis for our immediate discussion. Vladimir Vladimirovich Rostov, known popularly as Volodya, was born into a poor working-class family in 1935. Both parents were survivors of Hitler’s brutal nine-hundred-day siege of Leningrad. His two brothers were killed by the Nazis and his father grievously wounded in the defense of the city. These were prime motivators in his decision to enter the intelligence game.”

“So, he hates the Germans. That could be useful.”

Trulove nodded, happy to note that Hawke was already thinking ahead. He said, “At age fifteen, Rostov saw a film, The Sword and the Shield, which glorified a Soviet spy’s exploits inside Germany during the war. He tried to join the KGB at age sixteen. Just marched into the local headquarters and asked to sign up. They turned him down, obviously, and told him to get a university degree, study law and languages. He did, and they recruited him upon graduation from Leningrad State University.”

“He finds espionage romantic,” Hawke said, rubbing his chin.

“What?”

“I’ve seen that film you mentioned. Very romantic portrayal of the fearless Soviet double agent, alone, deep inside the Reich, stealing secret documents to sabotage German operations. In other words, accomplishing single-handedly what whole armies could not.”

C took a sip of his whiskey.

“I wonder, do you find it romantic, Alex? Espionage? The black arts of derring-do?”

“Not even slightly.”

C’s eyes registered approval, and he continued, “Tall, thin, and delicate in appearance, our little Volodya, at age ten, fell prey to neighborhood bullies. He began a lifelong study of sambo, a Soviet combination of judo and wrestling. He was deadly serious about it. Still is, actually. He earned black belts in both sambo and judo and nearly made the Olympic team. A year after earning his international law degree and joining the KGB, he became judo champion of Leningrad. I mention all this only because I think it provides a vital clue to his true personality.”

“Yes?”

“His boyhood judo coach is still alive. One of our chaps in St. Petersburg had a chat with him recently. Let me read you a bit from his dossier: ‘Volodya could throw with equal skill in both directions, right and left. His opponents, expecting a throw from the right, would not see the left one coming. So, he was pretty tough to beat because he was constantly tricking them.’”

“I see what you mean.”

“Rostov’s inherent inscrutability and judo were perfectly matched. He’s got an innate ability to read his opponent’s moves while concealing his own intentions.”

“It’s not a sport to him. It’s a philosophy.”

“Exactly.”

“It’s fascinating, sir,” Hawke said. “I’m most anxious to learn where all this leads.”

“To Moscow, Alex.”

“And once there?”

“You’ll know more tomorrow. For now, let me just tell you why I’m here on Bermuda. I intend to establish a new top-secret section of MI-6. For want of a better name, I’ve decided to call it Red Banner. Its sole reason for being will be vigorous counterintelligence operations against the newly reconstituted Russian Cheka.”

“Cheka?”

“Chekists were the Bolshevik version of the KGB. A word formed from the Russian acronym for Lenin’s Extraordinary Commission, or secret police. It’s run by a group of men inside the Kremlin I may have mentioned earlier. They’re called the Twelve. In Russian, it’s the siloviki. Translation, the all-powerful.”

“Their role?”

“We think it’s possible they pull all the strings. That the Grey Cardinal serves at their pleasure and acts at their direction.”

“So Rostov’s a disappointment, is he? We had rather high hopes for him at one point.”

“There’s some very unpleasant news coming out of Moscow, Alex. Our highest priority is to protect the young states of Eastern Europe.

The Kremlin has already tried to force the collapse of democratically elected governments in Estonia and Georgia. And punished other independent neighbors by cutting energy deliveries.”

“To what end? They’re all sovereign states now.”

“We think all this strong-arming is only a prelude. There’s a strong possibility she may try to take them all back. Restore her old Soviet borders by force. And once she’s digested her eastern neighbors, she’s going take a hard look at the rest of Europe. Western Europe’s at Russia’s mercy, even now. The Kremlin can shut off the flow of energy to our European allies any time it damn well wants to.”

“Christ.”

“You could say that. That’s why this urgent need to revitalize our intelligence operations vis-à-vis the Russians. And we need to do it now.”

“And our new counter-Chekist branch will be based where?”

“Right here. On Bermuda. We’re going to the Dockyards in the morning after your appointment in Samara with Nigel Prestwick. Find some office space for you.”

“For me?”

“You’re to head up this new special division, Alex. I’ve thought long and hard on this, and I’m convinced you’re the ideal chap to take this on. You’ve put together quite an outstanding record these last years, you know.”

“I’m honored. Thank you, sir. Of course, I-”

“Alex, you can have some time to think this over. But time is short. I need you to be brutally honest. Do you have any qualms? Reservations?”

“My Russian is nonexistent, for one.”

“But your comrade-in-arms Chief Inspector Congreve is fluent. And you’ll be surrounded with other fluent personnel from the firm.”

“Ambrose knows about this-Red Banner?”

“He’s part of your team. Already signed on. Two other young fellows from the MI-6 Russian division have come over as well. Benjamin Griswold and Fife Symington. First-rate lads, both of them.”

“I see. Well-”

“Listen, Alex. I know this is all quite sudden. You don’t need to respond tonight or even tomorrow. But if your answer is affirmative, the sooner I know, the better, so I might get on to the next candidate.

It’s early days, but we’re at a critical moment in a new duel with these twenty-first-century Chekists.”

“Pistols at dawn?”

“Not quite. But we do need to move with alacrity. Something’s very much up, as I said, and I doubt it will be an extended olive branch. One year ago, I would have put the number of Russian covert operatives working inside Britain at fewer than one hundred. In the last month alone, I’ve seen estimates that put that number at well more than a thousand.”

“Astounding. Any correlation with what our American cousins are seeing?”

“The same, if not worse. Your friend Brick Kelly at CIA is just as concerned as we are. The Kremlin is sitting atop a deeply entrenched criminal enterprise with unlimited wealth and natural resources as yet untapped. The Russian economy is suddenly booming right along with the price of oil. As I say, they could bring Europe to its knees in less than an hour by simply turning off the oil and gas taps. They won’t do that unless pushed, of course. They like the cash flow too much. So, what the devil is going on with the big Russian bear? That, Alex, is what Red Banner is going to find out.”

“I understand. One question, if I may, sir. Why base this new operation in Bermuda, of all places?”

C smiled. “For one thing, it’s almost equidistant from London and Washington. But more important is secrecy. I can’t run this thing out of 85 Vauxhall Cross. Think about it, Alex. The Russians have invaded London. Not only the obscenely wealthy oligarchs buying up Mayfair palaces but the newly reborn KGB, as well. The bloody Russian spooks and tycoons are everywhere you look. Dysfunctional, amoral, and nothing is out of bounds.”

“I’d heard the Russian mafiya are buying up casinos and completely taking over London’s prostitution rings. White slavery run out of Eastern Europe and the Gulf States. Londonistan, I hear they’re calling it these days.”

“I’m afraid so, Alex. In the nineties, we were dealing with a kleptocracy, a government in chaos run by competing thieves. These billionaire bandits have stolen Russia blind. Literally, in a few short years, stolen an entire country in what amounts to the greatest theft in history. Now the country is in the hands of the secret police. Putin was first to put former KGB cronies in every possible position of power. The New Russia is the world’s first true police state, ground up. Now, rich beyond measure because of soaring oil revenues, they’re looking around for new worlds to plunder.”

“I’m still not sure I understand your choice of Bermuda for Red Banner, sir.”

“Again, geography. Is there a more isolated, a more pristinely British spot on earth than this tranquil little pastel archipelago? Any Russian setting foot on this island to poke about in our nest will stand out like a sore thumb.”

Hawke was about to mention the exquisitely beautiful sore thumb he’d met on the beach earlier that afternoon, but at that moment, Lady Diana Mars poked her lovely head inside the library door and said, “Gentlemen, dinner is served.”

“After you, comrade,” C said to Hawke with a smile.

“Spasiba,” Hawke said, thanking him and virtually exhausting his Russian vocabulary.

He’d have to learn some bloody good Russian swear words so he could let Ambrose have it for leading him by the nose into this little trap C had laid for him.

11

Sleigh bells ring, are you list’nin’? Paddy still got that old tingle. Christmas in New York, you couldn’t beat it with a stick. Something in the air, that’s what they said, and they were right. Fuckin’ magic, that’s what it was. He was leaning on the rail on the Fifty-third Street side, overlooking the skating rink at Rockefeller Center. He still got a kick out of it, just as he did when he was a snot-nosed kid living at the wrong end of Neptune Avenue in Brighton Beach. Coming into the city with his dad had been a big deal, especially at Christmastime.

A light snow was falling, like movie snow, it was so fine and sparkly, and it was getting dark fast, making that huge tree glimmer and shine. He squinted his eyes, making the tree go all hazy the way he used to do as a kid. How about that, huh? Beautiful thing to see, even at his age.

Even the skaters were still fun to watch. The babes in their little pleated skating skirts were the best ones. You couldn’t put on an outfit like that and step out onto the ice unless you could skate like an angel. Then you had the guys. Something about a guy lifting one leg and skating along like a friggin’ swan just didn’t sit right with him, never had.

Like guys who took tub baths instead of showers, tough to trust. The really good guy skaters had to be fairies, right? And the really bad ones, like this gangsta character who just took a header and slid butt-first into the wall, should not have been on the ice for any reason whatsoever.

“Hey, Spazmo! Yeah, I’m talking to you, the great one! Nice move, man, look like Wayne friggin’ Gretzky out there!”

He laughed and looked at his watch. The office Christmas party started at six, and here it was now already quarter past. After the endless flight from Fairbanks friggin’ Alaska, he’d gone straight to his room at the Waldorf and gotten a few hours’ sleep, leaving a wake-up call with the operator for four-thirty.

He’d stopped in at P.J.’s for a couple of pops and lost track of the time. But yeah, he was pumped about the party. It would be the first official event at the new corporate offices at the top of the Empire State Building. Somebody said they were having Gladys Knight, but that could have just been the water cooler talking.

He wasn’t sure what time the big boss would show up for this wing-ding, but that was something he definitely didn’t want to miss. Most employees never got the chance to see the man himself. The Queso Grande, the honcho, the muckety-muck, the man behind the curtain. Yeah, tonight was going to be very special. There was even a crazy rumor about the way the old man was going to arrive tonight. He had no idea how, but he was pretty sure the boss man wasn’t going to be stepping off a Fifth Avenue bus.

Better get a move on. He turned away from the skaters and started walking quickly east along the beautifully decorated mall toward Fifth Avenue. Christmas shopping was going full-bore now, and he had to be careful about knocking anybody down who got in his way. People, when they saw his size, normally got out of the way fast. But in a crowd like this, it was tough to move fast without seriously injuring anybody.

Paddy hung a right on Fifth and started walking south down to Thirty-fourth Street. The crowds were amazing, especially the lines across the street forming outside the Saks windows. Something was also going on farther along the avenue, because they had these giant searchlights shooting straight up into the clouds. You could see the beams sweeping back and forth through the snow, lighting up the dark bellies of the low-lying clouds and flashing across the tall spires that lined the street of boyhood dreams.

It took him all of ten minutes to reach the Empire State. The searchlights, on flatbeds, were right outside the main entrance, aimed up at the tower. The tower at the top was always lit up with beautiful lights, sometimes red, white, and blue or red and green like now for Christmas. But the searchlights were crisscrossing the building, and it looked like some kind of Hollywood premiere or something. All kinds of TV trucks with big dish antennas out there, too. Something big was going on, all right.

Walking inside the three-story lobby, Paddy felt a touch of pride. After all, this was his office. Kind of.

He’d come a long way from the Brooklyn dockyards where he was just another punk longshoreman with a thirty-inch neck and a whole lot of attitude. He was now an important part of a multinational organization with a fancy corporate headquarters at one of the most famous buildings in the world. After September 11, 2001, it had become the tallest building in New York again.

He looked around the lobby, his lobby, taking it all in. Art deco, he thought they called it. Looked good to him. Glitzy, but old-fashioned glitz. He’d never been upstairs to the corporate offices before, so he went over to the fancy marble info desk and spoke to the nice little Jewish lady who looked as if she’d been behind that counter her whole life. Her nameplate said “MURIEL ESB.” Esb? Esb didn’t sound like any Jewish name he’d heard of, and then he realized maybe it was the initials of the building? Yeah.

“Welcome to the Empire State Building! How may I help you?”

“How you doing, Muriel?” Paddy asked her, showing her his employee ID card, “I’m looking for the TSAR Christmas party?”

“Oh! Aren’t you the lucky one, Mr. Strelnikov? That’s going to be something to see. Especially from up top where you’ll be.”

“Something to see? You mean Gladys Knight?” He could give a flying crap about Gladys Knight, but hey, it was Christmas, stick with the spirit.

Muriel smiled. “Didn’t you see all the searchlights out there? And the TV cameras? It’s not Santy Claus they’re waiting for, you know.”

“Yeah? Who they waiting for?”

“Your famous boss! He’s supposed to arrive at seven o’clock. That’s one half-hour from now, so you’d better get up there.”

“What’s he doing, flying in on Air Reindeer or something?”

“Something like that,” she said, and they both laughed, and he asked her again where he was supposed to go.

“Your cocktail reception is on the very top floor, where the 102nd Floor Observatory used to be. A lot of people aren’t too happy about losing that observation deck, you know, Mr. Strelnikov. Even though we still have the one on the 86th floor, the 102nd was the best.”

“Well, what are you going to do? That’s progress for you. You take care of yourself, huh, Muriel? And Merry Christmas to you and all the other little Essbees.”

The company had bought the whole top third of the Empire State two years ago, all the way from the 70th floor up to the 102nd floor. They’d spent a cool hundred mil or so gutting the place and outfitting it as befits the North American headquarters of Technology, Science, and Applied Research, Inc.

TSAR. Like the old Russian rulers. It was just more of the boss’s sense of humor to call his huge company that. You had to hand it to the guy. For a bona fide genius and one of the top ten richest billionaires on the planet, the guy had a lot of style. But what he did that Paddy admired most, he took care of his people. All the way down to the little guys like Paddy himself. If you could call him a little guy, he thought, laughing at his own joke.

Paddy stepped into an empty elevator and hit the express button for the top floor. It shot up like a friggin’ rocket, and he stepped out a couple of minutes later. It was like landing on another planet.

A marble-floored glass room now took up the whole top floor of the Empire State. The ceiling and walls, all glass and steel, had to be seventy-five feet above the heads of all of the people milling around drinking and schmoozing. He made his way over to the windows on the Fifth Avenue side. All around him were the tops of the towers of Manhattan and, overhead, the snow clouds lit up by the searchlights on the streets below. In the center of the room was a square glass elevator tower that went right through the ceiling and up to some kind of radio tower or something that rose another twenty stories or so above where he was standing.

There was a big covered platform about halfway up the tower and a lot of activity going on. He walked around a little, trying to see what the deal was, but it was impossible to see from down here.

“King Kong supposed to show up again tonight?” he asked the bartender at one of the many bars around the edges of the room. Most of them had lines, people waiting for a drink, but, for some reason, not this one.

The guy laughed and said, “You’d think, huh? No, just the world’s richest man, is what they tell me.”

“Gimme a vodka rocks, will you?”

“Vitamin V, coming right up.”

“Thanks.”

“You work for this guy?” the barkeep said, filling a tumbler with the bar hooch and sliding it over.

“Yeah. Long time.”

“You in sales? I’ll tell you why. I’d like to get one of those new Zeta machines for my kid. You know, the little computer that looks like a brain? I tried every CompWorld in town, but they’re all like back-ordered forever.”

“I ain’t in sales. Sorry.”

“Hey, no problem. You want another?”

“With a name like Smirnoff, it’s got to be good, right?”

Paddy shoved his glass over for a refill, and the guy said, “So, your boss must be pretty smart, huh? Invent the Zeta and all that shit. He’s what, a Russian, right? What’s his name again?”

“Only name I’ve ever heard is somebody calling him Tsar Ivan. Tonight’s my first shot at actually seeing the guy up close and personal.”

“Well, guess what?” the bartender said, backing away from the bar and looking straight up, “I think you’re about to get your shot. Holy shit. Will you look at that?”

Paddy backed away from the bar and looked up, too. He was so startled and amazed at what he saw that he dropped his glass, and it shattered on the marble floor. In the roar of the crowd, he never heard it hit.

WHAT PADDY SAW floating high above the glass ceiling was nothing less than a flying miracle. It was not an airplane. And it was not a blimp, exactly, though it moved like one. It had to be some new kind of airship. But it was like nothing he or anybody else had ever seen before. It was this four-hundred-foot-long zeppelinlike thing, its hull a gleaming silver. On its flank, forward, was the huge word TSAR illuminated in bright red. On her tail section, the great Russian red star, restored to respectability by President Putin before he’d mysteriously disappeared off the face of the map.

But the thing wasn’t shaped like any blimp he’d ever seen before, either. For one thing, there was a big opening at the nose, huge, and then the thing tapered back to a much smaller section at the tail. It didn’t look like a Goodyear blimp at all, not in the slightest.

It was a strange shape, weird, but it reminded him of something. The only thing Paddy could compare it to, what it actually looked like, was one huge flying jet engine. As if a giant jet engine had fallen off some giant jumbo jet’s wing and was just flying along all by itself. There were triple rows of windows along the side, and you could see all of the people in there, looking down at the party below.

Yeah, that was it, an enormous silver jet engine, moving very slowly toward the big aerial at the very top of the Empire State Building.

He kept backing up, trying to see more of the thing, and he backed right into somebody, knocking him to the floor.

“Hey, jeez, I’m sorry,” Paddy said, turning around and offering the guy a hand, pulling him to his feet. He was a little guy, and Paddy almost jerked him off his feet into the air.

He’d been wearing thick black glasses, and they were tilted sideways on his face. Paddy adjusted them for him and tried to brush whatever he’d been drinking off the front of his thick wool sportcoat. Bloody Mary, it looked like from the stalk of celery balanced on his shoulder. Not good.

“Never mind,” the man said. “It’s all right. It was an accident.”

Paddy thought the little guy was pissed off, but maybe he wasn’t, so Paddy stuck out his hand and said, “Paddy Strelnikov, nice to meet you.”

“Dr. Sergei Shumayev,” the guy said in a thick Russian accent, readjusting his coke bottle glasses.

“Hell of a deal, huh? That thing up there?”

“Yes. What exactly do you do for us, Mr. Strelnikov?”

“Me? I’m in the, uh, ‘analytical department.’”

Shumayev smiled at the egregious euphemism. Every large Russian corporation created its own mini-KGB, usually known as the “analytical department.” It was staffed with people good at collecting information, eavesdropping on rival companies, and stealing documents. They also performed other, less sanitary services, what the American thriller writers referred to as wet work.

“What’s your specific role in the department, Mr. Strelnikov?”

“Well, special assignments. Security, mostly. My section deals with industrial espionage, stuff like that. Here in the U.S., I also provide personal security to some of our high-level executives when they’re traveling here and abroad.”

“Ah, very good. A bodyguard.”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“That’s a very unusual ring you are wearing. Does it have some special significance to your job?”

Paddy laughed. He loved it when people noticed his ring. “No, sir. This ring here I bought in a pawn shop in Hoboken for fifty dollars. Nobody knew what it was. See the lightning bolt? And the letters TCB? Well, that stands for Taking Care of Business. It’s the exact ring that Elvis Presley gave to everyone in his posse. Back in the sixties. That was their motto, TCB, and I made it mine, too.”

“Fascinating.”

“How about you, Doc? What do you do?”

“Aeronautical engineering. That’s my baby up there.”

Both of them watched as huge dangling cables were thrown down from the front and sides of the hovering airship and made fast to the mooring mast. Floating there in the clouds, with the searchlights playing on it, Paddy thought it was the most beautiful man-made thing he’d ever seen.

“No kidding! Wow! You worked on that?”

“Vortex 1 is its name. I designed it. With a great deal of technical help from our chairman, of course. It was entirely his vision. His original concept. I was lucky enough to be able to execute it for him.”

“No offense, but how come you’re not up there on the platform with all the other big shots meeting him?”

Now the little fellow really was pissed off. “Officially, I’m supposed to be, of course. It’s just that I’ve lost my wife in the crowd. She went to the ladies’ powder room twenty minutes ago, and I haven’t seen her since. She’d kill me if I went up there without her.”

Paddy winked and said, “I know what you mean. Women, huh? I could write a book myself. Hey, let me ask you, Doc, what is that big hole in the front of the airship for? It’s wild-looking.”

“It’s called a plenum,” Shumayev said. “It draws in atmospheric air through a spiral-vortex-generating cone, hence the name of the ship. The air is then accelerated through a BDP Tesla bladeless disc air pump system. This accelerated and pressurized air is then forced out through a central ring of slits located along the side of the craft. You follow?”

“Sort of.”

“Think of a fish’s gills.”

“Gotcha. So, what makes it go?”

“All that pressurized, oxygenated, and velocitized air flowing in through the plenum forms vortices along the outside hull of the airship. This reduces friction and creates a slip effect as the craft travels through the air. So, the craft is first pulled into a frontal vacuum, into the vortex, as it were, and additionally squeezed through the air, compliments of the greater pressure exerted by the expelled air traveling aft along the hull of the craft. That’s pretty much it.”

“How do you steer it?”

“See those outboard pods with the blinking red lights? They’re fitted with smaller electric-drive BDP propulsion systems. We mounted them at different locations around the hull to provide a high degree of directional control and afford vectored thrust stability in any weather conditions.”

“Wow.”

“In a word, yes. Wow. That mast tower up there was originally intended to be a dock for mooring airships back in the 1930s. However, after several futile attempts at mooring a zeppelin in the strong winds present up here at 1250 feet of altitude, the idea was scrapped. So, Mr. Strelnikov, you and I have the honor of witnessing a very historic moment.”

“How many passengers will it carry?”

“Exactly one hundred. Just like the late Concorde aircraft. But our passengers will travel in a great deal more comfort and style, I promise you.”

“How fast?”

“A bit slower than the Concorde,” the little guy said with a smile. “She’s capable of 150 miles per hour. Considerably faster than the new Queen Mary 2, I might add, if one’s crossing the Atlantic as she’s just done.”

“I think I just found your wife,” Paddy said, grabbing the little guy’s elbow. A huge red-haired woman in a black sequined gown was plowing through the crowd and headed straight toward them, murder in her eyes. “Thanks for the info, Doc. I’ll be seeing you around.”

“No!” Shumayev whispered, “Please don’t go. Just stay with me for a few minutes, all right? Until she calms down?”

You had to feel sorry for a guy who needed a bodyguard around his wife. He said, “Yeah, okay. But it’s going to cost you, Dr. Shumayev.”

“Anything. What can I do?”

“When all the excitement dies down, I’d like a guided tour of that thing. The Vortex 1. Could you arrange that?”

“Consider it my privilege, Mr. Strelnikov,” he said as the lady arrived.

Mrs. Shumayev was one unhappy camper. She was opening her wide, red-painted mouth to let her hubby have it when the little guy interrupted.

“Dearest, this is my colleague, Mr. Strelnikov. I was just about to invite him to join us aboard TSAR for the demonstration flight out to Long Island tomorrow morning.”

“Say what?” Paddy said.

“Where the hell have you been?” the irate woman said in Russian. “I step into the powder room for two seconds, and-”

Paddy Strelnikov gave her his best smile and said, “It’s my fault, Madame Shumayev. I’m with security. I thought there was a threat situation here, and I removed your husband until we got it cleared up. So-hold on a sec.” Paddy spoke into the sleeve of his jacket and cupped one ear, listening intently to a nonexistent earbud. “What’s that? All clear? Good.” He smiled. “All clear now, Doctor. It’s safe for you and your wife to go up to the platform now.”

“Thank you, Mr. Strelnikov,” Shumayev said. “Your concern for our safety is deeply appreciated.”

“TCB,” Paddy said, and headed back to the bar for another cocktail. “TCB.”

12

“Lovely day for it, Cap,” Hawke’s driver said, looking back at his passenger with a huge white smile. He was a handsome young Bermudian police cadet officer named Stubbs Wooten. Attached to the British consul’s office in Hamilton, Wooten had been assigned by C to fetch Hawke from St. Brendan’s Hospital.

Now they were driving west out along the South Road in the direction of Somerset Village. They had passed the venerable resort at Elbow Beach and the lovely old Coral Beach Club, and were en route to what Bermudians called the West End. There, at the very tip of the island, stood the Royal Naval Dockyard.

Having risen early and endured the physical ordered by his superior, Hawke was now scheduled to meet C at the Dockyard at eleven o’clock. He had half an hour, which Stubbs assured him was plenty of time.

The ocean, periodically visible on their left, was brilliant blue, and only a few white clouds drifted in over the island from the west. Their route took them past the Southampton Princess Hotel, a huge pink palace sitting atop a hill overlooking the Atlantic. Just beyond, Hawke could see the soaring white tower of the Gibb’s Hill Lighthouse, built of cast iron in 1846 and providing comfort to seafarers ever since.

But Hawke wasn’t interested in sightseeing at the moment. He was far more interested in the noisy black motorcycle some hundred yards behind him. He thought he was being followed.

“I wonder, Stubbs,” Hawke said, craning around once more to look over his shoulder at a lone motorcyclist. “Did you see that chap on the bike back there in the parking lot at St. Brendan’s Hospital?”

Stubbs studied the fellow in his rearview mirror.

“No, sir. But I did notice he’s been following us quite a while. A Jamaican, I think. Rasta gang member, possibly. You think something’s wrong, sir?”

“I think he was parked up in the trees by the emergency entrance. I’m fairly sure I saw him when I came out to meet you.”

“Possible, sir. You want me to lose him?”

“When is the next turning off this road, Stubbs?”

“We got Tribe Road Number Three coming up on the right. ’Bout half a mile now.”

“Good. Turn into it, and stop the car. Let’s see what this fellow does.”

“You got it, Cap,” Stubbs said, clearly enjoying this bit of drama. He loved his job, the important people visiting his island whom he got to meet, but it was seldom exciting.

Stubbs didn’t signal his turn or even slow much, just suddenly braked and jerked his wheel hard right. The little sedan threatened to go up on two wheels as it negotiated the hard turn. As soon as they were safely around, Stubbs stood on the brakes and skidded to a stop on the side of the road.

As the dust settled around the car, Hawke kicked open his rear door and said, “Wait here, Stubbs. I’ll see what he wants.”

“Are you armed, sir?” Stubbs asked.

“Yes, why?”

“Because some of these Rastafarian gentlemen will be armed, sir. Watch out for him. He most likely has a knife. Maybe a gun.”

The cyclist, caught short by Stubbs’s sudden maneuver, almost lost it. But he stayed upright and managed the turn without a spill. He braked to a stop, eyes on the man standing in the road, hands in his pockets, smiling at him. Without a word, the biker splayed his long legs out on either side of the bike and stared insolently at the tall white man now coming across the road toward him.

“Morning,” Hawke said, looking around as if taking in the beautiful day. The biker was dressed like a typical Bermudian tough. Jeans, motorcycle boots, and an oversized jersey with Emperor Haile Selassie’s image plastered on the front. Masses of gold chains around his neck. Chunky gold watch that looked real enough.

He was young, maybe twenty-five, Hawke thought, and had the build of a serious prize fighter. One who still worked out with the bag or in the ring on a regular basis. His nose was as flat as his face. Massive upper-body strength, lean with well-developed arms, quads, and lats, and riding a very expensive Triumph motorcycle. He was either dealing drugs or working for someone who paid him large sums to do the odd, violent favor.

“I said good morning,” Hawke repeated, taking another step toward the bike.

The kid didn’t reply, just leaned back on his seat and slowly removed his helmet, shaking his head as he did so. Dreadlocks suddenly exploded from under the black helmet and fell to his shoulders. He smiled for the first time, revealing a mouth full of golden teeth.

“You got a bad driver, mon. I serious. Him very dangerous.”

“What’s your name?”

“My name? Desmond. Don’t try to lose me like that again, mon. It won’t work. I stick to you like glue on glue.”

“Now, why on earth would you want to do that, Desmond?” Hawke asked, his right hand gripping Desmond’s handlebar and wrenching the front wheel hard left so that the bike was immobilized.

“Hands off de bike, mon!”

“Who’s paying you to follow me?”

“I just out for a ride, mon. It’s a beautiful mawnin’, like you say. Why you get so all excited? Having a little fun, dat’s all, huh? And take de hand off my bike before you lose it.”

“Lose it?”

Desmond lifted the jersey so Hawke could see the cane knife stuck in a scabbard on his wide leather belt. A sawed-off machete, razor-sharp on both sides.

“Desmond, listen carefully. I want you to turn this bike around and go back to wherever you came from. Tell whomever you’re working for that following me is a very bad idea. I’m a very private person. I’m here for a quiet holiday. Someone spoils my vacation, they will wish they hadn’t. All right? We understand each other?”

Desmond spat in the dirt and looked up at Hawke with his reddened eyes blazing. He was seriously baked on marijuana, Hawke realized. But the thug didn’t say anything, just showed his gold teeth once more and reached for the knife.

The Jamaican was vaguely aware of blurred movement. Hawke had seized Desmond’s wrist in a compromising position before his fingers ever reached the knife handle.

“I will break it, Desmond, I promise,” Hawke said. “Right now, I’m applying pressure directly to the scaphoid, the small carpal bone at the base of the thumb. It’s the one easiest to break, also with the most painful result.”

“Shit, mon, you ain’t going to break it.”

“No? Who paid you to follow me?”

“Fuck you, mon.”

“Your place or mine?”

The kid spat, barely missing Hawke’s left foot.

“Last chance?”

Desmond glared, wincing at the pain, saying nothing.

“No more joy rides for a while, Desmond,” Hawke said, smiling at the man as he deftly snapped his wrist, eliciting a howl of pain.

Hawke’s hand blurred again, moving for the ignition switch atop the fuel tank. In an instant, Hawke had plucked the key from the ignition and flung it out into the scrub brush on the hill beside the road.

“What you-aw, fuck, mon, now I going to have to-”

“Desmond, you’re no good at this. Surveillance is a highly sophisticated art form. Go back to dealing ganja. Street dealers have a much longer life expectancy than people stupid enough to get involved with me.”

Hawke turned his back on him and crossed the dusty road. He climbed back into his car, and Stubbs turned it around and headed back to the South Road. Desmond remained on his bike, too proud to let Hawke see him searching for his keys.

“You see all those gold teeth, Cap?” Stubbs said, looking at Hawke in the rearview mirror, waiting to rejoin the flow of traffic on the South Road.

“Hard to miss.”

“Disciples of Judah. That’s their trademark, replace all their teeth with gold. A Rasta sect, immigrated from the Blue Mountains of Jamaica many years ago to work in the banana plantations. They went bad. Drugs, sir. Cocaine, marijuana, heroin, you name it, the Disciples deal it. The big boss is a man named Samuel Coale. Call him King Coale. He was extradited to the U.S. a few years ago under the Foreign Narcotics Kingpin Act. We heard he was back on island. That boy you just talking to?”

“Yes?”

“He say his name?”

“Desmond.”

“I thought that was him. He’s the favorite son. The son of King Coale. Calls himself the Prince of Darkness. You see his graffiti tags all over the place you visit Skanktown on St. David’s Island.”

“He’s a fighter, is he? Boxer?”

“How’d you know that?”

“Sometimes you can tell.”

“Yes. Fought under the name of Prince back in Jamaica. Fought his way to the top, won the Golden Gloves in the Caribbean, and then went to the Olympics on the Jamaican boxing team. He won the gold medal at Athens in 2004.”

“All downhill from there, it looks like.”

“Couldn’t handle the success, sir. The fame went to his young head, swole it up.”

“Where can I find his father, this King Coale?”

“Hard to say, Cap. These boys move around a lot. There’s a rumor they have an offshore compound out on Nonsuch Island down by St. David’s. Illegal because it’s a wildlife sanctuary. But that’s what I hear. Squatters’ rights.”

“How long to the Naval Dockyard?”

“We’ll be there in twenty minutes, sir.”

“Could you make that ten?”

“I’d be delighted to try, sir,” Wooten said, as he pulled a red flasher out of the glove box and stuck it on the dashboard.

Hawke sat back in his seat and gazed out the window, lost in thoughts that led straight to Anastasia Korsakova’s door. She had called him at some ungodly hour that morning. He’d stumbled half-asleep to the bar and reached blindly for the phone. He had a vague memory of agreeing to come to her house that afternoon at five. He felt peace slipping away from his grasp. What with C’s proposal and the appearance of the lovely Miss Korsakova, the halcyon days of idle bliss seemed to be waning.

“HALLOWED GROUND ON your right, Cap,” Stubbs Wooten said, interrupting Hawke’s reverie ten minutes later.

They were approaching the Dockyard compound. The mostly empty early-nineteenth-century buildings and facilities had not seen use since the Cold War. They were still lovely, though. Especially the twin spires of the Dockyard Clocks in the distance.

During that era, the Cold War, the Royal Navy had conducted clandestine air and submarine surveillance operations to keep the Soviets from regarding the Atlantic as their ocean. At that time, Bermuda was a principal naval base in defending the United States from Soviet attack. The Royal Navy still maintained a minimal presence here. Although it was minor now, with C’s new operation, the old Dockyard might soon become more fully operational.

Hawke looked to his right and saw the hallowed ground. A lovely old cemetery nestled in a gently sloping valley between the growths of tall Australian pine trees on either hilltop.

“Royal Navy?” Hawke asked.

“Yes, sir. First consecrated in 1812 when the Dockyard was still being built. See that big stone spire, grass grown up all around? Many men from the British Army and Royal Navy buried there, mostly died of the yellow fever. But some of the newer headstones there are the final resting place for the seamen who died on their ships off Bermuda in actions against German pocket battleships and U-boats.”

“I had no idea,” Hawke said as they passed through the narrow entrance gates. They rode in silence as they passed the abandoned docks to their right and the Dockyard Clock spires on their left.

“See that building on the high hilltop over there? That’s where your meeting is, sir. The Commissioner’s Building. Will you be needing me to wait?”

“I’d very much appreciate that, Stubbs. I’ve an appointment later this afternoon out at St. George’s. If you could take me out there?”

“Pleasure’s all mine, sir.”

“Place called Powder Hill. Do you know it?”

Stubbs turned around in his seat. “That’s a private island, sir. You have to go by boat. Very tight security. Don’t let anyone near that place.”

“They’re expecting me.”

“Ah, well, you’re fine, then.”

Hawke smiled as the car came to a stop, popped the door open, and climbed out of the back. The structure itself was a lovely old three-story British Colonial building, somewhat the worse for wear, built on a hill overlooking the sea. It was just inside the fortress walls and surrounded on all sides by bastions with cannons still in place. A wide verandah graced the two topmost floors, with shuttered doors on all sides.

He could see Sir David waiting in the shade at the covered entrance. As Hawke got closer, he saw that C was wearing old white duck trousers with a Spanish flare, a striped Riviera sweater, straw shoes, and an ancient Mexican hat.

Hawke could hardly believe the vision the head of SIS presented. And there was a woman with him. Blonde and very good-looking, in a simple linen shift of lime green that did little to hide her spectacular figure. It was certainly Pippa Guinness, he thought, squinting in the sunlight, one of C’s closest aides at MI-6 in London. Although he could not have explained why, Hawke was both surprised and not surprised to see her. The bad-penny principle, he supposed.

“Sorry to be late, sir,” Hawke said, shaking C’s hand. “Spot of bother on the road.”

“Spot of bother?” Sir David said.

“Minor irritation.”

C’s idea of tropical attire threw Hawke a bit. It was difficult to take a man in such costume seriously. Hawke was accustomed to seeing Sir David in a crisp foulard tie and a three-piece worsted number in either navy or dark grey from Huntsman of Savile Row.

C said, “You remember our Miss Guinness, don’t you, Alex? Guinevere Guinness? You two were on special assignment together, as I recall. Florida, wasn’t it?”

“Of course. How could I not remember Pippa, sir? She’s unforgettable. How do you do, Miss Guinness? Lovely to see you again.”

Hawke had been intimately involved with the woman during a previous mission that had taken them both to Key West. She was an intelligence analyst at MI-6, assigned to Hawke at a Caribbean security conference. They’d had an ill-advised fling and had not parted on the best of terms. He waited for her response with some curiosity. He imagined she felt hard done by and wouldn’t blame her if she did.

“Hello, Alex,” Pippa Guinness said, smiling as if she were actually happy to see him. A strange girl, indeed. The first time he’d seen her, she’d been one of the Garden Girls, working for the prime minister at Number 10 Downing Street. The last time he’d laid eyes on her, she was storming down the gangplank of his yacht Blackhawke, in tears.

“Anything serious? On the road, I mean?” C said, interrupting the awkward silence that followed their exchange.

“Young thug on a motorbike followed me from the hospital. I had a chat with him and convinced him it was unwise to continue.”

“Followed you. I don’t like the sound of that.”

“I’ve got a name. I’ll look into it.”

“Do that. Let’s get started, shall we? Miss Guinness and I think we’ve found just the spot.”

“After you, sir.”

C led the tour. “The first two floors are devoted to the Maritime Museum. Wonderful displays, you should see sometime, Alex. Bermuda war history. We’ve taken over the entire top floor with permission of the Bermuda government.”

C led them down a corridor and up three flights of beautiful Bermuda cedar stairs. Having attained the top floor of the building, Hawke saw that the abundance of tall French doors, windows, and warm sunlight made it far more hospitable than the ground floors.

“Here we are,” C said, a broad smile on his face. “What do you think, Alex? The new headquarters for our secret nest of spies?”

“Lovely views,” Hawke said. It was true. The views were to the south, across the South Channel toward the entrance to Hamilton Harbor. Sailboats, fishing boats, and ferries plied their way over the smooth blue surface of the Great Sound.

“Yes. I thought our chaps could take this end of the hall. Griswold and Symington, the two young MI-6 fellows I mentioned bringing over, will have their offices down there near yours. And I thought we’d put the Yanks down there at that end.”

“The Yanks, sir?”

“Didn’t I mention that? This is to be a joint operation with our friends at Langley. We could hardly afford to go it alone on our budgets, and since we’ve clearly a common interest, Director Brick Kelly at the CIA has agreed to a goodly portion of the funding. He’s picking someone now, a top American field operative who would liaise with you on Red Banner. Kelly envisions a secret allied counterterrorist training camp here. He’s even trying to get the Pentagon to recommission the Dockyard’s old sub pens and base one of their Atlantic Fleet attack subs here. SSN 640, the former USS Benjamin Franklin.”

“I think it’s all brilliant, sir,” Pippa said, favoring C with her winning smile and then looking at Hawke. “Don’t you agree, Alex?”

“Are you planning to spend some time here on Bermuda, Miss Guinness?” Hawke said, his voice cracking slightly despite straining for nonchalance. Before she could open her lovely mouth, C spoke for her.

“I’ve asked Miss Guinness to be administrative head of Red Banner, Alex. Reporting to you, of course, should you decide to accept this assignment.”

“Ah. Yes. Quite.”

C looked at him and smiled. “What have you decided, Alex?”

Hawke looked at Pippa, smiling up at him with a combination of mirth and mischief in her beautiful eyes. He was trapped, and she knew it. Still, the job C offered was an important one. The more he’d considered C’s offer during a restless night, the more inclined he was to accept. Red Banner section would be a good way to serve his country perhaps more substantially than he had done previously. Perhaps even more rewarding than some of his last efforts on behalf of the service. He realized he’d already made up his mind. And it was too late to change it.

“Well, Alex?”

“I’d be honored, sir. I’m very flattered that you and the firm put such faith and trust in my abilities.”

“Splendid!” C said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “A good decision, Alex. Well, it’s nearly lunchtime. I think a bit of celebration is in order, don’t you both agree? There’s a lovely pub out here, just opposite the Maritime Museum. Called the Frog and Onion. Shall we all stroll over and have a tot of rum?”

“Oh, let’s do!” Pippa said, gazing not at C but at Hawke.

“Of course we should,” Hawke said with as much joviality as he could muster, wondering what in God’s name he had just gotten himself into.

He would learn soon enough.

13

Paddy felt a slight heaviness in his heels and knew that the airship must be climbing. He glanced out the nearest window and saw that they were angling upward, the sunlit towers of the Manhattan skyline pivoting away as they left the midtown mooring behind and headed out toward Long Island. So, he’d missed the whole departure thing, too, throwing off the lines and the TV crews and media people on the platform waving good-bye, et cetera.

Hell, he was news. For the first time in his whole freaking life, he was news. And he’d missed it.

He was also completely lost. He’d begun the tour along with his new best pal, Dr. Shumayev, and a bunch of journalists, everybody oohing and aahing over the luxurious interior appointments aboard the corporate flagship. He’d been at the back of the group and had stopped to admire a beautiful model of the Hindenburg, about six feet long, inside a glass case. This was on the B Deck, in the Atlantis reception lounge, where blonde babes in blue uniforms served coffee and Danish before the grand tour began.

Anyway, when he looked up, the group had left him alone, and he’d decided to just wander around on his own, see what he could see. It was cooler, actually, than tromping around like a bunch of ducks, listening to the ship’s purser (what the hell was a purser, anyway?) explaining everything in a whole lot more detail than he really needed. Looking at one of the passenger suites, the purser had informed them that all linen aboard was Egyptian cotton with a thread count of more than 1,200! Really, 1,200? Sign me the hell up!

So he set off on his own, heading aft along a wide corridor lined to his right with almost floor-to-ceiling windows. It was called the Promenade. Every five feet was a comfy-looking leather chaise facing the outward-slanting windows, little round tables in between. Light was pouring in, and a couple of windows were slid open a foot or so, and there was a nice chilly breeze blowing through. The views of Long Island Sound were spectacular.

Nice place to hang for a couple of hours or the rest of your life. Paddy could imagine it when there were passengers aboard. The ship was already sold out for its maiden crossing to England, the purser had informed them. Maiden voyage? As in, all virgins? Hey, I’m in. He could see all the swells sitting here, sipping their tea and reading novels or whatever they did. Nice way to travel across the Atlantic, he thought, skimming along a few hundred feet above the waves at 150 miles an hour, listening to the latest beach book on your iPod.

Yeah, one day, he just might have to spring for a trip on this beauty.

He came to the end of the Promenade. A glass door slid open, and he was in some kind of reading and writing room. There were comfy armchairs scattered around and also little desks with old-fashioned blotters and inkwells and stationery with a big red T engraved at the top. Tsar. Great name for a great ship, he had to admit.

Next was a kind of foyer with a staircase and another hall branching off that must have connected to the other side of the ship. He peeked inside a leather-padded door marked “Odeon.” It was a little jewel box of a movie theater with red velvet seats and two golden dolphins over the screen. He kept going straight and found the gym, typical exercise bikes and treadmills and shiny weight machines all along the windows. Personally, he didn’t see the kind of people who would book a flight on this thing being all that interested in sweat. More interested in the wine-and-cheese buffet, he’d bet.

And finally, as far back as you could go, there was a shiny silver elevator door with bronze dolphins carved into it. What the hell, he’d already seen what was up front. He pushed the button, and the doors slid open. There were a total of five decks, two below him and two above him. He pushed the top button. Going up, ladies’ lingerie.

“Private,” the big guy in the black suit said when the doors slid open. “Didn’t anybody tell you? No press allowed.” He was holding a small Glock submachine gun loosely at his side. He had a single gold stripe on each sleeve of his jacket. Private army. Ex-Russian special forces, had to be.

“Sorry. I’m freaking lost here.”

Paddy reached for the button, and the doors had started to close when the muscle man stuck his foot out and automatically opened them again.

“Hold on a second,” the guy said. “You’re not Paddy Strelnikov?”

“Dimitri Popov?”

He knew the guy, all right. Gone to high school with him in Brighton Beach. Then his family had moved him back to the Soviet Union. Last time he’d seen Dimitri, it was on TV. Barbara Walters was interviewing him in Athens after he’d won the gold in Olympic wrestling for the Russian Federation.

“All-Beef Paddy!” Popov said, “Yeah, how you doin’, player? Come out here, talk to me. It was you went out and blew up that prison in the boondocks, right? That was some sick shit, huh? Sixty jerkoff cons on Death Row catching the train on the same night? I loved that! And you know what? I wasn’t the only one to think so. You got friends in high places, my man.”

“Yeah, well.”

“Listen, I’m not supposed to do this, but you want a quick look-see around? This is some serious shit up here.”

“What about your elevator?”

“I’ll lock it. Got a remote right here. There. Game’s locked, throw away the key, remember?” He dropped the remote back into his pocket.

“What’s up here?”

“The man, baby. This whole deck is his private world.”

“Ivan?”

“Count Ivan Korsakov, baby. Who else?”

“He’s a count?”

“Fuck no. He’s a god. Come on, there’s a bar down this way. I’m on duty, but I can get you a Bloody Bull. You look like you could use a little eye opener.”

“Jet lag.”

“You know what cures that? Pussy. We got that up here, too. In spades.”

PADDY DRAINED THE last of his second Bloody Bull and put the glass down on the mahogany bar. The bartender, a Ukrainian girl named Anna who was a dead ringer for Scarlett Johansson, whisked his glass away and said, “One more?”

Paddy shook his head and turned to Dimitri. “So, let me get this straight. You’re saying you think I could get a job working for the man? I mean, directly?”

“Man, I know you could. I’m telling you, he just lost his closest security guy in that latest assassination attempt three months ago in Moscow. Driving out of Red Square. This guy was more than muscle, he was the man’s last surviving brother. In real life, his real brother, is what I’m saying. Lifelong best asshole buddies. The brother took a stomach full of lead for the man. Now he’s got nobody.”

“What about me?”

“What about you?”

“I’m nobody. Backstreet borscht with a gun.”

“Fuck that! Man, he knows you. He knows exactly who you are. That prison thing? Shit, I was in the screening room watching CNN with him the night you showed the world the true meaning of Death Row, man. You should have seen him light up. I’d be surprised if he doesn’t carry your laminated picture around in his fuckin’ wallet. And sinking that Japanese trawler up in Alaska? C’mon, Beef. You think he doesn’t know who’s out there getting his personal shit done for him every day? He knows everything, man.”

“Taking care of business,” Paddy said, twisting his ring around so he could see the lightning bolt. “TCB.”

“Straight up. Yeah. And you know what else, I personally think you should have a little talk with him.”

“What?”

“Talk to him. See if he likes you. Why the fuck not?”

“He’s here?”

“Of course he’s here. You think he checked into the Plaza? This is where he lives half the time. Look, I’m going to call him, all right? Tell him you’re aboard, that we’re old friends and shit. You down with that?”

“Dimitri, hold on a second. What about you? Why don’t you take the job?”

“Are you kidding me? I live in a flying pussy palace, Beef! I ain’t going anywhere. Ever. Don’t move, I’ll be right back.”

“You going to call him?”

“Hell, yeah, I am.”

He left. Paddy said to Anna, “I gotta tell you, the views from this thing are unbelievable.” He was staring down at forests of swaying treetops just below. The Pine Barrens, he thought, and that must be the Peconic River over there. Yeah, that’s what it was, all right. They were about sixty miles from the city. A leisurely voyage, and so damn quiet!

“I’ve got the best office in the world,” Anna said with a shy smile.

“You sure do. Tell me something, Anna, at what altitude does the Tsar sail?”

“Oh, right now, I’d say we’re cruising at about six hundred fifty feet. That’s our normal altitude when the winds allow. The captain likes to fly so the passengers have a view.”

“We’ll keep to that all the way out to Montauk?”

“If the winds hold. Normally, we would climb higher if the currents were more favorable aloft. But we’re not trying to get anywhere in a hurry today.”

“How high can you go?”

“Maybe four thousand feet.”

“Anybody ever tell you what a pretty smile you have?”

“Occasionally,” she said, laughing.

“You live on this thing?”

“Of course. It’s my castle in the sky.”

14

Five minutes later, Dimitri was back, deadpan, no expression on his face. He plopped down on the adjacent barstool and ordered another club soda from Anna, then swiveled around and looked at Strelnikov.

“So?” Paddy said. “What? You talk to him?”

“Yeah, I talked to him.”

“And?”

“He’d like very much to talk to you.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Nope.”

“When?”

“Like, uh, now.”

“Now. Where? Here?”

“Of course not here. In private. I’ll take you. Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“The music room.”

“Oh. The music room. Why didn’t I guess that?”

“He’s composing a fucking symphony. You believe that? For the Moscow Symphony Orchestra. But he’s going to stop right in the middle of that and talk to you.”

“Holy Jesus.”

“Let’s go.”

They left the bar and turned right down a softly lit corridor hung with what Paddy was pretty sure were paintings he’d seen in books. Each one had its own little brass light on it. Pictures of lily pads, et cetera, little bridges in gardens. French guy, what was his name? Monet or Manet or one of those.

“You’re lucky, Beef,” Popov said. “He’s in a good mood today.”

“Why is that?”

“He got a call from Stockholm early this morning. He’s going to get the Nobel Prize in physics this year.”

“Holy shit. What’d he do?”

“He’s an astrophysicist, you know, just one of his many hobbies. He discovered something called a black body, some kind of radiation that helps prove the big bang theory or something. Dark matter. What do I know? He thinks the real reason he got the prize is the Zeta machine. Making a computer all the Third World countries could afford. He says the Nobel committee loves that do-gooder shit over there. Look at Al Gore, Carter, f’crissakes.”

“Is he psyched? You gotta be, I mean the Nobel Prize, c’mon, jeez mareeze.”

“Yeah. He’s pretty happy about it. Here we are.”

Popov rapped lightly on another leather-padded door, this one unmarked. He then pushed it open and stuck his head inside.

“Let’s go,” Dimitri whispered, taking Paddy’s elbow. “Don’t say anything. We’ll just take a seat over there, and he’ll talk to you when he’s ready.”

Walking into that little room was like stepping back a couple of centuries. It was four white walls with gold moldings everywhere. There were four large paintings depicting fairy-tale musical scenes in heavy gold frames, one on each wall. In the near corner was a harp. There were two men in the room, and Paddy didn’t know who was who. Over in one corner by the window was a tall, gaunt man dressed in a black military uniform. He was standing with his back to the room, hands clasped rigidly behind his back, staring out the window.

The far corner was a kind of triangular bay window, containing a baby grand piano. The floor beneath the piano was glass. The other man, who was playing the instrument, did not look up and seemed unaware that anyone had entered his sanctuary. This piano guy, Paddy figured, had to be the man himself.

Korsakov, who had long snow-white hair, didn’t look at all like Paddy expected. He was seated very upright on the bench. He wore a dark red velvet robe of some kind with a hood draped behind his head. He was playing the piano with his left hand and scribbling furiously with his right in a large leather notebook. There was a light on the piano, shining on the keyboard and a silver bowl of fruit.

To the right of the piano, along a wall some fifteen feet away, were a small silk-covered sofa and two armchairs. The new arrivals sat down on the sofa beneath a painting of angels playing harps and listened.

Paddy didn’t know dick about classical music, but the notes Korsakov was playing sounded beautiful, or whatever. After a few minutes, Popov leaned over so he could whisper in Paddy’s ear.

“That piano he’s playing?”

“Yeah?”

“That was the piano on the Hindenburg.”

“The what?”

“The Titanic of the Skies. The giant Nazi zeppelin that blew up at Lakehurst, New Jersey, back in 1937. You never heard of that?”

“Maybe. So, what, the piano didn’t burn up, too?”

“It wasn’t onboard. It was back in Germany at the Bluthner factory undergoing a tune-up. Made of aluminum and covered with pigskin. Hitler bought it and had it in his office at the Reichstag. The Russian Army smuggled it out of Berlin after the war. The boss bought it especially for this room.”

Paddy was suddenly aware that the music had stopped and that Count Ivan Korsakov was staring at them over the top of Hitler’s pigskin piano. He stretched his delicate fingers above the keyboard and clicked them like castanets.

“Good morning, Mr. Strelnikov,” he said good-naturedly, in English. “Welcome aboard. I trust you are enjoying yourself on our sky vessel.”

Without waiting for an answer, he stood up and walked across the parquet floor, taking one of the armchairs. He was tall and thin but muscled at the shoulders, and under the red robe he was wearing some kind of dark green velvet jacket. Very fancy buttons and piping on the sleeves. A smoking jacket, Paddy thought they were called. There was a gold pin stuck into one of his lapels.

At the top of the pin was a lapis lazuli crown with three red rubies, reminding Paddy that he was in the presence of true Russian aristocracy.

“You would like some Russian tea, perhaps? We have Kousmichoff, I believe.” Korsakov said.

“I’m good, sir,” Paddy said, crossing his legs and trying to hide his nervousness.

He didn’t know why he was nervous. The man was the opposite of what he’d expected, some beady-eyed businessman. But no. Handsome as a king in a storybook. His white hair reached his shoulders in curls, and his eyes were a pale watery blue. They looked right through you, but they didn’t seem to mean any harm on the way inside.

“Someday, you must tell me the saga of the Kishin Maru,” Korsakov said, smiling at him. “I understand it got a little rough in the life raft. Unpleasant.”

“You know about that?”

“Mr. Strelnikov, I only have a few minutes. I am having one of my very rare musical inspirations, and if I let it expire without jotting it down, it may vanish forever. So, let me just say that I am aware of your recent activities and very pleased with the results. I’ve read your file. I thank you for your bravery and dedication to my cause. Do you know what that cause is?”

Paddy stared at him blankly. He didn’t have a freaking clue.

“My cause is simple. Order. I cherish order. Only with the cosmic forces aligned in order can the heroic human quest for the sublime flourish. You cannot compose a symphony, or a Declaration of Independence, or even design a simple airship, for that matter, in the midst of chaos. Today, more than ever in human history, I believe, order and chaos struggle for supremacy in our world. Do you follow?”

“I think I’m with you so far.”

“We are not involved in a clash of civilizations but in a clash between civilization and barbarism. Chaos.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I abhor chaos in any form. I am determined that order shall prevail. When I see countries ignoring the sanctity of our oceans, as Japan has done, I send them a signal. When a psychopathic monster wantonly murders newborn babies, I send a signal. I mention just two that you obviously know about. I send countless signals like the two I’ve just mentioned. All around the world. You are one of my messengers. So, you see, Mr. Strelnikov, how important men like you are to me personally. You sound my clarion call, you are my heralds of order. Some might say I seek nothing less than a new world order to come.”

“Well, thank you, sir. I guess I don’t know what to say.”

What the fuck is a herald?

“Say nothing. I suffered a grievous personal loss three months ago in Moscow. In less than a minute, Chechen assassins plunged my life into chaos. I understand Dimitri has informed you of this horror.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I travel a good deal. Frequently to places where local security leaves much to be desired. There are many threats against my life, and I cannot eliminate them all. I need someone, Mr. Strelnikov, someone like you, to help restore order in my daily life. Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“Would you be willing to accept the position? I am talking about your becoming my chief personal bodyguard. Possibly, after a certain period of time has elapsed and you have proven your strength and loyalty, I would consider you for a higher position. Perhaps as one of those who will help me implement my worldwide vision for a new order. Security is order. Order is peace.”

“Well, I, uh…”

“Consider the humble atom, Mr. Strelnikov.”

“The atom.”

“Yes. The atom. A positively charged nucleus surrounded by whirling negatively charged electrons. Immutable, indivisible, perfect. That is my cherished cause. That men and nations behave in an orderly fashion, like the very stuff they’re made of. Atoms. So. Yes or no? What is your answer?”

“I’m not sure I follow. Is this about the atoms thing?”

“Do you want the job, or do you not want the job?” he said, a razor’s edge in his voice.

“Oh, yes. I certainly do want the job, sir. Sorry if I-”

Ivan Korsakov got to his feet and returned to his piano. He sat down on the bench, took up his notebook, and immediately began playing a piece of music that sounded as if the little angels in the picture hanging over Paddy’s head had written it.

After a few minutes, the two men on the sofa quickly realized they no longer existed and rose without a word, headed for the door.

“You start immediately,” Korsakov said, not looking up or interrupting his playing to speak. “Dimitri will find you suitable accommodations aboard this ship and provide the necessary paperwork and orientation for your new position.”

“Thank you, sir,” Paddy said, but it was doubtful the great man heard him.

Once they were outside, back in the corridor, Paddy whispered, “I gotta be honest, I know he’s a genius and all, but sometimes he sounds like a goddamn nutball.”

“He gets on these jags about atoms, yeah.”

“Maybe it’s just me. But didn’t we split the atom? It was in Life magazine years ago, f’crissakes. So, how is it ‘indivisible’? See what I’m saying?”

Popov looked at him as if he hadn’t a clue, which he certainly did not, pounded him on the back, and said, “But hey, there you go! What did I tell you? You’re in! Welcome to paradise, Beef. Let’s go forward to the observation platform and get a view of the landing.”

“We’re landing?”

“Yeah. He’s just completed a new mooring tower on his estate at the tip of Montauk Point. He’s building these towers everywhere he has a house or palace, which is practically everywhere. Bermuda, Scotland, a Swedish fjord, you name it. We’re going to try this one out for the first time today. There’s a big lunch on the lawn for the press, and then we’re heading back to the city to drop them off. Tonight, at midnight, we turn around and sail for Miami.”

“Miami?”

“You got it, comrade. We’ll be there by the end of the week, depending on the prevailing winds.”

“Who was the weird Nazi in the black uniform?”

“That would be my boss. General Nikolai Kuragin. Head of the Third Department, the secret police.”

“The Russian secret police?”

“Hell no. Count Korsakov’s private army, his personal secret police. Kuragin was there checking you out. That’s why he stuck around when you spoke to the big guy.”

“Checking me out why?”

“That whole bodyguard thing was just a little game they were playing. Kuragin was the one interviewing you, to see how you handled yourself. He’s considering you for a job. Bigger than what you’re used to. High-risk. So he wanted a firsthand peek at the new guy. Now that you’ve been given the official blessing, I’m sure he’ll be wanting to talk to you out at Montauk.”

“What kind of job are we talking?”

“Ramzan Baysarov. Ever heard of him?”

“No.”

“Chechen rebel warlord. Not even thirty years old and yet the scourge of the Kremlin. General Kuragin put a ten-million-dollar bounty on his head after that attack that killed the count’s brother. Ramzan’s also one of the guys linked to the 2002 Moscow theater attack that killed one hundred seventy people, the 2004 subway attack that killed forty-one, and a double-suicide bombing at a Moscow rock concert that killed seventeen.”

“Seriously pissed-off guy.”

“Yeah. Yeltsin and Putin had him sent to a Siberian gulag for twenty-five years. Apparently, he didn’t like his pillow mints or the room service and checked out early. He just gave a press interview to ABC. He says he won’t quit killing Muscovites until everyone in Russia feels his pain.”

“And?”

“A couple of our guys had a chat with the ABC reporter last night. That reporter may have felt a little pain himself. Anyway, we now know where Ramzan is hanging out these days. Miami.”

“Miami.”

“Right. And Friday night is his thirtieth birthday. His Chechen Mafiya buddies in Miami are throwing a little bash in his honor. Big mansion on the water in Coconut Grove. Half the fuckin’ Chechen rebel sympathizers in America are going to be there.”

“What’s my job?”

“Make sure Ramzan doesn’t finish blowing out all his little candles.”

“Miami, huh? Beats the shit out of Alaska.”

“Beef, trust me. You’re going to love your new job.”

“One more question.”

“Yeah?”

“If I do this guy Ramzan, do I get the ten mil?”

15

Stubbs came to a stop where the sandy lane dead-ended at the dock. They’d reached the easternmost tip of St. George’s, taking Government Hill Road all the way to Cool Pond Road. It was nearly five o’clock, and the sun was still shimmering on Tobacco Bay. A few very large sport-fishing boats were moored on the bay, riding the gentle swells.

There was a freshly painted white post bearing a very discreet sign that read “Powder Hill-Private.” It stood just beside the floating platform that led out to the dock itself. The dock looked like any of the others jutting out into this small and tranquil bay. Most had small sailboats or runabouts moored alongside.

“Now what?” Hawke said, leaning forward to peer through the windshield.

“Looks like a phone box there, sir. Under the sign.”

“Right. Hang on, I’ll go see.”

Hawke got out of the car and instinctively looked around to see if he’d been followed. He’d asked Stubbs to keep an eye on the rearview mirror, but they’d seen nothing out of the ordinary on the journey from the West End. Still, it didn’t hurt to double-check. The narrow lane that wound down to the bay was empty. Golden-toothed Rastafarians on motorbikes were nowhere to be seen. He walked down the slight incline to the dock.

Mounted on the post was a phone inside a waterproof box. Fastened to the outside cover was a laminated sign: “Restricted Property! Invited Guests Only. Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted. Beware of Dogs. Armed Guards.”

Sounds chummy, Hawke thought to himself, and opened the box. Ah, well, as Pelham had so aptly put it, a hundred clams an hour was pretty good gravy.

Hawke lifted the receiver to his ear.

“Yes?” said a noncommittal Bermudian female voice on the other end.

“Yes. Alex Hawke here. I believe Miss Korsakova is expecting me.”

“Ah, Mr. Hawke,” said the voice, much friendlier now. “Miss Korsakova is definitely expecting you, sir. She’s at Half Moon House. I’ll send the launch over immediately. Should be there in less than ten minutes. A driver will meet you at this end.”

“Thanks,” Hawke said, and replaced the receiver. He walked back up the hill to where Stubbs waited with the car.

“They’re sending a boat. Thanks for your patience, Stubbs. You should go home, it’s been a long day. I’ll make arrangements to get picked up here after my appointment.”

“Yes, sir. It’s been my pleasure driving you, Mr. Hawke. If you need me again, here’s my card.”

Hawke pocketed the card. “Stubbs, what do you know about this Powder Hill? Anything useful?”

“Small private island, sir. Maybe twenty-five acres. Originally, it was an English fortress guarding the approach to the north coast. Then a failed banana plantation. It sat in ruins for years. They tried to make a tourist destination out of it back in the sixties, but it was too difficult to access. There’s a very strong riptide running between the island and the mainland. One day, the tourist boat capsized, and two honeymooners drowned, and that was the end of that.”

“Then what?”

“It just sat out there. In the early nineties, we heard there was some rich European buyer. All very hush-hush. Turned out he was Russian, one of those new billionaires getting their money offshore. He poured millions into the place, kept most of the fort and made a house out of it. Put in a landing strip, a hangar, and a big marina on the western side of the island where he moors his yacht. Also recently erected a big radio and TV tower. No one knows what that’s all about. Some say he’s in the media.”

“That yacht’s not called Tsar by any chance?” Hawke asked, remembering the name stenciled on the hull of the Zodiac that had come for Anastasia Korsakova.

“Tsar, that might be it. Have you seen her, sir?”

“Not yet, but I suppose I will. Here comes my ride. Thanks again, Stubbs. I’ll be seeing you.”

“Pleasure was all mine, Mr. Hawke,” Stubbs said. He waved good-bye, then turned around and headed back up the hill.

Hawke walked to the end of the dock, reaching it just as the gleaming white launch reversed its engines and came to a stop. He recognized Hoodoo at the helm. There was another chap, definitely not Bermudian, wearing crisp whites as well, who leaped ashore with lines and made them fast to the cleats. He kept an eye on Hawke the whole time, and it was hard not to notice the 9mm SIG Sauer MG-110 machine gun slung across his shoulder.

“Good evening, sir,” he said, straightening up. “Mr. Alex Hawke?”

“Indeed I am,” Hawke said, smiling at the young man, Russian by the sound of him.

“May I trouble you for some identification, sir?”

“You must be bloody joking. I’m an invited guest.”

“Sorry, sir. House rules. We’ve had some problems.”

“All right, then,” Hawke said, opening his wallet to reveal the Florida driver’s license he sometimes used. The address listed belonged to Tactics International. It was a company he partly owned in Miami, run by his good friend and comrade-in-arms Stokely Jones. “Happy?”

“Would you mind turning around and putting your hands above your head?”

“Of course not. Would you care to see my Highland Fling? It’s legendary.”

The man ignored this and went over every inch of Hawke’s body with a handheld metal detector.

“Nothing personal, sir. Sorry for the inconvenience. All right, if you’ll step aboard, we’ll shove off.”

“Hello, Hoodoo, I’m Alex Hawke,” he said, grabbing one of the gleaming brass handholds and offering his other hand to the helmsman.

“Sir. Nice to have you aboard. We’ve met before, you say?”

“Just in passing. You probably don’t recognize me with my clothes on.”

Hoodoo, puzzled, smiled and shoved the throttles forward. Stubbs had not overstated the ferocity of the riptide currents roaring through the channel. Powder Hill was a fortress with a very intimidating moat.

“We don’t get many visitors here,” Hoodoo said, smiling at him.

“I imagine not. Few people would have the temerity to drop in unexpectedly.”

Hoodoo’s smile was enigmatic as he put the wheel over and headed for what appeared to be a large boathouse on the distant shore.

Ten minutes of rough water later, they arrived at the Powder Hill dock. At the far end was a block house that was clearly a security office. On the narrow paved road above, there was a dark green Land Rover waiting, the Defender model, all kitted out in brush bars, searchlights, and a siren mounted on the bonnet. Two men sat up front, a driver in khakis and another fellow in mufti wearing a sweat-stained straw planter’s hat.

Hawke bid farewell to Hoodoo, stepped ashore, and made his way up to the waiting vehicle.

“Mr. Hawke,” the passenger said as Hawke climbed into the small rear seat, “Welcome to Powder Island. My name is Starbuck. I’m the general factotum around here, prune the bougainvillea, keep Miss Anastasia’s place looking good. Miss Anastasia asked me to fetch you and bring you round to her house.” He had a broad black face and a beaming white smile. Hawke liked him immediately.

“This is a working banana plantation, Starbuck?” Hawke asked. They’d been winding up a hill through a dense, well-kept grove.

“Very small operation, sir. But yes, we turn a tidy profit every year. This island is self-sufficient. We grow all of our own vegetables, catch our own fish.”

Hawke smiled. A few minutes later, they emerged from the gloom of the grove. They were atop a hill with great views in all directions. In the distance was St. George’s. To his right, Hawke could see the main house. It was an eighteenth-century British fort that had seen a lot of restoration. There were a few cars parked on the gravel. To the right was the marina, with a very large yacht, more than three hundred feet, moored at the outer wharf.

To his left, the road wound down to a small bay on the far side. There was a two-story house by the water, lovely colonial architecture, enshrouded in bougainvillea. That, he assumed, would be Anastasia Korsakova’s studio.

Between the two descending roads was a wide meadow of manicured grass. In the middle of that stood a steel tower about a hundred feet tall.

“Starbuck, tell me about the tower. For broadcasting?”

“No, sir, Mr. Hawke. That tower is a mooring station.”

“Mooring? For what?”

“An airship, sir.”

“Good Lord, still?” Hawke said. Airships had played a huge role in Bermuda’s early aviation history, but he had no idea any of them still were in operation.

“This is a new one, sir. Built by the owner of Powder Hill. Before that, the last famous ones we had here on Bermuda were the Graf Zeppelin and the Hindenburg, both of which stopped here to drop off mail on the way to the United States. The owner of Powder Hill is building a fleet of airships for transatlantic passenger travel. Here we are, sir.”

The driver pulled to a stop in front of the house, and Hawke climbed out, saying good-bye to Starbuck, who promised to return for him in an hour or whenever he called security.

THE LOVELY OLD house had a wide covered verandah that wrapped all the way around the second floor. Hawke looked up to see Asia Korsakova standing at the bougainvillea-covered rail, smiling down at him. Her dark blonde hair was pulled up on top of her head, and she was wearing a pale blue linen smock spattered with paint.

“Mr. Hawke,” she said, “you did come after all.”

“You had doubts?”

“I thought you’d lose your nerve.”

“There’s still time.”

She laughed and motioned him inside. The wide front door was open, a dark foyer inside lit with guttering candles in sconces on the wall.

“Come straight up the stairway. My studio’s up here.”

The studio was a large space, a square, high-ceilinged room filled with the typical artist’s chaos-easels, brushes, paint pots, and very large canvases stacked against the walls everywhere. Paddle fans revolved slowly overhead. What remained of the day streamed through the opened French doors and the big skylight overhead with filtered shades of rosy, buttery light.

There was a large open-hearth fireplace with a Bermuda cedar mantel. Above it hung a marvelous portrait of an inordinately handsome man in a splendid dress military uniform, standing beside a magnificent white stallion in battle livery. Hawke moved to study the work more closely. The effect was stunning, a powerful subject and a deeply heroic treatment, beautifully painted.

Anastasia appeared from a small adjacent room, carrying a tall drink on a small silver tray. He took it, and it was delicious.

“Welcome to Half Moon House,” she said. “I’m so glad you came.”

“Cheers,” Hawke said, raising his glass. “Lovely painting over the fireplace, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“Your work?”

She nodded. “I’ve always reserved that spot for the man I love. That’s my father.”

“Handsome chap.”

“Comes from inside, you know. Always.”

She looked even more luminously beautiful than the picture of her that he’d been carrying in his mind ever since that afternoon on the beach.

“Please sit over there in that wicker chair. I want to take a few photographs while we still have this beautiful light.”

It was a long wicker chaise with a huge fan-shaped back and great rolled arms. The entire thing was beaded with beautiful shells of every color. There were deep cushions covered in rose-colored silk. It looked like the throne of some Polynesian king. Hawke removed his navy linen jacket, dropped it to the floor, and lay back against the cushions. She leaned in with the camera and began clicking away, shooting close-ups of his face.

“So, you do portraits.”

“Yes.”

“Judging by the one, you’re quite good.”

“Some people think so.”

“Are you famous?”

“Google me and find out.”

“I don’t have a computer.”

“Are you so desperately poor, Mr. Hawke?”

“Why do you ask? Is it important?”

“No. I’m simply curious. Your accent is very posh. Yet you live in this crumbling ruin. With your, what’s the current expression, partner. He sounds a trifle old on the phone. Do you like older men, Mr. Hawke?”

Hawke laughed. “I like this one well enough. We’ve been together for years.”

“Really? What’s his name?”

“Pelham. Grenville is his surname. He’s related to the famous writer somehow. A cousin once or twice removed. Wodehouse, you know, one of my literary heroes. A genius.”

“I prefer War and Peace. Anything at all by Turgenev. Nabokov’s Pale Fire is my favorite novel. But Pushkin, of course, is the grandfather of them all. You know Pushkin? Next to my father, Russia’s greatest hero.”

“Hmm. Well, I guess I must have missed those, I’m afraid. Have you read Wodehouse’s Pigs Have Wings, by any chance? No? Uncle Dynamite? How about Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit? No? Marvelous books, bloody marvelous.”

“Are you an art lover as well as a connoisseur of great literature?”

“Art? I suppose some of it’s okay. I quite admire Jamie Wyeth’s portrait of John F. Kennedy. And that fat pig painting he did. And Turner. I am rather keen on Turner’s watercolors.”

“A lover of the old masters, one would suppose.”

“The old masters? Me? Hardly. I’m glad they’re all dead. I wish more of them had died sooner.”

She looked at him; he just stood there, looking back at her. For a moment, their eyes were locked, and he had the unmistakable sense that both of their hearts had seized up and that neither of them was breathing.

She suddenly moved toward him.

“Stand up, please, and take your shirt off.”

Hawke did so.

“Turn to the right, so the sun hits you full on the face. Good. Stop slouching, and stand up straight. Now, look at me. Not your head, just your eyes. Perfect. God. Those eyes.”

“My late mother thanks you.”

“What do you do? To support yourself?”

“This and that. Freelance work.”

“Freelance. That covers a lot of ground. Trousers off, please. And your knickers.”

“You’re joking, of course.”

“Everything off, come on! I’m losing my light.”

Hawke mumbled something and stripped off his remaining clothing.

It was an odd feeling, standing naked in front of a fully clothed woman like this. It was not completely unpleasant, bordering on the erotic. He felt a distinct stirring below and quickly turned his attention to the portrait over the fireplace. Her father was, Hawke noticed again, fully clothed. No nudes of him around here, one only hoped.

“Happy?” he said.

“I will be happy, Mr. Hawke. Now, turn around so I can shoot your bum.”

“Christ. I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Too late now.”

“What are these pictures for? I thought this was to be an oil painting. This portrait or whatever.”

“This is just reference. Stuff I can use to work on the portrait when you’re not here in person.”

“How reassuring. And what do you do with them, these naughty photographs, when you’re finished?”

“Post them on the Internet if you’d like.”

“You know, Miss Korsakova-”

“Asia.”

“Asia. You know, Asia, I’m not at all sure I’m cut out for this sort of thing.”

“On the contrary, you’re perfectly cut out for it. Have you never looked in a mirror? All right, lost the light. You can get dressed now. We’re done for the day.”

“That’s it?”

“We’ll start roughing you in on canvas next time. Which do you prefer, check or cash?”

“Check would be fine.”

She went to her desk and opened a checkbook. “Hawke with an e?”

“Yes.”

She handed it to him. He noticed the check was drawn on a very good private bank in Switzerland. Banque Pictet on the Rue des Acacias in Geneva. He knew it. He banked there himself.

“I’m going to paint you lying on that wicker chaise. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I found it in Bali. It was in the royal palace. Perfect for you.”

“This portrait, will it be life-size?”

“Yes, it will.”

“A nude portrait?”

“Of course.”

“My God.”

“My exhibition will be at the National Portrait Gallery at Trafalgar Square next spring. And there’ll you be, hanging amongst all my other beautiful men, in all your glory. Bigger than life!”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Relax, Mr. Alex Hawke of Teakettle Cottage. Come springtime, all of London will be oohing and aahing over you. The gallery staff will have to provide linen handkerchiefs for the droolers.”

Alex zipped up his trousers and looked at her. He’d never felt so ridiculous in his life.

“Ah. May I sit for a moment? I’m a bit dizzy for some strange reason.”

“Listen, what are you so anxious about? You’re going to be famous, you know.”

“Famous?” Hawke said, sitting, the blood freezing in his veins. He’d had a chilling premonition of C pausing before a portrait at the exhibition and saying, “Good Lord, Stevens, that can’t be Alex Hawke, can it?”

“Yes, famous. Shall we say next Tuesday at one o’clock? The light will be good for two hours.”

“Tuesday?” Hawke said absently. “Yes. I think Tuesday will be fine.”

He couldn’t help himself now.

He was already too far gone.

16

Friday night, Stokely Jones Jr. was on his way to a birthday party. He was arriving in style on Fancha’s beautiful sixty-foot sport-fishing boat, Fado. Invited, not, but that was completely irrelevant. This soiree was strictly business. The birthday boy was a psychotic Chechen terrorist warlord with a price on his head, rumored to be a pretty big number. Apparently, this psycho, name of Ramzan Baysarov, had royally pissed off the Kremlin kingpins.

Kidnapping schoolchildren, blowing up Moscow apartment buildings, spraying bullets inside packed churches in Novgorod and kiddie matinee movie theaters, crap like that. No wonder the Kremlin was PO’d. So, Ramzan was wisely AMF out of Russia for the time being, keeping his head down, right here in sunny Miami.

He was in the country illegally, and federal marshals had been trying to find him for a month with no luck. Hard to believe, terrorists on the loose like that, but there you go. Good for business.

Tonight, according to Stoke’s extremely highly paid informants, Ramzan was going to stick his psycho head up just long enough to wolf down some ice cream and birthday cake.

You had a large expatriate Russian community here in Miami now. And a whole lot of them were dirty, some of them mobbed up. Stoke’s main clients, the Pentagon and Langley, were naturally very interested in seeing exactly who attended Ramzan’s Friday night birthday bash. Hence Stoke’s unannounced attendance.

Tactics International, Stoke’s private intel-gathering operation, had recently been hired by a Pentagon guy named Harry Brock. Assignment: Help Harry covertly surveil Russian and Chechen mafiya types who’d caught the eye of Homeland Security. Word was, the Russian bad guys were planning some kind of terror event on U.S. soil. Stir up more trouble between the U.S. and Russia. Why? That was what Harry Brock wanted Stoke and Company to find out.

Stoke’s little start-up had gotten a big shot in the arm with this one. Washington and Moscow at it again. And Russians had come to Miami in droves, buying up yachts and mansions, Bentleys and Bvlgari watches. Stoke had eventually heard about the party by asking all of his PIs about anything unusual on the Russian front. It seemed like a perfect opportunity to shoot lots of video of the attendees.

The skinny, according to Special Agent Harry Brock, was that U.S.-Russian relations, bad as they were recently, were about to get a whole lot worse. CIA intercepts indicated a bunch of U.S.-based Russian-American superpatriots with Kremlin ties were planning something big on the East Coast, just maybe right here in River City. These Kremlin bad boys didn’t seem to have any problem getting expatriated mafiya types to do their dirty work, either, Harry told Stoke.

“You mean, like back when the CIA hired Bugsy Siegel and his boys to try and whack Castro?” Stoke had asked Harry. Harry didn’t think that was very funny. He was sensitive that way.

Stoke stepped outside Fado’s main cabin and called to the man atop the tuna tower, three stories up in the chill night air. The salty air felt good. It was cool in Miami tonight, even for December. The good news was, despite the forecast, it wasn’t raining. Rain would have put a real damper on their video surveillance plans.

“Come on up, man. See the world of the rich and famous,” Sharkey Gonzales-Gonzales called down to him from his tiny helm station thirty feet above the deck. The big yacht was going dead slow, sliding up the wide residential canal at idle speed. Huge mansions on either side of the waterway. Megayachts moored at docks along the seawall. You could see why the Russians would be taken in by all this glitz. Miami in December beat the shit out of Moscow in June or any other damn month.

Sharkey, the one-armed Cuban fishing guide who was Stokely’s sole employee, was running the boat from up top tonight. That’s where Harry had mounted the sophisticated gear, digital video cameras like the ones the unmanned spy birds carried, no bigger than a deck of cards but equipped with night vision and audio dish intercept stuff. There was even a tiny video camera mounted at the very tip of one of the tall outriggers. Harry had set it up so you could swing it around just like that Skycam the NFL used.

All this state-of-the-art tech stuff was provided by Mr. Harry Brock of JCOS at the P House. That’s Joint Chiefs of Staff at the Pentagon for anybody lucky enough to be living outside the Beltway.

Harry Brock was a spook, a Tactics client, but over the years, Stoke and his pal Alex Hawke had gotten to like the guy okay. He was a little too laid-back California for Stoke’s New York tastes, but he could be funny sometimes. Besides, he was a true hard case who’d helped save Alex Hawke’s life down in the Amazon a while back, so he had a lot of gold stars on his beanie.

“Coming right up,” Stoke said, starting up the stainless-steel ladder of the jungle-gym tuna tower.

There were four of them aboard the white Viking sport-fishing boat belonging to Stoke’s fiancée, the beauteous Fancha. The Viking was called the Fado, after the kind of music Fancha sang. Sad Portuguese ballads, and when she opened her mouth and sang them, man, the melodies stuck a knife in your heart. She’d come out of nowhere to become the hottest thing in Miami right now. That’s why Stoke had had little trouble getting her the terrorist birthday party gig.

Since leaving the dock at Fancha’s home on Key Biscayne, Stoke and Harry Brock had been huddled below in Fado’s main cabin. They’d been looking at the four monitors broadcasting and recording direct live feeds from four very high-tech cameras and sound equipment mounted on the tuna tower. The stationary cameras were working great, but the mobile Skycam was giving Harry fits. It was tough to swing the outrigger around steadily enough to get a decent picture.

Fancha, Stokely’s main squeeze for these last few years, had inherited Fado, along with one of the more spectacular estates on Key Biscayne, Casa Que Canta, from her late husband. She was from the Cape Verde Islands and was beginning to make a serious name for herself as a singer. She had a new album out, Green Island Girl, nominated for a Latin Grammy as Breakthrough Album of the Year. He was proud of her. Hell, maybe he even loved her.

“Shark, my little one-armed brother, how you doing up here?” Stoke said, arriving up at the small helm platform. It felt like a hundred feet in the air, the way it swayed up here under the big black man’s weight. Tear Stokely Jones down, Hawke once said, and you could put up a very nice sports arena. Didn’t seem to bother Shark any. He was steering the boat with his good right arm and aiming one of the cameras with his flipper. Luis Gonzales-Gonzales was a former charter skipper down in the Keys. He’d lost most of an arm to a big bull shark one day and decided the spy business was a lot safer than fishing.

“Hey, Stoke.”

“Look at you up here, man!” Stoke said to the wiry little guy, “Busier ’n a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. You cool? Everything all right?”

“I’m cool. I’m having a tough time navigating some of the narrow canals, but we’re good to go, going to be at the man’s dock right on time. How are my TV pictures looking down below?”

“Brock says okay, but your zooms are a little shaky, and there could be sharper contrast. Maybe open up the apertures a squidge, he says. We’re not getting much moonlight tonight. You know what? Don’t worry about it. You drive the boat, Shark. I’ll see what I can do about the cameras.”

Stoke adjusted one of the camera’s aperture controls and did a slow zoom in on somebody’s patio and then back out to the wide shot. “How’s that, Harry?” he said into the lip mike extending from one of the headsets all three men were wearing for the operation.

“Better. Yeah, open all four of them up,” Harry replied in his headphones. “I’m recording sound now, doing a sound check, so watch what you two buttheads say about me up there.”

Stoke laughed and said, “Guy who called you pencil-dick, shit-for-brains, total butt-wipe a few seconds ago? You heard that? That was the Sharkman called you that, not me, boss.”

Sharkey laughed. “How’s the star doing? She ready?”

“Getting ready. Doing her hair and makeup down in the owner’s stateroom.”

“That’s one gorgeous chick, man. Very, very special lady. You know that, right?”

“I kinda had that feeling already, but I appreciate the added input, Shark.”

“Hold on!” Sharkey shouted suddenly.

Stoke reached out and grabbed hold of the back of the helm seat. The wake of a passing boat plus his own massive weight atop the stainless-steel erector set made the tower sway sickeningly. He wasn’t used to being up on the tuna tower, and he didn’t much like it. He hated fishing, always had, and he hated tuna more than most fish. The ex-SEAL belonged under the surface, not rocking and rolling up on some Frisbee-sized platform. But his size was an asset in business.

Stoke, who was about the size of your average armoire, was a good guy to have around when you needed someone to, say, run through a solid brick wall or knock down a mature oak tree.

“That’s the house up ahead, all lit up,” Shark said, throttling back to neutral. The big boat instantly slowed to a crawl. “See it? Out on that point.”

“See it? How can you miss it? Looks like a country club.”

“Yeah. Russians have all the money now, seems like.”

“Okay, Harry,” Stoke said into his mike. “We’ve got the house in sight. Headed for the dock. Five minutes.”

The huge, bloated house was situated on a point of land sticking out into the bay, with a wide apron of grass extending to the canal on two sides. It was one of the newer McMansions, all glass and steel, very Miami Vice, Stoke thought. The pool was a free-form infinity number and had little bridges and rocky grottos that meandered down to the seawall at the seaward end of the point.

There was a large terrace surrounding the pool, where tiki bars and catering tables had been set up. The party was scheduled to begin in less than half an hour, and the only people visible were waiters and sound technicians, setting up the speaker systems for Fancha’s performance.

Stoke saw the small stage set up on the near side of the pool. Fancha’s six-piece fado band had just arrived, tuning up, the amped-up sound of a guitar easily carrying all the way across the water. The neighbors weren’t going to be getting much sleep tonight.

The dock was unoccupied, just the way it had been when Sharkey had scouted the location earlier that afternoon. The host, a Mr. Vladimir Lukov, didn’t own a yacht, Sharkey had learned. Sharkey had been counting on them being early, the only guests to arrive by sea. At the very least, he hoped he’d be first and get the dock before anyone else. It looked as if he’d been right. Or maybe just lucky.

Shark maneuvered the big boat alongside the wooden dock, then used his bow and stern thrusters to crab the boat sideways toward the piling fenders. Two young guys appeared on the dock, ready to take Fado’s lines. Stoke saw another couple of guys in black, clearly security, making their way down the sloping lawn to the dock.

“I’ll take the helm,” Stoke said to Sharkey. “You go down and handle the lines.”

Sharkey turned the wheel over to his boss, then scrambled below to heave the preset bow and stern lines to the boys waiting at either end of the dock.

“Here we go, Harry,” Stoke said into the mike as they bumped up against the rubber fenders. “Roll tape.”

“You got it. We’re rolling. Perfect camera position, by the way, great angle from up there. We got the back of the house, the whole terrace, the pool, perfect. My compliments to the camera crew.”

“Fancha ready?” Stoke asked.

“Our star’s coming up on deck right now. Wait till you see her outfit, Stoke. Unbelievable.”

Stoke shut the twin two-thousand-horsepower CAT diesel engines down, removed his headset, and stowed it in the compartment under the helm station. He’d be wearing a different commo system now. An invisible earbud and a tiny mike hidden inside the sleeve of his jacket would keep him in constant contact with Harry Brock aboard Fado as he moved through the party.

“Harry?” he said into his sleeve. “Radio check.”

“Loud and clear,” Harry said, and Stokely hurried down the ladder. It sounded like one of the badass security guys was already giving Sharkey a hard time. These weren’t rent-a-cops trucked in for the birthday party. Stoke could tell just by the way they moved and carried themselves that these Russian boys were in the death business.

“You got a problem, chief?” Stoke asked the big blond Russian dressed head to toe in black combat fatigues. The guy was standing on the dock with his feet wide apart and his arms folded across his chest, giving Stoke what must have passed for the evil eye back in Mother Russia.

“Nyet. You got a problem. Your little one-armed bandit here says he doesn’t have an invitation. This is a private function on private property. So, unless you show me an invitation, and your name appears on my list, you got two minutes to get this boat out of here.”

“I’m sorry,” Stoke said, stepping to the rail and smiling at the guy. “I’m sure we spoke on the phone. But I’ve forgotten your name. You work for Mr. Lukov, right? Chief of security? Boris, isn’t it?” It was the first Russian name that popped into his head, but it didn’t seem to faze the guy.

Stoke stuck his hand out, and the man instinctively took it. Stoke squeezed a second too long and caught the guy wincing. He was a seriously big guy, ex-military, no doubt about it. Had that unmistakable special-forces look about him.

“Who the fuck are you?” the man said, withdrawing his hand with some difficulty from Stoke’s bone cruncher. Boris’s black nylon windbreaker fell open, and Stoke saw a Mac-10 light machine gun hanging from a shoulder sling. Probably to keep the kids in line bobbing for apples or playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey later.

Stoke smiled at Boris again. “Levy, Sheldon Levy, Suncoast Artist Management. That ring a bell?”

No reply.

“We’re providing tonight’s entertainment.”

“What entertainment? The birthday singer?”

“Exactly. The singer. And look, Boris, here she is now.”

Fancha stepped out of the shadows of the boat’s main salon as if out of a dream. Her bold brown eyes, slightly uptilted at the corners, were shining beneath a fringe of silken black hair. She climbed two steps in her shimmering sequined red dress and stood on the bridge deck next to Stokely. He’d never seen her look so beautiful. He looked at the Russian.

“This is-”

“Fancha,” the security guy said, trying to keep his jaw off the deck. He looked as if he was going to dissolve into a puddle and just drip over the gunwales into the canal. He looked around at his buddies. “It’s Fancha,” Boris said, reverent, as if Madonna had suddenly popped out of a pumpkin.

Stoke looked at her and smiled. “Some dress, huh, Boris? Who’s that designer you’re wearing tonight, Fancha? Oscar? Lacroix? Zac Posen?”

“What a lovely house,” Fancha said, ignoring Stoke and smiling at the drooling security guy. “Sorry I’m late, gentlemen. I hope my band hasn’t been waiting too long for the sound check.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” the guy said, “They just got there. Here, I mean. Still setting up. I will escort you up there to the pool? I’m afraid the grass is a little wet still from the sprinklers, and it can be slippery. Please?”

“You’re so kind.”

Stoke rolled his eyes as Boris held out his hand to her. She took it and stepped lightly from the boat onto the dock, beaming at the good-looking Russian.

Stoke’s fists clenched involuntarily. He knew this guy. Didn’t really know him, of course, but knew his type, guessed who he was. One of the Kremlin’s storm troopers in a previous life. The Black Berets, they were called. Riot police, which, in the new post-Democratic Russia, meant they had the legal right to beat the crap out of anybody whose skin color they didn’t like. Namely, black. Black covered a lot of territory in Russia and included Chechens, Jews, and, of course, Africans and their cousins, African-Americans.

“And what’s your name?” Fancha asked the guy, smiling up at this dickhead as if he was freakin’ Dr. Zhivago.

“I am Yuri. Yuri Yurin.”

“I’m Fancha, Yuri,” she said. “Nice to meet you.”

“Let me give you my card,” Yuri said, pulling out a business card and handing it to her. Without even glancing at it, she handed it to her one-man entourage, Stokely, and started off across the grass, letting Yuri hold her by the damn arm the whole way.

Stoke turned the card over in his hand. It had a picture of a sleek offshore racing boat, a Magnum 60. Beneath was Yuri’s name, Yuri Yurin, and his office address over on Miami Beach. Something called the Miami Yacht Group Ltd. So, Yuri only moonlighted as security. His day job was yacht salesman. Fish where the fish are, Stoke thought. Russians were buying most of the big yachts these days. Yuri was probably getting rich, too.

“That’s pronounced ‘Yurin’ like in piss, right?” he called after the Russian, but he guessed Yurin hadn’t heard him, because there was no reaction.

Fancha paused to look back at Stoke, still holding onto the guy. “Oh, Sheldon?”

“Yes, my Fancha?” Stoke said, bowing slightly from the waist.

“My Fiji water?”

“We have Fiji at all the pool bars,” Yuri said, the little shit.

“She has her own Fiji,” Stokely told him, maybe a little too loudly. “Estate-bottled for her in Fiji personally by David and Jill Gilmour right at the spring on their property at Wakaya.”

“Estate-bottled Fiji water?” Yuri said, finding it hard to believe there was some luxury item on the planet he’d not yet heard of.

“Of course.”

“Sheldon? My water?”

“I’ll be right there with it.”

“Chilled, Sheldon?”

“Chilled to perfection, goddess.”

17

Half an hour later, Fancha was onstage, in the middle of her first set, singing her little heart out. Stoke was busy invoking Rule One of fancy cocktail soirees: Circulate. He was cruising the crowd like a hungry shark, using his nom de guerre, Sheldon Levy, talking to anyone and everyone who looked interesting, just seeing what itch he could scratch here and there.

Aboard Fado, Harry’s digital audio recorders were picking up everything he was hearing at the party, so Stoke didn’t pay too much attention to most of these drunks. Still, some of what they were saying would no doubt prove useful to some intel wonk at Langley down the line. Harry also had rigged an online feed to VICAM. He could send video stills of anyone who caught his eye to D.C., right from Fado, and get instant rap-sheet feedback, should any of these distinguished gentlemen have a criminal record.

Stoke was hoping to bump into Ramzan himself, but so far, the birthday boy hadn’t shown for his own gig. Wanted to be fashionably late, Stoke guessed, an old Chechen custom, maybe. The Russians he did meet were mostly big and noisy. Most of them were noisy in slurred English. Vodka, Stoli, Imperia, all headed down wide-open hatches by the gallon at various bar tables situated under the palms around the property.

Not a drinker, he’d passed on the vodka in favor of Diet Coke, but he’d put away about a pound of Beluga caviar so far and felt he could probably go for another. There were mountains of the delicious stuff everywhere, so you didn’t have to feel greedy spooning two tablespoons onto your toast points.

The women, he had to admit, were mostly beautiful. Lots of low-cut dresses, sequins, and major bling. A whole lot of very big blonde hair. You had a good cross-section of wives, trophy wives, girlfriends, and professionals. Some of them had to be imports from the Ukraine, some of them were clearly home-grown, and a few were right up there with South Florida’s finest.

Sharkey deserved a lot of credit and maybe a raise for the idea of using Fancha’s yacht as the surveil vehicle. Since the party was mostly on the back lawn around the pool, the docked boat was the only feasible way to cover this assignment. He had to laugh every time he looked out at Fado, thinking about the countless hours he’d spent staking out some dirtbag in Queens, munching doughnuts, freezing his tail off behind the wheel of some crummy Dodge Dart with a bad heater.

Down below in the cabin, positioned in front of his monitors and camera controls, Harry Brock was a busy boy. Every time a couple of guys or a group out on the lawn strayed anywhere near the boat, you’d see that portside outrigger come creeping around, dangling the little Skycam over their unsuspecting heads. He even had instant replay on the damn thing.

Harry had been right about the outrigger as a camera and boom mike. People were so deep into the cocktail hour now that nobody seemed to notice when the stray outrigger on the big sportfish did weird things, waving around over people’s heads like a magic wand.

Stoke decided to make his way inside the palazzo. People were coming and going, and it wouldn’t hurt to see what was going on indoors, beyond the camera’s reach. The house, mobbed with people, was pretty much what you’d expect, a style Stoke called Early Boca. Twenty-foot ceilings. A lot of heavily gilded furniture and artwork that was supposed to look as if it had come from some Italian castle. Big curving stairway with a huge bad portrait of the owner’s wife halfway up the curving wall. Chandeliers of melting icicles they’d maybe bought at Mickey’s Magic Castle Gift Shoppe over in Orlando.

He pushed his way into the foyer (fwa-yay, as his buddy Chief Inspector Ambrose Congreve would say) and stepped through the double front doors at the home’s grand entrance. There he paused to admire the steady stream of gleaming Bentleys, Rollers, Escalades, Rangers, and big black Hummers. None of them, of course, could hold a candle to his 1965 black raspberry GTO convertible, capable of a standing quarter-mile in less than eight seconds. Street legal.

The gleaming parade of pimped-up rides was coming through the ornate iron entrance gates and rolling to a stop under the portico where the valet boys waited. A bright red Ferrari Enzo rumbled up, and three valet guys converged on it as if somebody had just dropped a million-dollar bill on the pavement, which they probably had.

Stoke checked his watch. It was past nine o’clock, and Fancha was supposed to sing “Happy Birthday” at nine-thirty sharp, so a lot of people were eager to get back to the pool. Stoke thought half the guests had probably come because she was singing. Wouldn’t surprise him if it was more than half. Girl was climbing the charts.

The woman he maybe loved was maybe, just maybe, on her way to stardom, and it made him proud to catch her name whispered around the room.

Have you heard that beautiful girl sing? Fancha? Go! Go out there! You’ve got to hear her!

Something was going on out on the front lawn. There was a white bakery truck, looked like, motor still running, pulled over on the grass, and the driver was standing outside surrounded by a few of the black-shirt boys. Pretty tense situation. Stoke decided he had time to go check it out.

“Fuck you doing, coming in the main gate?” one guy was screaming at the driver. “You didn’t see the sign, ‘Service Entrance,’ around the side? Whaddya, blind, you dumb shit?”

The delivery guy, who looked like a big blond bear in white pajamas, wasn’t backing down. He’d didn’t look as if he’d back down from Mike Tyson, to tell the truth. He got up in the guy’s face quick.

“Listen up, pal, like I said, I got the freaking birthday cake in the back there. It won’t fit through the pantry door. So I’m bringing it around to bring it in the front door. Because it’s wider. Okay? Just like your caterers in the kitchen told me to do. Awright with you, you skinny fuck?”

The driver’s white outfit had the name “Happy” stitched over his breast pocket. It said “Happy’s Bake Shoppe” on the side of the white truck. This Happy character was a big guy, seriously large, and the security guys were having some second thoughts about messing with his ass too much.

“Is there a problem?” Stoke asked, pushing his way past two of the black-shirted Russian muscle boys.

“There was one. Now we have another one. You. Who the hell are you?”

Russians so full of attitude lately, you notice that? Still pissed about that Cold War thing, Stoke figured. And now that they were rich, well, you know how that goes. He smiled at the guy, stuck out his hand.

“Sheldon Levy. Suncoast Artist Management. I’m coordinating this evening’s entertainment for your employer, Mr. Lukov. I hate to interrupt this little scuffle, but the lovely Fancha is scheduled to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to the guest of honor in fifteen minutes. I’m afraid if we don’t get that cake through the door and out to the stage, all of our timing will go down the tubes. I don’t think Mr. Lukov would be very happy about that, do you gentlemen agree?”

Happy the Baker smiled at Stokely. “Finally, someone around here who makes some freaking sense.”

“Can I offer you a hand with the cake?” Stoke asked Happy.

“Nah, we’ll help him,” a black shirt said. “C’mon, guys, gimme a hand here with this freaking cake, all right?”

As the security team opened up the van and unloaded the huge white and pink cake, Stoke went over and offered Happy his hand. Something about the guy looked very familiar.

“Sheldon Levy,” he said.

“I’m Happy,” the baker said, pumping his hand. If he’d expected Stoke’s hand to be small and breakable, he was sorely disappointed.

“Yeah? You’re Happy, huh? Good thing your momma didn’t name you Gay, right?” Stoke laughed. The guy didn’t seem to get it.

“Have we met before?” Stoke said. He was sure he’d either met this guy or seen his picture fairly recently.

“The Steiner wedding?” Happy said. “Maybe that was it.”

“I missed that one. Didn’t make the cut, I guess. No, somewhere else, must be. C’mon out back, Happy, I’ll introduce you to Fancha.”

“You know Fancha?”

“Know her? I’m her manager. C’mon, we’ll make sure they don’t drop your cake going through the house. Cake like that, what does that beauty go for, Happy?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Hundred?”

“Thousand.”

“For a cake? You got Celine Dion in there? Well, it’s a work of art. I’m sure it will be a huge surprise for the guest of honor.”

“Oh, you’re right about that, Mr. Levy. A huge surprise.”

Happy looked happy as he saw his masterpiece being paraded through the crowded house above everyone’s head and lofted out toward the stage overlooking the deep end of the pool.

Fancha was just finishing up one of the hit songs from Green Island Girl, one that might go gold called “A Minha Vida,” when the cake arrived onstage with her.

She looked at the six-foot-high frosted monstrosity and said softly into the mike, “Isn’t that beautiful? A symbol of one life lived. You know the word fado itself means fate, destiny, and-oh, here’s the birthday boy himself! Let’s give him a big round of applause, shall we?”

A thin, clean-shaven man, with dark, deep-set eyes beneath fierce black brows, stepped up to the microphone. It was Ramzan, all right, although in the pictures in his dossier, he’d had a luxuriant beard. He was swaying a little bit and had a kind of goofy grin plastered on his face for a fierce Chechen warlord. Miami got to people, Stoke thought, that’s all there was to it. Ramzan looked out at the crowd and spoke, sounding like that Ali G guy in that Borat movie, but that was just Stoke’s opinion.

“I want to thank my dear friend Vlad for having this wonderful excitement party. And all of you coming. I am very happy we can take time out from our struggle and come together in such a joyful party time.”

That was the wonderful excitement speech, and then Fancha took the mike off the stand. The crowd got quiet fast as she sang the opening lyrics with the voice of an unreachable angel. Behind her, they were lighting the candles on the cake, waiters standing on stepladders. The candles lit up like sparklers, and the crowd cheered as Fancha lit up the whole night with her voice.

“Happy birthday to you…happy birthday…”

Stoke smiled at her and then looked around at Happy standing a few feet behind him. He had a funny look on his face. A little nervous, maybe. Nervous? About what? His cake was a hit.

A big surprise.

Stoke raised his sleeve to his lips and whispered, “Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“You getting this?”

“You bet.”

“Zoom in on the baker in the white suit. Big gorilla. A few feet behind me. Wait, he’s moving away. You got him?”

“Yeah, I got him. Let me get a close-up.”

“Does he look familiar to-”

“Oh, shit.”

“What?”

“Stoke! Get the hell out of there! Now! Grab Fancha and run…”

“What? What is it?”

A big surprise.

“That’s the Omnibomber! The guy the FBI thinks blew up that prison a few weeks ago. Little Miss. The Death Row Bomber. I saw the prison security-camera shots just yesterday. It’s him, all right.”

“Oh, shit. The cake.”

“Yeah, the cake. Gotta be. Come on, Stoke. You gotta move. Get out now, Stoke! I mean it. Those candles, those are probably fuses or somebody’s got a remote detonator, one or the other. Go! Go!”

Stoke looked around. Fancha was still singing her birthday song, her eyes on Ramzan, making it just for him. The baker was gone, melted into the crowd and probably headed for his truck. He looked at the candles, spewing fiery sparks. They’d burned almost all the way down to the icing on the cake. Time to go.

He stepped up onto the stage, right behind Fancha, swept her up into his arms, and leaned into the microphone. Fancha was squirming, trying to finish her song, looking at him as if he’d lost his mind.

Stoke said, “Isn’t she fabulous, ladies and gentlemen? The lovely Fancha! We’ll be taking a short break while the guest of honor blows out all those candles, but don’t worry, folks, she’ll be back for an encore!”

With that, Stoke stepped off the stage, Fancha twisting in his arms, and started pushing his way through the crowd headed toward the dock. He could see Sharkey on the bow, already heaving the bow line ashore, and Stoke heard the muffled roar of Fado’s big diesels coming to life.

He saw Harry at the top of the tower, screaming at him to hurry, hurry, and the crowd finally had thinned to the point where he could break into a full-tilt run across the sloping lawn toward the dock.

Sharkey was on the stern, heaving the line, and the big Viking’s props were churning now. She was beginning to edge away from the dock.

Two of the black shirts saw him coming and stepped in front of him. Stoke just ran right through them, flinging them to either side, and they sprawled to the ground. He had maybe twenty yards to reach the dock. The distance between the boat and the dock was opening up fast. Three feet, four…he sprinted that last bit, took a running jump off the dock, and leaped across the widening gap, landing hard on the deck in the aft cockpit. He managed to keep his balance and hold tightly to Fancha at the same time.

“Are you crazy? Put me down!” Fancha shouted in his ear, pounding on his shoulders with her fists.

There was a lot of shouting and confusion back on the lawn as Harry leaned on the throttles and the big yacht jumped up on plane and roared away from the dock.

“Go!” Stoke yelled up at Brock, “Hit it! Get us out of here!”

Stoke was in a crouch, moving with Fancha toward the door to the main salon, when the whole world was rocked on its side. The night sky lit with a white flash and then an intense blossoming orange glow that was blinding. Stoke, still cradling Fancha in his arms, dropped to the deck as the shockwave of the massive explosion slammed the big yacht, rolling her over onto her side, nearly broaching her completely. Stoke and Fancha slid down the deck, crashing against the gunwale. He protected her as best he could, but both of them were stunned.

Fado righted herself, rolling violently. At the top of the tower, Harry, clinging desperately to the wildly careening helm station, managed to hold on and speed away from the scene of horrible death and destruction behind them. Fado-intact, it seemed-roared out into the blackness of the empty bay. Stoke lifted his head and looked back at her wildly foaming white wake. In the distance, he could see the point of land protruding into the bay. No lights on, either around the pool or what was left of the house. No one moving, small fires blazing everywhere.

Where the pool had been, nothing but a large black hole. The whole backside of the house was gone, and you could look into the interior rooms of the Russian’s flaming mansion as if it was some kind of oversized, burnt-out dollhouse.

He looked down at Fancha, her head in his lap, staring up at him with those great big beautiful wide-open eyes.

“You okay, sugar? You hurt anywhere?”

“I thought you’d lost your mind, Stoke, grabbing me off that stage.”

“I was just trying not to lose you.”

“Oh, baby. I never saw somebody move so fast. I didn’t know anybody could run like that.”

“You watch me run to you next time you call my name.”

She reached up and brushed his cheek with the back of her hand.

“Stokely Jones Jr., I don’t know how to-”

“Shh. You thank me later. I’ve got to go see if Harry and Sharkey are okay, jump on the horn, tell my clients in D.C. what just happened to Comrade Ramzan.”

“Love you, baby.”

“Love you more.”

Stoke shrugged out of his jacket, folded it, and put it beneath Fancha’s head. Then he started climbing the stainless ladder to the top of the tower, moving fast.

Harry Brock was up there, staring at something in the sky through his binoculars.

“Holy shit. Will you look at that?”

“What?”

“Over there. To the west, just coming up over the Miami Herald building. Some kind of fuckin’ UFO or something.”

Stoke looked at the thing. “Damn.”

“What the hell is that thing, Stoke?”

“Some kind of new airship, I guess. Doesn’t look like any blimp I ever saw. Military, maybe, looking for go-fast drug boats coming up from the Keys.”

It was massive, whatever the hell it was. Stoke stared at the great silver ship floating over the Miami skyline toward him, a giant round opening where the nose should be. Weird-looking. Scary-looking, almost.

Make that definitely scary-looking.

18

Hawke, arriving at Shadowlands, found Ambrose Congreve standing at the front door, dressed to the nines, but adamantly refusing to get into the automobile Hawke had shown up in.

“Some car, isn’t it?” Hawke said, grinning. “Absolutely ripping.”

“I simply won’t ride into town in that contraption, Alex,” Congreve said. “I won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Look at it. It’s a deathtrap, for one thing. No doors, no roof. It’s utterly ridiculous.”

“It has a delightful roof. A daffodil surrey roof of fringed canvas, I’ll grant you, and the fringe is a bit outré, but a roof all the same.”

Congreve disdainfully tapped one of the tiny moon-shaped wheel covers with the tip of his walking stick, making a hollow, tinny sound. He looked at Hawke and did not bother to disguise his sigh of frustration.

“Frankly, Alex, I find it astounding that you can transit this island in such a conveyance and keep a straight face. This…car, if one can call it such, looks as if it formerly belonged to a circus clown.”

“Mind your tongue, Constable. And get in the damn thing. C is waiting, and we’re already late.”

“Yes, and this is quite a serious meeting he’s invited us to. We’re taking on the dreaded Russians again, Alex. If Sir David happens to be standing outside the club when we arrive, he’ll think he’s invited the bloody Ringling Brothers to help him save Western civilization.”

Hawke tried not to laugh out loud.

Because of traffic congestion on the small island, every residence on Bermuda was allotted only one vehicle per household. Hawke was driving the car that had come along with his cottage. This tiny vehicle by the noble Italian design house of Pininfarina, was a 1958 Fiat 600 Jolly, and he’d somehow acquired it when he signed his lease for Teakettle Cottage.

It was an odd duck, to be honest, bright sunshine yellow, with seats made, improbably enough, of wicker.

But Hawke thought it quite sporting, and certainly Pelham enjoyed squiring the Jolly around town on his market runs each week. Besides, Congreve was right, there were few places on earth where a man could drive such an outrageous automobile and maintain a straight face. But Bermuda was one of those places.

Congreve sighed one of his immense sighs and settled his rather large person into the wicker armchair bolted after a fashion to the floor. He was shocked to discover that even the dashboard was wicker. He looked at Hawke with dismay. He felt as if he were riding in a ladies’ sewing basket.

He put his smart straw hat firmly on his head and prepared for the worst.

“Not even an airbag?” Congreve said, running his fingers along the wicker dash.

“Oh, I daresay it’s got one now,” Hawke said, engaging first gear. “On the passenger side at any rate.”

“Go, go, go,” the detective said, searching in vain for a seatbelt. “Let’s get this Mad Hatter’s wild ride over with.”

Hawke laughed, popped the clutch, and started off along the gently winding drive that traversed the shaded narrow length of Lady Mars’s Shadowlands estate. They drove the first few minutes in silence, the famous detective somehow maintaining an immutable scowl despite his deceptively innocent baby blue eyes and rakish mustache.

“Looking rather gay for our luncheon with C,” Hawke said finally, glancing over at his friend’s natty attire. Congreve was wearing lime-green Bermuda shorts with navy-blue knee socks, a Navy blazer, a pink shirt, and a pink and white madras bow tie. Tortoiseshell sunglasses completed the look. On his head was a straw boater.

“Gay? Really, Alex, you do push me to the brink.”

“As in festive, Ambrose. It was meant as a simple compliment. Shorts are a bit nancy for my taste, but what do I know?”

“De gustibus non est disputandum.”

“Exactly.”

Hawke turned left out of Shadowlands’ bougainvillea-covered stone portals and onto the South Road. They were heading east past the Spittal Pond Nature Reserve on their left. It was another perfect day in paradise, Hawke thought, brightly colored birds darting about flowering woods and tropical gardens on either side of the road. When he came to Trimingham Road, he whipped the little yellow buggy around to the right, coming to the first of two roundabouts that would lead him to the town of Hamilton proper.

Two cruise ships were moored along Front Street, and the charming old town was crowded with automobile traffic, motor scooters, and pedestrians. He looked at his watch. They were already ten minutes late, and C did not like to be kept waiting. He’d sounded very serious when he’d called, wanting Hawke and Ambrose to join him at the Royal Bermuda Yacht Club at noon sharp. He wanted to discuss the status of Red Banner and hear their thoughts on getting the thing up and running.

“Ah! Hold on to your hat, Constable!” Hawke had spied a fleeting opening between an enormous cement truck and a taxi and inserted the little Jolly between them, just catching the green light by so doing.

“I say!” Ambrose said, giving him a stern look.

“Sorry. Look, here we are, and you’re still intact.”

“Shaken to the core by that last maneuver.”

Hawke smiled as he put the wheel hard over, and the little Jolly sailed into port. He pulled into the yacht club’s car park, finding a spot beneath a large ficus shade tree, and they climbed out. The club was at the end of a short street, situated at Albuoy’s Point, right on the harbor. The RBYC was a large, distinguished building, painted what Hawke could only describe as an odd Bermudian shade of plum. Like many things here, it would certainly look strange in London, but somehow it worked on the island.

They passed through the entrance where stood a beautiful old binnacle atop a compass rose in inlaid marble. A portrait of the queen hung to the left of the door leading to the small paneled bar where C had asked Hawke to meet him. It was a charming room of highly varnished Bermuda cedar, filled with ancient silver regatta trophies and faded yacht burgees from decades past. An elderly barman smiled at them as they entered.

C was waiting at a corner table beneath a window overlooking the club docks beyond. He stood up when the two men entered.

“Alex, Ambrose, hullo! Please order a drink, won’t you both?”

He didn’t seem at all aware of the fact that they were fifteen minutes late. Or, if he was, he was certainly nonchalant about it. Bermuda was good medicine for Sir David Trulove. Hell, it was good for all of them, Alex thought.

The beautiful little bar was empty. Still, Hawke thought it a strangely public place for discussing the establishment of a top-secret British counterintelligence operation.

“Don’t worry, Alex,” C said, seeming to read his mind. “We’re not lunching here. My dear old friend Dick Pearman, whose guest house I’m using, has generously offered the use of his yacht Mohican for that purpose. She’s just out there at the docks. Lunch will be served aboard.”

“Pearman?” Congreve said. “Is he Bermudian?”

“Sixteenth generation. Why?”

“Had Dick and Jeanne for tea last week. Lovely couple. Did you know he’s the All-England croquet champion, Sir David?”

Hawke smiled at all this benign gentility and turned his attention to the faded yacht burgees hanging round the room. He’d once invited Ambrose to a croquet match at Hawkesmoor and Congreve, who loved only golf, had replied, “Croquet? Do you think I’m a barbarian?”

Congreve and Hawke got their drinks and followed C outside into the bright sunshine, headed toward the club docks.

When the three men were comfortably seated at the semicircular banquette on Mohican’s lovely stern, C looked at both of them while stirring his soup. Luncheon had been served, chilled cucumber soup and a lovely piece of Scottish salmon.

Trulove said, “First, I’m extremely grateful to both of you for agreeing to this scheme. I predict Red Banner will one day prove critical in our dealings with this former foe, now reinvigorated.”

“Alex and I are deeply gratified by your confidence in us,” Ambrose said.

“Indeed, sir,” Hawke said. “I’ve been reading the dossiers Miss Guinness provided. I think your assessment of a renewed Russian threat to her neighbors is well founded. We’d both appreciate some sense of how you see Red Banner coming together to combat it.”

“Yes,” C said, forming a temple with his fingertips and resting his prominent chin on it. This was, of course, his subject, the one true love of his life, and he warmed to it quickly and with enthusiasm.

“First things first, lads. Let’s touch on the status of our adversary for a moment. Russia is, of course, our old enemy, and from all appearances, she still regards us as such. It will no doubt come as a shock to you to learn that the firm’s recent intelligence indicates Russia is again contemplating some future war with the United States and NATO. We know this because we have intercepted her new military doctrine, replacing the one published in 2000. Doctrines, as you both well know, let military commanders know what they should be preparing for.”

“Old habits die hard,” Hawke said.

“Yes. Russia clearly still sees herself and her former client states as under siege by the U.S. and NATO and a target for domination by the West. This is the result of seven decades of Communist insecurity and paranoia regarding the West. When East European nations began joining NATO and the European Union, well, this got the Russians extremely peeved. They liked their old borders. My guess is they’d like to have them back.”

“Understandable,” Hawke said. “Were I in their shoes, I might feel exactly the same way.”

“Fair enough. At any rate, the Kremlin fired off all manner of nastygrams and sent them westward. They were not happy about losing the Cold War, Alex, and they are still clearly nervous about aggression from Western Europe, especially Germany and France, both of which have invaded Russia in the past two centuries.”

“Germany, I understand,” Hawke said with a wry smile, “but France?”

“The French recently invaded Oman at the behest of the Chinese, as you should remember, Alex.”

“I can understand Russia’s residual anger at having lost the Cold War,” Congreve said, “but this level of paranoia is perplexing, if not downright ludicrous.”

“It is, indeed, from a Western perspective. But it’s our job to understand what makes this new Rostov regime tick, and that will be a big part of Red Banner’s mission.”

“Sir David,” Alex said, leaning forward, “how do you envision Red Banner from an organizational point of view?”

“Ah, that will be your primary responsibility, Alex. I myself see Red Banner, or RB, as a straightforward OPINTEL organization. Operations, supported by intelligence. Basically, here on Bermuda, a real-time watch floor and support organization. One that will provide instant information and support during covert operations vis-à-vis the Russians.”

“Similar structure to America’s NSA for SIGINT support to OPS?” Alex said, slipping easily into the jargon he so abhorred but felt obligated to use in these situations.

Sir David smiled. “Exactly. We want to create a highly compartmental group within MI-6, outside of SIS, but you’ll be using all of their intelligence sources, as well as additional people from our other intel organizations. Players normally associated with a compartmented cell will include ops, intel, comms, logistics, and specialized assistance from respective areas depending on specific mission.”

“Sounds good, sir,” Hawke said. “And how do you see the U.S. component’s involvement?”

“I’ve set up a meeting in Washington for you to discuss that issue precisely. It’s next week, Friday, to be exact. I’ve arranged military transport for you to and from Washington. But briefly, I see the CIA component as supplementing and integrating within Red Banner. You might well decide to incorporate special operations from other coalition military organizations, Joint Special Operation Command, et cetera. Field intelligence units you’ve worked with previously, Alex, Centra Spike, Torn Victor, and Grey Fox.”

“Good,” Alex said, warming to the task. He was certainly not going to want for resources.

“Jolly good, every bit of it,” Congreve said. “But tell me, Sir David, what will be Red Banner’s primary focus?”

“It could well change, of course, depending on events. But if you ask me for an answer today, I would say this. Terrorism has changed how we look at military threats forever. Thus, we won’t be concerning ourselves with, say, disarmament infringements, Russian warhead counts. No, we’ll be looking at threats to our food and water supplies. Nuclear reactors. Harbor attacks and biological outbreaks, electronic attacks and EMP. And, of course, the Butterfly Effect.”

“A new one on me, sir,” Hawke said.

Congreve looked at Sir David. “May I?”

“Please, Ambrose.”

“The Butterfly Effect, Alex, is a phrase that encapsulates the more technical notion of sensitive dependence on initial conditions in theory. Small variations of the initial condition of a nonlinear dynamical system, say, may produce huge variations in the long-term behavior of the system. Do you follow me?”

Hawke smiled at Ambrose’s typical pyrotechnic display of scientific erudition and said, “A ball placed at the crest of a hill might roll into any of several valleys depending on slight differences in initial position. Right?”

Trulove chuckled and said, “Well said, Alex. I guessed I had the right chaps for the job, and I was right.”

Hawke said, “Sir, as for Red Banner’s counterterrorism operations, I presume our intel analysis will include work from the cybercafé, cutouts, and runners. We’ll no doubt get hints and sniffs from various cooperating U.S. organizations as well, their homeland defense, immigration, and so on. Correct?”

“Right. Over time, we’ll be piecing the puzzles together using multi-intel disciplines such as imagery, UAV, communications intercepts, field agents, and the like. Your American partners will be using all of your favorite three-letter organizations, CIA, DIA, NGA, and NSA.”

“So,” Ambrose said, pushing his plate away and getting his pipe going, “it would seem the bad old days are back. Global ideological confrontation, proxy wars, arms races, and, last but not least, mutually assured destruction.”

“Cold War Two,” Hawke said, eyeing both men.

“One could almost wish, Alex,” C said, returning Hawke’s gaze. “What we had in the first Cold War was a certain cozy equilibrium based on mutual fear of mutual destruction. In those days, one party was afraid to take that extra step without first consulting the other. It was indeed a fragile peace and certainly a frightening one. But looking at those years from today’s vantage point, I’d say it was reliable enough. And I would also add that today, the peace between East and West is not looking nearly so reliable. The New Russia. That’s the new threat and we seem to have arrived at the hora decima.”

“Hora decima?” Hawke asked.

“The eleventh hour,” Ambrose translated.

Sir David raised his glass. “To Red Banner, then. Long may it wave.”

“To Red Banner,” Hawke and Congreve rejoined, glasses high.

In the dark weeks to come, the three men would look back on this meeting as a wistful dream, when their sunny optimism was matched only by their unimaginable naiveté.

19

Twenty-five miles west of Red Square and you will find a beautiful country estate dotted with pine and white birch trees, called Novo Ogarevo. The grounds of this bucolic dacha included stables, a recently restored Orthodox church, a well-tended vegetable plot, and, nearby, a helipad. The original house was built in the late nineteenth century for a son of Tsar Alexander II. The helipad was fairly new. So was the security cordon.

This large manor house was now the official state dacha and residence of one Vladimir Vladimirovich Rostov, his wife of many years, Natalia, and their grown son.

President Putin had had the house renovated and begun using it as his personal residence in 2001. Rostov followed after Putin was arrested and sent to Energetika Prison near St. Petersburg. He now spent a good deal of his time here in the country. It was where he was most comfortable and happiest. His unseen neighbors were wealthy Russians who had constructed opulent, if often tasteless, dachas. None of them had ever met their famous new neighbor, and none of them ever would.

As one might imagine, there was not a great deal of neighborly socializing at Novo Ogarevo. Visitors were usually members of the president’s inner circle, a small group of ten who had his full confidence, nearly all of whom he’d known for years, two of whom, the closest, were ex-KGB. There were also figures of national importance, such as visiting governors from the Federation, and the occasional head of a foreign state who came to call. Visitors came and went at all hours of the day and night. Mostly night, when the president worked into to the wee hours, sipping tea laced with vodka.

Like many Russians who enjoyed their national drink, Vladimir Rostov was not a morning person. Many days, he didn’t even roll out of bed until the crack of eleven. Even on those days when he was driven to his office in the Kremlin, he seldom left the dacha before noon.

Today, the president was working at home. There were certain visitors he preferred to receive at Novo Ogarevo, beyond the gaze of his office courtiers. Rostov was a born spy, a man who’d spent his entire career operating in the shadows. One would expect such a man to be possessed of a suspicious mind. Before ascending to the pinnacle of Russian power, he had been chief of the KGB, at one time the most feared secret police service on earth.

At eleven-fifteen on this particular December morning, the president of the Russian Federation padded downstairs in his heavy woolen robe. Despite his hangover, he was in a particularly good mood on this cold and drizzly day. The president began each working day at home with a vigorous workout in the compound’s small indoor pool. For a man getting on in years, he was in fairly good shape. Once he’d swum his accustomed number of laps (the butterfly stroke was his favorite), he’d adjourn to the small breakfast room. And there, VVR, as his staff privately called him, would sit down to enjoy his mid-morning meal.

“Good morning,” he said to the wait staff as he took his place at the table. He smiled as they replied in kind. There were three newspapers arrayed beside his place setting. Pravda, the New York Times, and the London Times. He was smiling as he pulled up his chair, they noticed. Only one guest was expected today. That meant a light day ahead for all of them. It made everyone in the kitchen happy, which in turn made everyone in the household staff happy on this grey, rainy day.

Raising a teacup to his lips, the president heard an odd sound, discordant on a peaceful Thursday morning in the country. Glancing up from the lead article in Pravda, Vladimir Rostov was surprised to see a long black limousine, considerably longer than his own heavily armored Mercedes Pullman, approaching the house at a high rate of speed.

He knew who was riding in the rear. It was Nikolai Kuragin, now a member of his innermost circle, formerly a KGB general who had served under Rostov in the bad old days when they shared an office at Moscow’s Lubyanka Prison, better known as the Gateway to Hell. Nikolai was one of a few men the president had known most of his life. The ten men, known as the siloviki, always maintained a tight orbit around their president. Proximity to power was the defining political imperative inside the Kremlin walls.

Since Vladimir Putin’s arrest and imprisonment at Energetika, a plot in which they were all equally complicit, they had constituted Rostov’s Soviet-style politburo. Together, this small cadre was the executive and policymaking committee responsible for restoring Russia to world prominence and moving the motherland forward into a glorious new age.

The limo was going far too fast for the narrow drive. And General Kuragin was an hour early. What the hell? Rostov stood, irritation plain in his cold blue eyes, left the table, and went upstairs to dress.

Ten minutes later, the president sat behind the desk in his private day office, listening to Kuragin’s fascinating tale of recent events in Miami. He was absentmindedly drumming his fingertips on the desktop, a habit he’d formed early in his life and one of the few he’d never been able to break. It was nerves, he knew, nerves and repressed energy. There was so much to do in Russia, so many vast acres of lost ground that needed covering.

“And Ramzan is confirmed dead?” the president asked the smartly uniformed man in the chair opposite. Nikolai wore custom-tailored black uniforms that gave him the look of a Nazi SS Obergruppenführer, which Rostov knew was a resemblance he cultivated. Even to the close-cropped grey hair dyed an unconvincing blond.

Kuragin was not pretty to look at above the neck-or below it, for that matter. He was a tall skeleton of a man with dark eyes sunk deep in shadows above a long thin nose. His flesh, a pale greyish yellow, hung from his bones. His smile was thin and often cruel.

It was his lovely mind Rostov cherished. He knew everything, he remembered everything, past and present, as if he lived in a room full of clocks and calendars. Kuragin kept the working details, the vast minutia of the president’s official life, in perfect working order. He was indispensable and so prized above all.

“Vaporized, my dear Volodya. I have the pictures from Miami party here, jpegs downloaded at KGB Lubyanka not an hour ago. You may recognize some of our old foes.”

Nikolai passed a sealed red folder across the desk. Rostov took it, broke the seal, and extracted two dozen or so glossy eight-by-ten color prints. Without a word, he began to scrutinize each photograph, staring with fierce intensity at the faces of the hated Chechen leadership as he had done for years, waiting for the pop of recognition.

He found the face he was looking for, and doors within doors of his memory were opened as if by magic.

Rostov found himself looking at a picture of Ramzan’s decapitated head lying upside down against a blackened palm tree. He angrily threw the photo onto the pile.

“I wanted this Chechen pig arrested, Nikolai, not eliminated. As you well know, it was my intention to speak privately with this scum in the basement at Lubyanka.”

“Yes, sir. This is indeed most unfortunate. We had tracked him to Miami and were hours away from making that arrest. But someone else got to him first. He had many enemies here in Moscow.”

“Do we know who?”

“We are working on it.”

“Has Patrushev seen those photographs? Or Korsakov?”

Nikolai allowed a wan smile at this small joke. General Nikolai Patrushev, director of the KGB since 1999, was Kuragin’s immediate superior. But Nikolai’s lifelong allegiance was to two men only: his old comrade seated behind the desk and Count Ivan Korsakov, a man whom Nikolai believed Rostov might one day order him to eliminate. If the president were to maintain his grip on power within the long halls of the Kremlin, he could not long tolerate rivals as strong as Korsakov.

The count, a national hero, was growing in power every day. Rostov was clearly aware of it yet never mentioned it. Nikolai believed it was only a matter of time before the two men came to a crossroads. Only one of them would walk away. The general was shrewd enough to keep his powder dry for the moment, playing both sides against the middle.

“I thought perhaps you should see them first.” Kuragin smiled, showing his yellowed teeth. “It’s the reason I’m a bit early. I have a meeting with Count Korsakov and Patrushev at two o’clock.”

“Good. Where was this party?” Rostov said, examining a print.

“Miami. The residence of Lukov, a man we’ve been watching for the last month. A birthday party for Ramzan. One of my Miami field officers, Yuri Yurin, was looking into reports of Ramzan’s possible presence at this event. Genady Sokolov and Yurin managed to get inside the house, posing as hired security, and shot these photographs surreptitiously.”

Rostov threw a photo across the desk and said, “Here is Ramzan arriving. Find out who was driving his limousine. Talk to him. If he knows anything, talk to him some more. I want to know who was sheltering him in Miami.”

“Yes, sir.”

“These pictures are remarkable. I want a name to go with every face at this party.”

“By Monday.”

“This woman on the stage. She’s beautiful.”

“An entertainer. Singer. You’ll see her in the next shot. A large black man grabbing her and leaping off the stage. Just before the explosion.”

“The bomb was probably in the cake. This hornye had foreknowledge of the explosive device’s existence. How did he know? Was it his? Get his name first.”

Nikolai strongly disapproved of the derogatory slang the president had just used but nodded in the affirmative and said, “Notice also the big man in white. He has a name, ‘Happy,’ embroidered over his left breast. Perhaps he is in league with the black man? This one delivered the cake, and then, and now here, you see him quickly moving away, pushing through the crowd surrounding the stage. Our agents in Miami are looking for him now.”

“Who do we have in Florida now?”

“Nikita Duntov and Grigori Putov and their crew. I pulled them out of Havana last night.”

“Using what cover?”

“A couple of movie producers from Hollywood. Korsakov’s new production company, called Miramar.”

“Perfect. This man Happy, he won’t be happy long,” Rostov said, now staring at the last few photographs. “This yacht intrigues me, too. Moored at the dock, one man on deck with binoculars, another at the top of this fishing tower. Hand me that magnifying glass.”

Kuragin and Rostov examined the picture closely.

“The Fado. See the name on the stern? That’s what she’s called. Come take a look, Nikolai. Up here, the man at the top of this superstructure. What is he doing? Some kind of equipment, not for fishing, I don’t believe.”

“Cameras?”

“Yes, exactly, surveillance cameras. It appears others besides ourselves were interested in Ramzan that night. The hornye and the singer leaped aboard this boat seconds before the explosion, and here, the boat leaves the dock just in time to avoid the blast. I want them all taken care of, understand?”

“Fado. I’ll get everything I can on it and call you first thing in the morning, sir. Is there anything else? I’m afraid I must get back to the office if I’m to meet with our friend at two.”

“There is always something else, Nikolai. But for now, I’m going to finish my breakfast and enjoy a quiet afternoon worrying about our country. Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I want to know who killed Ramzan.”

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Nikolai said with a smile.

“Friends till death.”

They both laughed.

20

Warring thunderheads muscled one another about out over the aquamarine Atlantic. The western skies were lead-blue and getting blacker. Seabirds mewled and swooped overhead. Bermuda Weather Service had forecast gale-force winds later in the day, with moderate to heavy chop in Hamilton Sound. Seas were expected to be running six to ten feet offshore, increasing to twelve to fifteen later in the day.

An exciting day to be offshore, Hawke thought, missing his pretty little twenty-six-foot sloop, Gin Fizz.

Wind never bothered him much at sea. As an old sailor once put it, the pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts his sails. “Reef in a blow” was one of Hawke’s favorite life mottos, and so far, it had served him well. Today he would put it to the test.

The approaching storm front was moving east-northeast, approaching Bermuda at twelve miles an hour. The temperature had fallen at least ten degrees since he’d left Teakettle on his motorcycle. He was wearing only his scuffed boat shoes with no socks, old khaki trousers, a grey Royal Navy T-shirt, and a faded blue wind cheater. Aboard the Norton on the coast road, it was cold as hell.

Eyeing the approaching squall line, he estimated perhaps an hour before the full force of the oncoming storm made landfall. He twisted the handlebar grip and leaned into the lefthand turn. Traffic was light, police presence was invisible or nonexistent, and if it continued, he could arrive at his destination on time and dry as a bone.

Hawke, pushing his treasured Norton motorcycle hard, was racing east along Harrington Sound Road. To his left now, there were whitecaps frothing in the small inlet locally known as Shark’s Hole. The little bay was swollen like a blister, bulging. As he leaned into a turn, the first drops of rain stung his face and hands like angry bees. Then, just as suddenly, the rain stopped, and the sun returned, warm on his face and turning the world green and gold again.

This road would lead to the causeway, round the north side of the airport, and from there out to the tip of St. George’s and his destination, Powder Hill. It was Tuesday. He had a one o’clock appointment with Asia Korsakova. He had no idea why he was going. Perhaps to tell her he’d changed his mind about the portrait. That was one of the reasons he told himself he was going. There were many others better left alone.

Suddenly, he was aware of another motorcycle hard on his tail. He darted a look over his shoulder and saw the rider accelerating, closing the gap. He had long, matted dreadlocks whipping around from beneath his black helmet. Hawke thought he caught a glint of gold chain at the fellow’s neck. One of King Coale’s riders, the Disciples of Judah? Entirely possible, he decided. The bike behind him was a red Benda BD 150. At 150 cc, it was the most powerful engine legal on Bermuda. But his machine, as the Jamaican would soon learn, was no match for the ancient Commando.

Hawke grinned and slowed his bike, allowing the Rastaman’s Benda to close within a few yards. He looked back at the rider and saw him smile, the sun catching the trademark gold teeth that filled his mouth. Hawke smiled back, then opened the throttle on the Norton. The acceleration was explosive, and he surged ahead, reaching the next turning along Harrington Sound flat out, probably doing eighty miles an hour. He braked, caught the apex perfectly, and accelerated again, quickly winding it up to ninety.

Rounding a wide bend, he came up suddenly behind a slow-moving taxi, filled with tourists headed for the airport. He swung out and around without slowing, passing the Toyota van and rapidly coming upon the turn for Blue Hole. The airport and his intended route to the east end of St. George’s were to his right.

Rather than bear right, however, Hawke swung left, racing up the improbably named Fractious Street. A few hundred yards later, he veered into the small petrol station looming up on his right. He braked hard, tires squealing, and tucked in behind a large commercial van topping off at the pump. He waited for his tail to appear.

“Lost him,” Hawke said to himself five minutes later, having seen no sign of the Disciple. He was almost disappointed. He wanted to know what these fellows wanted to know. When he had the time, he intended to find out. Find this King Coale and have a little tête à tête.

He backtracked and was soon racing across the narrow two-lane causeway and bridge that spanned Castle Harbour. At the opposite end of the bridge lay the island of St. George’s and Bermuda’s airport. A big Delta 757 was on final at the field, roaring just above his head as he negotiated the roundabout that would spin him off toward the easternmost tip of St. George’s.

HOODOO SMILED AS Hawke stepped aboard the launch. There was none of the security business this time, no pat-downs, wands, or metal detectors at the shore station; there was only a friendly greeting and a tip of the hat from the launch man who had been waiting at the dock when Hawke arrived.

“How do you do on this lovely day, sir?” Hoodoo said, leaning on the throttles and getting quickly up on plane. Across the water, Powder Hill seemed to hover, sunlit, a brilliant parrot-green isle against a backdrop of deep purple skies.

“Well, and you?” Hawke replied.

“Can’t complain, sir.”

“Hoodoo, isn’t it?”

“It is, Mr. Hawke. Pleasure to see you again.”

“And you,” he said, extending his hand. The man took it, and his handshake was strong and dry.

“Storm on its way, sir. Bad one, I’m afraid.”

Hawke nodded and said, “I’m curious, Hoodoo, and perhaps you can help me.”

“I’ll try, sir.”

“What do you know about the Disciples of Judah? I only ask because they seem to have taken an unhealthy interest in me. Following me about all over the damned island.”

Hoodoo looked at him a beat too long and said, “Jamaicans. Bad magic. Bermudians hate the Jamaicans, but what can you do, sir? We all brothers, right?”

“Ever hear of a Jamaican chap named Coale? King Coale?”

“Don’t recall that name. I steer clear of that bunch. I urge you to do the same.”

Hawke thanked him and kept his thoughts to himself for the rest of the short voyage to the island of Powder Hill. As the island grew larger, the knots in his stomach tightened. He knew he was on a fool’s errand, but by God, he was nothing if not a willing fool.

The feelings Hawke had for Anastasia Korsakova were about as unambiguous as a grizzly bear in a brightly lit kitchen.

21

Hawke arrived at Half Moon House, said good-bye to Starbuck, the estate caretaker, and watched the green Range Rover disappear up the muddy lane that wound into the banana grove. The little crescent bay beside her pretty stone house was riffled with whitecaps. Unlike on his last visit, the artist-in-residence was not waiting for him up on the verandah. He ducked under the portico, entered the cool darkness, and tiptoed up the wooden staircase. He paused on the landing a moment, waiting for his heart to cease its pounding.

Hawke had been deeply in love only once. He had married a beautiful woman whose name was Victoria Sweet, only to have her die in his arms on the steps of the wedding chapel. She had haunted his dreams for years but, thank God, no longer. He was alone. The depression had faded over time, leaving only sad remnants. There was not even a ghost left now to drift with through the remaining years. He could stretch out his arms as far as they could reach into the night without fear that they might brush a silken shoulder. He-

He decided the hell with it and entered Asia’s studio. He found her with her back to him, perched on a blue wooden stool before an easel. She was using a broad brush to cover a large canvas with white gesso.

She was all in white, a low peasant blouse pulled down around her shoulders and a long white cotton skirt that fell to her ankles. Below a hem embroidered with coquina shells, her tanned feet perched on a rung like a pair of small brown birds.

“Asia,” he said from the doorway.

In that split second before she replied, he noticed that the hair on his forearms was standing on end, ionized by the waves of heavily charged particles swimming through the airy room; he saw that there was a wide verandah beyond all four sides of the high-ceilinged room, and a paddle fan spun lazily above, French doors were flung open all around, and the tall louvered shutters, banging about in the freshening breeze, gave out to the surrounding banana groves, whipping to and fro in the fresh breeze like a vast undulating mass of torn green flags.

Blades of sunlight slashed through the gathering storm clouds, filling the room with shining golden light. She glanced at him briefly over her shoulder and returned to her easel. But in that instant, her eyes had spoken. I see you. You have registered. Anything is possible.

“Mr. Hawke. So you came after all.”

“I wasn’t expected?”

She swiveled on the stool to face him, rearranging her skirt so that now her twin brown knees were visible.

“Frankly, no. I didn’t think you’d show.”

“I need the money, remember.”

She smiled. “Fancy a drink?”

“How did you guess? What have you got?”

“Rum.”

“Love some.”

She nodded, put her brush down, and walked over to a small sideboard that served as a drinks table. Her hair was pinned up on top of her head, stray gold ringlets on her forehead and a single one coiling beside her pink cheek.

“No ice,” Hawke said. “Neat.”

She poured out two fingers of Black Seal into a crystal tumbler and handed him the short glass.

He put it to his lips and drank the rum at a draught, then held out the glass.

“Another?” she asked.

“Hmm. One for the road.”

“Leaving so soon?”

“I meant it metaphorically.”

She laughed as she poured the dark rum and looked at him with fresh eyes. “Are you funny as well as insanely good-looking, Mr. Hawke?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“What a terrible waste you are, Alex Hawke,” she said after a long moment. “If you had two nickels to rub together and weren’t so…otherwise inclined, you could have every woman on this island.”

“I don’t want every woman on this island.”

She looked away, gazing out at a lone bird, unnaturally white, winging away over the tumult of green banana trees, fleeing the approaching storm. “I’m going out there for a cigarette. Be ready when I come back.”

“Ready?”

“On the chaise. Naked.”

“Ah.”

She slipped off the stool without another word and went outside. Hawke stood where he was, watched her standing at the rail, a white silhouette against the darkening skies, her back to him, smoking, the wind whipping the thin skirt around so that it clung to the shape of her clearly naked hips and buttocks, downpour threatening, heat lightning blooming inside the boiling clouds, the rumble of distant thunder drawing near. From a garden somewhere, the perfume of gardenias came floating in with the sweet breath of approaching rain.

He sipped his rum and noticed that the iron railing, peeking through the bougainvillea, was filigreed with rust.

Hawke was standing just as she’d left him when she returned.

“Something wrong?” she asked, taking a deep pull on her cigarette and expelling a cloud of blue smoke.

“No.”

“What is it, then? We’ll only have this beautiful light for a short while.”

“Role reversal.”

“What?”

“You do it.”

“Do what?”

“Exactly what you told me. Naked. On the chaise.”

“Me? You must be joking. Really. Or quite mad.”

“Yes, you. Do it. Now.”

She walked over to a chest of drawers and angrily stubbed out her cigarette in the large ashtray on top.

“Listen, Mr. Hawke, I don’t know who the hell you are or who you think I am. I am a professional artist. I don’t derive any erotic pleasure from my subjects. I try only to paint the truth of them. Now, if you-”

“So, I’m a subject, is that it?”

“Of course. What did you think? That I had some other-”

“Asia. Don’t talk. Just do what I say. The blouse first.”

She looked at him, hands balled into fists, eyes ablaze.

For a moment, he thought she might rush him, strike him, rake her fingernails across his cheek, pound his chest. But she didn’t. Rather, the anger fled, and she gave him a smile, skeptical, tolerant, languidly amused. She slowly lowered her head and began to unbutton the row of tiny pearl buttons down the front of her blouse. There were a lot of buttons, and Hawke saw that her slender fingers were trembling.

“You are full of surprises, aren’t you, Mr. Hawke?” she said, fumbling with the buttons.

“You have no idea.”

“I was fairly certain you went the other way.”

“You mean there’s another way?”

She laughed, her eyes afire. She was beyond caring which way he went, she realized. Far beyond.

Hawke, his own eyes never leaving her, went over to the stool. He picked it up and placed it beside the Balinese chaise. He sat on the edge of the stool and took a sip of the rum, feeling it burn down into his gut. She finished with the buttons and stood with her hands on her hips, the cotton blouse agape.

“What are you waiting for?” he said. “Take it off, Asia.”

She pulled the blouse off and dropped it to the floor, suddenly looking up at him with a glance akin to defiance but edging closer to something deeper in the heart. She was wearing no brassiere. Her breasts were full and alabaster pale against the mocha brown of her deeply tanned stomach, arms, and shoulders. The rosy nipples were hard, erect in the damp coolness of the room. Pointing at him.

He looked at her for a long time, passion beating inside him like a second heart.

“Now the skirt.”

She lowered her head again, reaching behind her with both hands to unbutton the skirt. She let it fall to the floor, where it puddled around her feet. She stepped out of it and kicked it away with one foot.

Her finely muscled legs were long and lean and brown. There was a thatch of curly gold between her smooth thighs.

He tore his eyes from her body and said softly, “Look at me, Anastasia.”

She complied, holding his steady gaze. Then she cupped her right hand beneath her left breast, holding it as if in offering, closing her eyes, caressing herself, running a finger over one protruding nipple, then pinching it, kneading it roughly between her thumb and forefinger.

Her mouth was open now, but he could see her nostrils flare as she inhaled through her nose. Her left hand was drifting downward over her belly.

“I want to…” she said in a small voice.

“Yes,” he said.

She reached between her legs. Two fingers disappeared into the already glistening flesh between her now parted brown thighs. Her head fell forward again, and she swayed slightly, a low moan escaping her lips. Hawke watched her, deeply moved by the very sight of her. Stirred, he felt himself growing harder and straining with the need for her but wanting to prolong the intensity of this moment, preserve desire, stay perched on the knife’s edge of it forever.

A savage bolt of lightning struck in the banana grove, very close to the house. For an instant, the room filled with blinding white light. Even the crackling air around them smelled singed, burnt. Hawke felt a slight ache in his heart, caused, he thought, by the bolt. A deafening thunderclap came a second later. The wind had roared up to gale force, and with it came the rain at last, a drenching downpour, hard and slanting almost sideways. The louvered French doors were banging wildly on their hinges. Hawke reached out and stroked her cheek.

“Stay there, please. Don’t move.”

“I’m cold.”

“I’ll close the doors.”

He went around the room and locked the shutters one by one. On the west side, it was difficult to get them closed, the howling wind was now so strong. When it was done, he went back to her, standing close, crowding against her, his face smiling down at her.

He crooked one finger beneath her chin, lifted it, and kissed her upturned lips, parting them with his tongue. She turned her face away, her breathing shallow and quick.

“You are so beautiful,” he said. “Just as you are. Just at this very moment. Unforgettably beautiful.”

“Alex.”

She retreated a step and pulled the tortoise-shell comb from her hair. Tresses fell to her shoulders in a tangle of dark golden curls. She looked at him, seized the thin grey cotton of his shirt in one fist, and yanked it away from his chest, the old shirt ripping away easily, now discarded, and then her hands were at his belt buckle, not trembling now but furious, whipping the leather strap away and ripping his trousers open, pulling them down with her as she fell back against the chaise and sat there before him, looking up with wide eyes at the upright declaration of love or lust or whatever the hell he so obviously had in mind. It no longer mattered to either of them. They were simply locked together, trapped inside the same storm.

She leaned forward and touched her lips to the tip of him, then took a deep breath and touched him lightly with her darting tongue, first tracing a small circle, then lapping at the length of him, licking him, no longer ladylike, just greedy and hungry and thirsty, her lips moving over the taut veins, marveling at the steely flesh so soft and yet so hard. She pushed her head forward, flattening her face against him, and felt his hands at the back of her head, his strong fingers entwining themselves in her hair, guiding her movements.

“Asia,” he murmured, and she heard him from her submerged depths, heard, too, the raindrops beating hard against the roof and shutters as the storm finally broke wide open overhead, heard fierce winds screeching around the eaves, a tumult of thunder crashing somewhere above, not far above, and she lay back against the ruby silk cushions, hooked one long leg over the arm of the chaise, and waited for him.

“You certainly could have fooled me, Mr. Hawke,” she said, laughing, catching her breath, and beckoning him toward her with a curling index finger.

Skin on skin, he moved on her, his weight suddenly upon the length of her, a hardness probing first outside, rubbing against the drenched lips, then pushing deep inside her as she cried out and raised her hips, realigning them, and then he was within her, fully, searching for more and more of her, as if there were no limit to this seeking.

A groan rumbled from the back of his throat, and then his hands were beneath her, clenched, gripping, cradling, willing her to come with him to the next level, too strong to wait, too gentle to force her, his mouth finding hers, crushing her lips, and then his head thrown back in abandonment and surprise as he felt her nearing and then reaching the moment, both of them crying out as the shutters at the foot of the bed were suddenly ripped open by the tearing wind, and the hard slanting rain came down upon them like a waterfall.

“Oh, God, Alex.”

He looked down at her lovely face, quizzically, and saw her smile, breathless and panting, and heard something resembling laughter bubbling up from inside her, as she shook her head from side to side, her face full of delight and wonder, blinking the streaming raindrops from her eyes.

“We’re getting drenched, you know,” Hawke said, his face buried in her hair, his lips pressed against her ear.

“Don’t worry, darling, this can’t last forever.”

“It can’t?” Alex Hawke said, raising his head and smiling down at her, wanting her again already.

22

Fast Eddie Falco, the septuagenarian security guy at Stoke’s condo, One Tequesta Point, jerked his head up like a startled chicken. He dropped a worn paperback book into his lap and stared at the vision before him. One of his residents, the human mountain known as Stokely Jones, had just emerged from the north elevator looking like a presenter on that MTV awards show.

“Hiya, Stoke,” Eddie said, eyeballing his friend from head to toe and wolf-whistling through his remaining teeth.

“Good evening, Edward,” Stoke said, pausing to toss his GTO keys into the air and catch them behind his back. “How good do I look? Tell the truth.”

Stoke turned around to let Eddie get a good look at him. He was sporting a white satin dinner jacket over a black ruffled shirt with a sky-blue silk bow tie and matching cummerbund, patent leather shoes on his feet, size 14 EE.

“How do you look?” Eddie said, rubbing his grizzled chin. “I’ll tell you how you look. You look like you’re going to a goddamn rap-star coronation or something. Who’s getting crowned tonight? Scruff Daddy? P. Diddly? One of those characters? Hell’s his name, Boob Job? That Poop Dog fella? Those guys change their names so often I don’t know how they ever get any damn mail.”

Stoke laughed out loud. Poop Dog? Boob Job?

Eddie went back to his book. He was sitting in his highly customized golf cart with a stone-cold stogie jammed between his teeth, reading one of his treasured paperback mystery novels. He was in his reserved parking place, which happened to be right next to where Stokely parked his metallic black-raspberry 1965 GTO convertible.

Stokely’s GTO could, according to its owner, do the standing quarter-mile in less than eight seconds, NHRA certified. Eddie was mildly impressed. God knew the damn thing was loud enough to make a deaf man’s ears bleed. He braced himself, waiting for his pal Stoke to crank up the big mill any second now.

Eddie much preferred his own vehicle, a vintage machine built in the early sixties by Harley-Davidson, back in the glory days when Harley had the wild-assed notion of building golf carts. Totally custom job, and Fast Eddie had poured his heart and soul into his baby, one of a kind, a classic. Only one Stoke had ever seen with an actual Rolls-Royce grille on the front. Sure, it was unusual transportation for security work but right at home among the high rollers on the little island of Brickell Key.

“Poop Dog?” Stoke said again with a grin, headed for his car, twirling the keys around his finger. “Is that what you said? Poop Dog?”

“Whatever,” Eddie said, not even looking up from his novel. “You know who I’m talkin’ about, I forget what the hell his name is.”

“Snoop Dogg happens to be the cat’s name,” Stoke said, unlocking the driver’s-side door. “And no, it ain’t him.”

“So, who’s getting crowned?”

“Fancha. She’s the opening act at the opening night of a new joint over on the beach. Elmo’s.”

“Club El Morocco. S’posed to be very upscale according to an article in the Herald this morning. Russian money, I hear. Hold on to your wallet.”

Stoke climbed in behind the wheel. The big V8 roared to life as he turned the key and simultaneously hit the switch that lowered the ragtop.

“What are you reading?” he asked Eddie over the low rumble of the 541-cubic-inch engine, leaning out his window. He liked to let his baby warm up for a minute or two, get her juices flowing.

“What?” Eddie cried, cupping his hand behind his ear. The acoustics inside One Tequesta’s garage did wonders for a 600-horsepower engine.

“What book are you reading?” Stoke shouted.

“Bright Orange for the Shroud,” he said, holding it up.

“Again? We already read that.”

Stoke and Eddie were the founding members of a two-man book club, the John D. MacDonald Men’s Reading Society. They confined themselves to the twenty-one greatest works of literature ever written, namely the Travis McGee novels by the master himself. Sometime ago, they’d even driven the GTO up to Lauderdale on a kind of pilgrimage. They’d had lunch at Pier 66 and then visited the holy shrine, slip F-18 at Bahia Mar, home to McGee’s houseboat, the Busted Flush.

Stoke backed out of his spot and stopped opposite Fast Eddie’s cart. “We read Bright Orange last week, Eddie. Remember?”

“Yeah, yeah. Well, I’m reading it again. I like it.”

“I’m already halfway through Darker Than Amber,” Stoke said, putting the Hurst four-speed shifter into neutral and blipping the throttle, giving Eddie a blast of pure mechanical adrenaline. “You better catch up.”

“Don’t you worry about me, pal,” Eddie said, face already buried back in the book with a babe in a black bikini on the cover. “I happen to be an Evelyn Wood graduate.”

Stoke was about to pop the clutch and burn a little rubber when something occurred to him. He hit the brakes.

“Hey, listen up a second, Eddie. I just thought of something. Serious.”

Eddie put the book down and said, “Now what?”

“Might want to keep your eyes open tonight. I got a bunch of weird hang-ups on my machine today. Heavy breather, thinks I’m a chick maybe, I dunno. I’m listed in the book as S. Jones.”

“A stalker? Stalking you? Poor bastard.”

“All I’m saying is, you see anybody doesn’t look right poking around tonight, don’t hesitate to call your PD buddy at Miami Dade, okay? Seriously. Anybody come asking for me, call my cell.”

“Those Russians that blew up half of Coconut Grove the other night? Something to do with that, maybe, you think?”

“Maybe.”

Eddie knew Stoke’s company, Tactics, was involved in some very weird government stuff, he just didn’t know what or how weird.

“I’ll hold down the fort. Don’t worry about me,” Eddie said, going back to his book as Stoke pulled out of the garage, “Give my regards to high society.”

Stoke laughed and accelerated down the curving palm-lined drive. He’d head over to the Hibiscus Apartments on Clematis and pick up Sharkey. Then he and Luis would blast over the causeway to South Beach. Fancha had gotten him a reserved table right down front, but he was pretty sure there’d be a howling mob outside the velvet rope. After all, tonight, Elmo’s and his baby were the two hottest tickets in the hottest town in the hottest hemisphere on the planet.

WALTZING INTO CLUB El Morocco, already fashionably shortened by the locals to “Elmo’s,” Stoke felt as if some time machine had whisked him back to Manhattan in the thirties. Everyone in South Beach seemed time-warped tonight. You had surfer dudes in top hats and tails and glam queens in old black-and-white-movie-star dresses; but it was the décor that knocked Stoke out. Descending the wide marble staircase with his pal Sharkey in tow, he half expected the smiling ghost of Clark Gable or Jimmy Cagney to pass them on their way up.

Below them, the curving walls of the oval room were blue and white zebra-striped. There were life-size snow-white palm trees all around the room, the fringed white fronds moving idly in the air-conditioned breezes. At the far end of the main lounge, he could see the large bandstand. There were about fifteen cocktail tables around a blue-mirrored dance floor, dancers circulating in the semidarkness. From below came the smell of cigarettes and the sound of clinking glasses. Against the bar, a group of celebs was being photographed, flashes going off every other second.

A fifteen-piece swing band, dressed in white tie and tails, was in full swing on the bandstand. There were blue and white zebra-striped banquettes around the room, already full of rich folks who’d come early or somehow gotten seated at the most expensive tables. One small round table remained, just below the bandstand, and it looked empty.

“C’mon, Shark,” Stoke said. “Our table awaits.”

They made their way downstairs and through the crowded room, Stoke running interference for the little Cuban guy.

“Great table,” Sharkey said, pulling out his chair, looking around at the sparkling crowd, hands touching jeweled hands over white tables dotted here and there with famous faces. “Let’s order us a bottle of pink champagne, boss.”

“Do it,” Stoke said. “Just get me a Diet Coke.”

The waiter brought their drinks just as an announcer in a white-sequined tuxedo came out and introduced-ladies and gentlemen, one word was all it took to get the crowd’s attention-Fancha!

The now empty stage went dark except for a single spot creating a white circle of wavering light floating across the sequined curtains. The piano tinkled a few notes, and a lovely disembodied voice floated out over the room. Everybody seated under the drooping white palms suddenly went dead quiet.

Fancha stepped through the curtain and into the light to a sudden burst of loud applause. Fancha, wearing a midnight-blue gown, sang “Maria Lisboa.” It was the slowest, saddest, most beautiful song Stoke had ever heard her sing, and when she was finished and stood quietly with her head bowed, letting the adulation wash over her, he got to his feet, putting his hands together for his woman, and he didn’t even see that everyone else was on his or her feet, too, applauding his baby in a standing O.

A few minutes later, during a lull in the show, a waiter bent and whispered into Stoke’s ear, something about two gentlemen who wanted him to join their table for a cocktail.

“What?” Stoke said, looking at the white card on the silver tray. It had a big black M on it. Somebody named Putov, an executive producer, it said.

“Mr. Putov,” the waiter said, indicating the banquette with his eyes. “Miramar Pictures, Hollywood. You are Mr. Levy, no? Suncoast Artist Management?”

“Is that who they said? Sheldon Levy?” Stoke smiled at Luis. His cover was holding.

“Yes, sir, they said, ‘Please take this to Mr. Levy at the front table.’”

Stoke looked across at the banquette, smiled at the two guys. “Ever heard of Miramar Pictures?” he asked Shark out of the corner of his mouth.

Luis had some kind of weird Hollywood fixation, always reading movie magazines, Variety, and Billboard, left them lying around the office, drove Stoke crazy. Come in Stoke’s office, asking him if he knew how much Spider-Man 4 had grossed over the weekend, Stoke sitting there reading about his beloved Jets going into the tank halfway through the season, have to throw Shark’s skinny ass out of his office and close the door.

Shark said, “You kidding me? Miramar? They’re huge, man. Ever hear of Julia Roberts? Ever hear of Angelina Jolie? Ever heard of Penelope Cruz? Salma Hayek? Halle-”

“Yeah, yeah. Halle Berry I have heard of, believe me. What the hell these show-business types want with us?’

“Not us, boss. Gotta be Fancha, man. Let me paint you a picture, baby. They know you two are an item, maybe, got to be what it is. They think you’re her manager or something. They want an introduction to the next Beyoncé, baby, that’s all they want, using us to get to her.”

Stoke hadn’t seen the wiry little guy so excited since he’d been in a swimming race with a giant mako down in the Dry Tortugas a couple of years ago.

“What do you think, Shark? Should we go over there?”

“Ah, hell, no. What does Fancha need with the two biggest producers in Hollywood, boss?”

“You’re right. Let’s go see what they have to say.”

Five minutes later, they were sitting with Mr. Grigori Putov, who didn’t seem to speak much English, and the other guy, Nikita, “call me Nick,” last name unpronounceable, who spoke a lot of English. Grigori, bulked up and handsome, wearing a shiny black suit and a massive gold Rolex, just smiled and drank vodka rocks and smoked cigarettes. Nick, on the other hand, now, he was a total piece of work.

He was a crazy-looking little bird, two small eyes pinched closed together on either side of a beaky nose. He had a topknot of wild crackly yellow hair and a shiny green silk suit, which made him look a little bit like a parrot that had just been dragged backward through a hedge. His eyes were blazing behind little gold-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose.

They were both kind of pale, too, for Hollywood types, Stoke thought, but maybe pale was in these days. What did he know from Hollywood?

“Let me get this straight, Nick,” Stoke said. “A two-picture deal. Now, what does that mean, exactly?”

“It means money, Mr. Levy. May I call you Sheldon?”

“Why not, Nick?”

“Twice as much as a one-picture deal, Shel. Your girl Fancha is going to be a big star, let me tell you that right now. She’s definitely got the chops for it.”

Nick talked fast, as if he was trying to jam all the words he could into the shortest possible amount of time.

“Sounds good to me,” Sharkey said, all lit up. He loved this Hollywood crap, that much was obvious. “Are we talking net or gross points here?”

“Who is this guy again, Shel?” Nick asked Stoke, still smiling.

“Luis is my attorney,” Stoke said.

Nick nodded and said, “So, we should contact Mr. Gonzales-Gonzales directly regarding taking a meeting with Fancha?”

“Have I met you guys somewhere?” Stoke said, not able to shake the feeling that he had.

“It’s possible. But let’s talk about Fancha’s back end.”

“Talk about what?” Stoke said, not liking the sound of that.

“He means distribution of profits at the back end of the picture,” Sharkey said. “By the way, I just want to make sure we’re going to be above the line, right, guys?”

Nick smiled.

“Of course, Luis. Now, what Mr. Putov here would like to suggest is that we schedule a screen test at our offices here in Miami. We are about to go into preproduction on a project Mr. Putov, as executive producer, has just green-lighted, a picture called Storm Front. Romantic action adventure. Think Key Largo meets Perfect Storm, right? Bogie, Bacall, and a fuckin’ hurricane. The male lead has committed. I can’t give you his name, but think George Clooney. We’re looking for the female lead. Mr. Putov and I think your Fancha is perfect for the part.”

“Wait a minute,” Stoke said, smiling at Nick. “You guys are Russian. You were at that birthday party.”

“I beg your pardon, Shel?” Nick said.

“Yeah, that’s it. You remember. The big blast in Coconut Grove last Friday night. You gotta remember that party. I saw you getting out of a yellow Hummer right before the cake went off.”

“Ah, of course. Mr. Ramzan’s last birthday. Yes, I was there, now that I recall. He was an investor in Storm Front. A great tragedy. He will be badly missed.”

“Really? Well, how about that? I give you my card that night, Nick? I’m wondering how you know my name.”

“No, no. I saw you with Fancha and asked who you were. Yuri Yurin, one of the host’s personal security guys, he gave me your card.”

“Security guys that night out looking for work now, I imagine,” Stoke said. “Thing like that happens to your boss. That was one serious breach of security.”

“Whoo! You can say that again, boss!” Sharkey said.

Nikita and Putov just looked at him.

“Let’s get back to the back end, Nick,” Sharkey said, all business. “We’ll want full participation in the soundtrack album, of course.”

“Yeah,” Stoke said. “We’ll want that, all right. That and a whole lot more.”

“Tell you what,” Nick said. “I like you, Shel. I’ve got some skin in this deal myself, and I think we can do business. The owner of Miramar Pictures is going to be here in Miami in a day or two. I’d like you and Fancha to join us aboard his private aircraft for a luncheon cruise down to the Keys. Does that sound doable?”

“What about me?” Shark asked.

“Of course! We can’t do business without the attorney, can we?”

Nick’s cell phone rang, and he whisked it out of his inside pocket. It was one of those diamond-studded Vertu phones, natch. And Nick was one of those guys who wanted everyone in on his private conversations.

Nick said, “You’re talking to him. Hello? Maury? How are you, babe? Good, good. I’m in Miami, back in L.A. Monday. No, I can’t do lunch Tuesday, Tuesday is no good. When? How about never? Is never good for you, Maury?”

He smiled at them, slipped the phone back inside the pocket of his shiny green silk suit, and took a sip of his martini, like a bird dipping his large beak into a very small birdbath.

“Old friend?” Stoke said.

“Naah, just some putz from RKO. A nobody.”

When he smiled, he looked just like the damn cuckoo bird on a box of Cocoa Puffs.

23

Arriving from Bermuda aboard the British military transport flight, Alex Hawke found his prearranged D.C. taxi waiting in the rain at Andrews Air Force Base. His first stop was the Chevy Chase Club, where he’d drop off his luggage. The venerable club was located in the heart of a Maryland suburb just outside the D.C. line. It was a fine old place, full of sporting art and graceful period furniture. Pulling up under the portico of the genteel main clubhouse always put him in mind of arriving at some sleepy Southern plantation.

Bradley House, a two-story stone residence reached by covered walkway, had become Hawke’s home away from home ever since he’d sold his house in Georgetown.

Hawke had told the cabby to wait under the portico while he went inside to leave his bag. Five minutes later, he returned and asked to be taken directly to Old Town Alexandria’s city marina on the Potomac.

Hawke paid the taxi driver and walked through light rain down to the docks. He quickly located Miss Christin, a typical tourist day cruiser, boxy and double-decked. Fifteen minutes before she sailed, most of the passengers, families and groups of noisy schoolchildren, seemed to be aboard. On this cold and rainy mid-December day, most had chosen to sit inside the enclosed lower deck.

Hawke boarded the vessel as instructed by C and climbed the aft stairs to the rain-swept upper deck. Not a soul up there. Despite the weather, he was looking forward to the downriver trip. He’d never seen much of the Virginia and Maryland countryside, really, and certainly not from the river. Nor had he ever visited General Washington’s home at Mount Vernon. He took a bench seat near the starboard rail and settled in for the peaceful river journey.

“If I was a bad guy, you’d be dead now, Cap.”

That Southern California drawl could belong to only one person: Harry Brock. Hawke hadn’t even heard his approach.

He turned and saw his old friend. Harry was wearing a trench coat with the collar up and a black watch cap pulled down low and wet with rain. Harry stuck his hand out, and Hawke shook it with real affection. A year or so earlier, Hawke had been imprisoned by Hezbollah forces down in the Amazon, and this man had risked his life to save his bacon.

“Agent Brock, reporting for duty, sir,” Harry said with a mock salute. Hawke was taken aback and took no pains not to show it.

“You? You’re my Red Banner guy?” He’d had no idea whom the Americans would choose as his Red Banner counterpart, but still, Brock was a surprise choice.

Brock was bit of a rogue, charming at times, tough as nails, a classic Yank piss artist, habitually dodging an army of red-faced superiors whilst building castles of imminent success in the air.

“You?” Hawke said again, as Brock slid in beside him.

“Looks like you lucked out. Anyway, you’re stuck with me again, boss.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t make you. Which stairway did you come up? The one forward?”

“That one at the stern. Must be my clever disguise.”

Hawke looked him up and down, noticing his brilliantly shined shoes. If twenty years in the Marine Corps had taught Harry anything, it was how brilliantly one could shine his shoes.

“Christ, Harry, you mean to tell me the Joint Chiefs trust the two of us to run this damn thing all by ourselves? I assumed they’d send me some goddamn four-star. Some flinty-eyed general looking over my shoulder, always pointing out the errors of my foolish ways.”

“Nope, you got me to point those out for you. By the way, I’m not working for the Joint Chiefs anymore. I’m back at Langley. I guess the sixth floor didn’t know what the hell else to do with me, so they gave me to you.”

“Well, by God, I’m glad they did something right for a change!” Hawke said. “Come on Harry, let’s go below and stroll out on the bow. I want to watch the approach to Mount Vernon. The general is a great hero of mine. I’m very much looking forward to seeing his old homestead.”

“You’ve never been?”

“No. C’mon.”

They walked quickly forward to the prow and descended a staircase leading to the chained-off bow. One of the ferry crewmen, apparently recognizing Harry, opened the chain and let the two men move forward to the “Crew Only” section.

“Why the star treatment, Harry?” Hawke asked.

“I’m kind of a regular.”

Moments later, they saw the beautiful old colonial house high on the hillside loom up out of the mist and rain.

“Lovely,” Hawke said. “Just the way I’ve always imagined it.”

“Did you know Washington was the architect?”

“I did not.”

“Designed the whole damn thing himself. Not as elegant as Jefferson’s Monticello, maybe, but I like it better.”

“Me, too. What’s in the bag, Harry?”

Brock held up the large dark green plastic shopping bag he was carrying. “This? Top-secret spy shit. I’ll show you later.”

THE TWO MEN climbed a steep footpath that led up the hill through the old Virginia woods. Far above them to the right, Hawke could see the red rooftop and the white cupola of Washington’s home. The dirt path was strewn with rocks, slippery with mud, and fairly hard going. Hawke noticed that none of the other passengers aboard the Miss Christin had chosen this difficult route to the top.

“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” Hawke asked after a few minutes’ climbing. “The house seems to be the other way.”

“Trust me, okay? I’m a professional.”

They eventually came to a tiny open area in the woods, paved with mossy stone. A small brick structure with black wrought-iron gates stood against a thick backdrop of barren winter trees.

“What’s this?” Hawke asked.

“Washington’s Tomb. Not very grand, is it?”

“Grandeur wasn’t his style, from what I’ve read.”

“First time I came here, I was nine years old, and this place was completely overgrown with ivy. Nobody around, just an old guy standing at that gate there, gazing inside, tears running down his cheeks. I asked him why he was crying. Said his name was Timonium. Said he was descended from slaves Washington freed in his will. He said this was the grave of his true father.”

Now, instead of weeds and overgrown ivy, the area was manicured and well kept. There was even a small security booth off to one side of the tomb. An elderly black man in uniform was standing inside. He waved at Brock and stepped out to greet him, raising a small black umbrella over his head.

“Mr. Brock, a pleasure to see you as always, sir.”

Harry shook his hand and said, “Come say hello to my friend Alex Hawke. He’s from England. Came all this way to pay his respects to the general. First-time visitor.”

“Pleased to have you with us, sir,” the old black man said with a shy smile.

“Pleased to meet you as well. What’s your name, sir?” Hawke asked.

“Timonium, sir. And welcome to Mount Vernon. Let me open up the general’s vault for you, Mr. Brock. I know you’re most anxious to pay your respects.”

Timonium had a big brass ring of keys, and he used one large black one to open the heavy gates. Hawke saw a simple white marble sarcophagus in the middle of the small dark vault and felt a sharp chill run up his spine as he gazed at the final resting place of perhaps the greatest leader of men who’d ever lived.

“Let’s go inside,” Harry said quietly.

Hawke followed him into the dark tomb. There were two crypts inside. The plain white one to the left was the resting place of Martha Washington. The adjacent one, with a carved eagle crest, belonged to the general. Hawke felt another shiver up his spine and knew it wasn’t the damp and cold.

“I’ll only be a moment,” Harry said. “You can stay if you like.”

Harry bent to one knee beside the white marble crypt and opened the bag he’d brought along. Inside was a beautiful wreath of fresh olive branches. He placed the wreath atop Washington’s sarcophagus. Timonium stood watch just outside the gate, his umbrella folded, his head bowed in reverence.

Harry whispered a few inaudible words, his right hand reverently placed on the marble. Hawke found himself so moved by the sight that he, too, lowered his head. Placing his hand on the cold white marble, he found his own words of thankfulness come quite easily to mind. He was, after all, American on his mother’s side, and here lay an American hero for all time.

Harry rose to his feet and moved to the front of the crypt, peering into the gloom. There in the shadows, Hawke saw a leather courier’s portfolio resting against the base of the tomb’s rear wall. Hawke finally understood why Brock had brought him here. The Yanks were using Washington’s Tomb as a dead drop.

“Thank you for that, Harry,” Hawke said, visibly moved, as they walked out into the misty rain.

A few feet outside the vault was an old iron bench, placed there for quiet meditation. Hawke and Harry Brock sat there now, quietly watching Timonium lock up Washington’s Tomb before heading back to his station.

“Your orders?” Hawke asked, looking at the courier’s pouch resting on Harry’s knees.

“Yours and mine, Alex. There’s a fat Langley envelope in here for you, too. From the director, no less.”

“If you know what’s in it, tell me now, Harry. I’ll read the rest later on the plane.”

“Bottom line, we’re likely to be going to war with Russia again. Not now but soon. I’m sure you know most of this. We’re both going to have to scramble to rebuild our espionage network operations, and fast. Back to levels we had at the height of the Cold War. Lot of spade work ahead, old buddy.”

“Time to invoke your old ‘Moscow Rules’ again, eh, Harry?” Hawke asked with a smile, knowing how much Harry Brock loved rules of any kind.

The list of famous Cold War CIA survival stratagems had been developed by American clandestine operatives trying to stay alive for one more day in an extraordinarily hostile environment. The most famous of the rules, “Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee,” had been borrowed from Muhammad Ali.

“Fuck the Moscow Rules. There are no rules in Moscow. Not anymore. The only rule that will work now is, ‘We win, they lose. Period.’”

“Yeah. But to win, you’ve got to have boots on the ground. You don’t, and neither do we, partner.”

“No shit. For twenty-five years, they’ve chained our spies like dogs to a stake, and now that the damn house has been robbed, we get yelled at for not protecting them. Jimmy Carter, in his infinite wisdom, decided the best way to gather international intelligence was to use spy satellites, since, after all, you could see a license plate from two hundred miles up. Very helpful if you’ve been attacked by a license plate. But we’re being attacked by humans, and you can’t find humans with satellites. You have to use other humans.”

“Like us, Harry. We’ve got to find out fast who’s still usable on the ground,” Hawke said, thinking the thing through. He hadn’t been to Moscow in years. All of his former contacts there were surely long gone. It would not be easy.

Harry said, “CIA thinks the notorious gang of Twelve may be secretly planning a coup to overthrow President Rostov. Too doveish, I figure. Once he’s gone, they move troops and tanks into the old Eastern European republics.”

“That’s hard intel? What’s the psychology of these damn people?”

“Inferiority complex. That’s the trigger. These old Soviets, they see the U.S. running around the world playing planetary police, telling everyone what to do. And frankly, they don’t like it. They’re personally tired of being pushed around. Witness their reaction to us putting missiles into Poland and Czechoslovakia. On the flip side, they see our president as seriously distracted all around the planet, and they want to strike while the iron is cold.”

“Back to square one.” Hawke sighed.

“I’m afraid so, buddy.”

Hawke leaned back against the cold iron bench and stared into the wintry sky.

“God, democracy is a fragile damn thing,” Hawke said after a few long minutes had passed. “I don’t know how the hell anybody in Washington and London ever thought it could take root in Russia, of all places.”

“Cockeyed optimists, Alex, that’s all we are.”

“There was a moment there, though, when it actually had a chance,” Hawke said. “Before the bloody criminal class starved and bled it to death, there was a tiny window of opportunity. But Russia had no infrastructure to support something as tricky as democracy. You know the history, Harry?”

“Not all of it.”

“After Yeltsin emerged victorious from the August 1991 Putsch, only one man stood between him and absolute rule of the Soviet empire.”

“Gorbachev.”

“Right.

“And since Gorbachev had assumed his position legally, in accordance with the Soviet Constitution, there was only one way for old Boris to get rid of him. So, early that December, Yeltsin flew to a Belarussian hunting resort known as Belovezhskaya Pushcha. There he met with three other men, two of them leaders of the two other big Slavic republics-Ukraine’s Leonid Kravchuk and Belarus’s Stanislav Shushkevich. Together, on December 8, these three guys had a few cocktails and decided to simply abolish the Soviet Union.”

“Christ.”

“Right. Abolish it for good. Declare independence. That decision, just nine months after a nationwide referendum where seventy-six percent of Soviet citizens voted to keep the union intact, was both unconstitutional and antidemocratic. Basically, it was all over for Russian democracy right then and there. Poof, up in bloody smoke.”

“Who was the other guy?”

“What other guy?” Hawke said.

“You said Yeltsin met with three men at the hunting lodge. You only named two. Who was the third?”

“Ah. The Third Man. I have no idea. That’s what C wants us to find out. He’s certainly a member of the Twelve. Maybe even the head honcho. The secret power behind the Kremlin’s throne. We’ll see.”

“What’s next?” Harry asked.

“We’ve got briefings all day tomorrow out at Langley. Brick Kelly wants to understand exactly how Red Banner and the CIA will function together. Then we’ll head back to Bermuda tomorrow night and meet with C first thing next morning. You’re flying Hawke Air, Harry.”

Brock nodded. “What’s on C’s agenda?”

“A series of fairly intensive organizational meetings are going on right now. A skeleton staff there is already getting Red Banner up and running. C is remaining in Bermuda until we return. We’ll get our first assignment from him.”

“Moscow?”

“That would be my bet,” Hawke said. “Slip ourselves into Moscow and try to find this Third Man.”

“C have any idea who this third bird might be?”

“Only, as I said, that he’s probably the power behind the throne. The one who’s pulling all the strings inside the Kremlin. The man behind the Iron Curtain, one might say.”

“Like that fat little bastard in The Wizard of Oz.”

“Precisely. Our job is to put a serious damper on this Third Man’s plans for global conquest.”

“Tall order.”

“Right, Harry, it’s up to us. C, like everyone else in our service, is concerned that the West is desperately weak at this moment in history. America is tied down in a no-win war and has an unstable southern border, and Britain is preoccupied with a restive Muslim population, among other things. It’s his view that if the allies are not especially vigilant at this moment in time, we may soon see the Iron Curtain descending over Europe yet again.”

“And so Red Banner?”

“And so Red Banner, Harry. Let’s get out of here. I’m cold as hell.”

Hawke marched up the steps leading to his hero’s home, feeling his blood quickening. He welcomed the familiar feeling of focus and suppressed excitement that preceded every important mission. After months of recuperation and hard training he knew he was as fit as he’d ever been.

He had no excuses.

He was ready to go.

It was good to know that the fight was well and truly joined.

24

Everyone was drunk. Or, at least, it certainly seemed that way to Diana Mars. She scanned the colorful crowd scattered over the lawn, looking for Ambrose. Had he left her? Or had she left him? She wasn’t at all sure, but his absence was irritating all the same. Perhaps another drink was called for. After all, she’d had only one or two Pimm’s cups. Or was it three? No matter. Everyone seemed to be having a jolly good time. The party, a spur-of-the-moment garden affair at the Darlings’ quaint place on Harbour Road, was winding down.

It was nearly six o’clock on a drowsy Sunday afternoon, and the Darlings clearly wanted everyone to go home.

“No more Pimm’s?” she asked the barman, cocking one well-arched eyebrow. “You cannot be serious.” Diana rarely drank to excess, such was her horror of losing her soigné air, losing a touch of bloom or a ray of admiration. But this party was a trial.

They’d run out of hooch, for one thing. And the hors d’oeuvres platters were long gone. She settled for a tall club soda and wandered off to find her true love.

Lady Mars made her way through the twitter of golf chatter (it was always golf at these charming affairs, wasn’t it? or bridge, grandchildren, or needlepoint?), hearing the lovely tinkle of ice in good crystal as she passed, moving across the sloping green lawn up toward the gabled and russet-painted house, moving through small islands of people, all dressed in various shades of pastel linen, the men in monogrammed velvet slippers with no socks, the chattering classes up to their usual boozy bonhomie.

There was a fresh whiff of scandal on the island, just in time for Christmas. The very married American chairman of one of the big offshore insurance companies was running off with the very young wife of the pastor at St. Mark’s. Apparently, this torrid affair had been going on for years, right under Tippi Mordren’s nose! In the vestryman’s wardrobe!

Quel horreur!

Island gossip is so different from big-city gossip, she thought, pausing at the pantry door. Even the juiciest bon-bons (frequently with a nut or even a fruit at the center!) have a predictably evanescent arc. The tittle-tattle flares up suddenly and self-extinguishes, far more rapidly than elsewhere, poor things, for on a small island like Bermuda, the sly whispers simply have nowhere left to go. Even the hottest rumor burns itself out with a hiss at the shoreline.

She found herself in the empty pantry, pouring warm white wine from a large economy-sized jug into her water glass. These hot afternoons made one thirsty. And she was feeling most disagreeable, to be brutally honest. Put out with Ambrose for some reason she couldn’t put her finger on. Poor dear. Every time he opened his mouth, she snapped at him. She loathed the hurt look in his innocent-baby eyes, but she couldn’t stop herself.

Where is that damn ring? she thought, stamping her foot in a rare display of anger, realizing she’d just put her quite ringless finger right on the problem at last. She knew he had the ring. She’d heard it rattling around in his can of shaving cream when she was straightening up his bathroom one morning. So, why on earth hadn’t he given it to her?

Wandering with her wineglass through the house, a warren of rooms, she finally found Ambrose in a small, low-ceilinged sitting room, a kind of den, she supposed, nautical regalia all round. Ambrose was seated in one corner, deep in conversation with Sir David Trulove, predictably, as the two of them had been conspiring all afternoon. Talking about some top-secret project, the details of which Ambrose would not even share with her. This wrinkle, fairly new in their relationship, was troublesome. But she had decided not to let it bother her. He could have his secrets. She could have hers. Tra-la-la.

It wasn’t as if he and she were formally engaged, after all. They’d been in Bermuda for weeks, and not once had the subject even come up. The question remained unpopped after almost a month. Why, she’d no sooner-

“Diana!” Ambrose said, leaping to his feet as she entered the otherwise empty room. “There you are, darling! We were just speaking of you.” Steadying himself with his cane, he crossed the room to kiss her cheek.

“I very much doubt that,” she said, smiling at him. “Here in this…den of spies, I rather doubt I’m topic A. Oh, hullo, David. I didn’t realize you were here.”

“Diana,” C said, getting to his feet. “Sorry to keep the old boy from you all this time. Terribly rude, I’m afraid.”

“Not at all,” Diana said. “I’ve been having a splendid time wandering about by myself. I adore garden parties. Doesn’t everyone?”

Ambrose could see she was peeved and said, “You were bored. I’m terribly sorry, darling.”

“I could murder a gin and tonic right now. Lot of heavy furniture out on the lawn, darling,” she said, sipping her wine, “not that you’d have noticed, mind.”

“What’s that you said, dear?” C asked. Collapsing back into his deep chair, he pulled a pencil-thin cheroot from his gun-metal cigar case and lit it with a match. He let the smoke dribble out between his lips and inhaled the thick stream up his nostrils. “Something about heavy furniture?”

“Diana’s code name for boring people,” Congreve said.

C smiled. “You know Harold Nicolson’s comment about boring people? ‘Only one person in a thousand is a bore, and he is interesting because he’s one in a thousand.’”

“Marvelous!” Diana giggled. “But, idiocy all the same.”

“Listen, Diana,” Ambrose said, looking around the room in a conspiratorial fashion. “Sir David and I are planning a little clandestine excursion this evening. We thought you might like to join us.”

“Where to?” she said. At the moment, her idea of an excursion was climbing up into bed, popping a baby-blue Ambien, and getting a good night’s sleep.

“We’re going to take the boat for a moonlit sail around Nonsuch Island. Not that there’s any moonlight tonight, thank heavens.”

“Nonsuch? That dismal rock? Whatever for, dear?” she said.

“Surveillance. On that island, according to Alex Hawke, resides a well-entrenched Rastafarian criminal gang. Call themselves the Disciples of Judah. A Jamaican drug lord named King Coale runs the operation. He’s been sending his chaps around, bothering Alex. Sir David and I want to find out why. And put an early end to the practice.”

“Yes,” C said, a serious expression furrowing his high brow. “For obvious reasons, I’m not at all comfortable having Alex Hawke’s current movements a subject of interest to a criminal enterprise. Ambrose and I are going to snoop around a bit tonight and see what we can learn. It’s been a while since I’ve been out in the field, as it were.”

Diana saw the excitement at the prospect of adventure in his eyes. Who could blame him, trapped behind that desk at MI-6 year after year?

Diana plopped down into a soft tomato-red sofa and sipped her wine. “Which boat are you taking? Rumrunner? She’s by far the fastest thing in the boathouse.”

“No, no, dearest. It’s stealth we’re after tonight, not speed. We want to sail around the island, unobserved. We thought we’d take Swagman.”

The white yawl, a Hinckley Bermuda 40, was Diana’s own, a cherished gift bequeathed to her by her late father. She’d spent many childhood summers racing Swagman in Bermuda Harbour and round-the-island races. Not a few trophies at the RBYC bore her name.

“Ambrose, there’s a lot of shoal around that island, ‘skinny water,’ as Papa used to call the shallows. Are you two sure you can navigate safely at night?”

C spoke up. “That was why we hoped you’d consider joining us, Diana. No one knows those waters as well as you do. If things get interesting, we may need you at the helm to get us out of there in a hurry.”

Suddenly, seeing herself in this heroic role, it seemed to her the most marvelous idea she’d ever heard of. She leaped to her feet, splashing a bit of wine onto the tiled floor.

“What are we waiting for, then, lads?” she said with a gay laugh. “The tide’s right, and the wind’s up. Let us away, hearties!”

25

An hour later, Swagman and her jolly crew of three were ghosting along across the wide mouth to Castle Harbour. The light breeze out of the west was on their port beam, and Swagman was heeling slightly, making a good seven knots through calm seas. Diana was at the helm, nursing a mug of hot coffee, her third. She needed a clear head about her. It would be up to her to get the big yawl somehow safely inside the submerged and treacherous coral reefs that guarded any approach to Nonsuch Island.

For many years, Nonsuch had been a strictly protected nature preserve. Many, many years before that, Diana and her older brothers had sailed to the island for picnics and exploration. Forts had been built, flags raised. They’d nicknamed it Mucky-Gucky Island. As they grew older, the children and their friends spent many happy hours out there, chasing pirates, cannibals, and all manner of imagined evildoers through the jungly interior.

Tiring of that, they’d whiled away the hours diving the many wrecks littering the bottom offshore.

Nonsuch, still nothing more than a squat, rocky hump on the horizon, was just one of many small islets that formed the visible tips of the Bermuda seamount. But, because it was surrounded by razor-sharp reefs, this area made for particularly dicey going. Congreve assumed it was the reason the Disciples of Judah had chosen the forbidding locale as their base of operations. It was hardly a welcoming sight.

Bermuda was, after all, the location that had given the infamous Bermuda Triangle its name. Below Swagman’s passing keel lay the wrecks of countless sailing ships and Spanish treasure fleets. Not to mention the silent hulks of freighters, rotting on the bottom, their hulls over the decades turned a putrid shade of green. Coral teeth had ripped great slashes in their sides. All had been dispatched to the bottom by the reefs, the sudden squalls, or the carnage of war.

The Jamaicans who inhabited the island now were squatters. It was clearly posted as a nature preserve. It was a mystery to everyone why the Bermuda police seemed to look the other way. Someone had gotten to someone, of that Congreve had no doubt. But why this interest in Alex Hawke? That was the question at the front of his mind.

“Mind your heads,” Diana shouted forward. “I’m coming about!”

Ambrose and Sir David were both standing on the bow, taking turns peering at the dark silhouette of the island through a pair of high-powered binoculars Diana had brought up from below. The black hump had resolved itself somewhat, now resembling a giant comma, tapering down to the sea at either end. An old wooden dock extended out into a small cove at the center, the only sign of civilization so far.

“Dense vegetation up top,” C said, “but I do see some lights winking deep in the interior. The light seems to be concentrated at the southern end. Some kind of settlement, all right. Have a look, Constable,” he said, handing the famous Scotland Yard detective the glasses.

“Yes,” Ambrose agreed. “And a couple of nondescript fishing boats moored at the long dock on the southern tip. There to provide transport to and from the mainland, one imagines. Let’s move in a bit closer, don’t you think?”

“Diana,” Trulove called aft, “we’d like to get in a bit closer, my dear. Can you manage these reefs?”

“Say again,” she called out.

C realized his mistake and made his way toward the stern, where they wouldn’t have to shout. There might be guards posted on Nonsuch, and sound carried so clearly across open water, especially on a quiet, nearly windless night like tonight.

It was a dark night as well, no moon and few stars, but the woman at the helm knew these waters by heart, and C was not overly worried about navigation.

“All’s well?” he asked, standing atop the cabin house.

“No worries, David,” she said, as the former hero of the Falklands War stepped down into her cockpit. Diana kept one eye on the dimly lit fathometer mounted on the aft bulkhead of the low cabin house. She was on a starboard tack and still had a good twenty feet of water beneath her keel. “Do you want to circumnavigate the island, David? I think I could manage that, now that the tide is fully in.”

“I don’t think we’ll need to, dear. We can see the layout of the island pretty well from here. I’ve been examining it through the glasses. There seems to be some kind of settlement in the interior, located out there near the southern end of the island. See the lights, winking through the trees?”

“Yes. Deep-water cove just to the west of there,” Diana said, pointing toward it. “There are caves along in there, deep ones. Said to be pirate lairs back in the eighteenth century. I could get us in fairly close over there, if you wish.”

“Yes, let’s do that. What’s the shoal situation around here? Do you need to tack, or could you just fall off the wind a few degrees?”

“I can fall off to port. There’s a break in the reef right off my port bow there, known locally as the Devil’s Arsehole, pardon my French. We can slip in and out of there fairly easily. You can use the dinghy on the stern davits. It’s got a small outboard, but you should probably row. That motor’s noisy.”

“Fall off, then. And let’s extinguish all our running lights, shall we, Diana? No need to alert anyone on shore to our presence. I’ll shout a warning if Ambrose or I see any activity we don’t like. I’ve got a sidearm, but I’d rather not use it. I just want to have a quick look around.”

“Hard a’lee,” Diana Mars said, and eased the tiller to starboard, falling off the wind ten degrees and heading straight toward the island’s midsection.

Sir David made his way forward and rejoined his comrade at the bow.

“Anything interesting?” he said under his breath.

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Ambrose said, not removing the binoculars from his eyes. “A launch. Approaching at idle speed from the west. He’s running without his navigation lights on, which is a bit odd.”

“Forgot to turn them on?”

“Possible. Or, like us, he simply doesn’t want to be noticed.”

“Where’s he headed?”

“He seems to be headed for that dock. I just picked him up a few minutes ago. But that seems to be his course.”

“I’ve a thought, Ambrose. Diana says she can nip into a deep-water cove there on the lee shore. We’re headed there now. What say we drop anchor inside, near the shoreline? You and I could row the dinghy ashore, then make our way along the coast on foot to the southern tip. See what we can see.”

“Are you armed?”

“Of course.”

“I think it’s a splendid idea. Something about that pristine white launch piques my curiosity. It’s all spit and polish. I can’t imagine what business a vessel like that would have with the type of chaps who inhabit this rock.”

“I agree. I’ll go astern and tell her the plan.”

It was rough going when they finally moored the dinghy and scrambled ashore. After shedding their jackets and shoes and tossing them into the dinghy, the two men sat on a fallen palm tree to roll up the legs of their trousers. Sir David had a pistol shoved into the waistband of his white trousers. It was an old Colt Python.357 Magnum revolver, the only weapon he’d owned since leaving the Navy.

“I’m ashamed to admit this to you, Ambrose,” Trulove said, hefting the Colt in his right hand, “but this is the most fun I’ve had in bloody years.”

“You should get out in the field more often, David,” Ambrose said, grinning at the director of British intelligence.

“I may never go back,” C said with a wry smile, getting to his feet. “Let’s go, shall we?”

The vegetation grew right down to the water’s edge, and swarming clouds of mosquitoes seemed to dog their every step. The slippery shoreline rocks and mangrove roots underfoot also made it difficult for the two men to work their way south along the island’s perimeter. You had to hold on to the topmost branches of the mangroves to keep yourself from splashing into the sea, and Ambrose found himself wading through pools of water that rose above his knees.

So far, they’d seen or heard nothing that could be construed as threatening. No guards, although the sound of dogs barking could be heard coming from somewhere inside the dense interior. More than one dog? Yes. Guard dogs? Possibly. On this moonless night, the jungly place seemed forbidding and hostile. By day, sailing idly by, Nonsuch Island probably looked like an idyllic spot for a family picnic.

Finally, they reached the cove’s southernmost point. The vegetation had retreated here, leaving a finger of white sandy beach protruding into the shallows. Ambrose looked back at Swagman, riding easily at anchor in the dark blue water of the cove. He saw Diana’s silhouette, motionless; she appeared to be standing on the bow, watching their progress through binoculars.

From this sandy spit of land to their left, they could easily see the old wooden dock protruding into the water. A half-submerged shipwreck lay alongside the dock and looked as if it had been there for decades.

At the landward end of the pier, he saw what looked to be an abandoned village of small huts and shacks. No lights at all.

Deserted?

The white launch was now tied up alongside the crumbling pier. No one was aboard, as far as they could tell, though there was a small cuddy forward. Whoever had been at the helm had disappeared into the island’s dark interior whilst they had been making their way along the coast.

“Let’s go have a closer look at that launch, shall we?” C said, already moving quickly across the sugary soft sand.

“Wait for me,” Ambrose said, quickening his pace. Running in soft sand had never held any great appeal for him. Running anywhere on any surface at all, to be honest, was not his idea of fun.

The village, or what was left of it, looked overgrown, nearly absorbed by the lush green jungle creeping in from all sides. It looked as if it had been uninhabited for aeons. The dock, too, was in a grave state of disrepair, with the odd missing plank, but it looked usable if you minded your step.

Making their way out along the rotted wooden structure, they glanced at the two fishing boats. Small, with inboard diesels, the kind typically used by one-man commercial operations, each with a little square pilothouse amidships and a mess of netting piled in the stern. One had the name Santa Maria painted on her flank, the other had the rather amusing name Jaws II.

The snappy twenty-six-foot launch was tied up near the end of the dock and looked completely out of place in this gloomy backwater. She had an inboard engine, a gleaming white hull, varnished mahogany trim, and beautifully polished brass handrails built waist high around the cockpit. Her name was in machined gold leaf on the stern. She was called Powder Hill.

Trulove said, “She’s got cargo aboard, Ambrose. Let’s take a look, shall we?”

Ambrose gazed down inside the deep hull. A white canvas tarp covered what appeared to be rectangular boxes, stacked high in the stern. Trulove and then Ambrose stepped aboard. The tarp was lashed down but came away easily as the two men worked to see what secrets Powder Hill contained. Ambrose pulled back the canvas. There were six wooden cases, roughly five feet long by two feet wide, neatly stacked and lashed down with bungee cords.

There was some kind of lettering visible on the lid of the topmost boxes.

Neither man had brought a flashlight, but none was necessary. Congreve snapped open his gunmetal pipe lighter and held the flickering flame over the black type stenciled on the lid of the topmost case.

“Aha,” Congreve said, and C knew from the sound of that single word that their trip to Nonsuch Island had not been in vain.

“You read Russian, Ambrose,” C said excitedly. “What do we have here?”

“Weapons, I imagine, Sir David. These letters here, KBP, represent a Russian arms manufacturer of some renown. And here on the next line, you see the words ‘Bizon PP-19.’ A Russian-made submachine gun, if I’m not mistaken. Shall I open a box up and confirm? I’ve got a penknife that should do the trick.”

“Yes, yes, by all means,” C said, clearly excited by their discovery. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

Ambrose slid the blade of his knife under the lid to pry it open just enough to get his fingers under it. The small nails came away easily from the plywood case. He removed the lid and put it aside.

“Submachine guns, all right,” C said, peering into the open box. “Now, what in the world do you suppose a ragtag bunch of dope fiends would need these nasty brutes for?”

At that moment, shots rang out in the interior. Distant and muffled but unmistakably gunfire. And the sound of someone crashing through the underbrush. Headed their way.

“Someone’s coming. We’ve got to get off this dock,” C said. “Quick, into the water with you.”

“Into the water? Do you think I’m insane?”

Ambrose, who abhorred sea bathing, didn’t relish the idea of slipping fully clothed into the blue-black water, but he didn’t think they had time to make it back to shore using the dock. Another shot rang out, then a scream of agony, much closer now, and Congreve jumped in, feet first, fearing the worst.

It was surprisingly shallow, perhaps five feet of water, and he easily found the sandy bottom. He felt slithery things nipping about his ankles, but he preferred not to dwell on what they might be. He simply imagined himself to be somewhere else. In his Hampstead garden, with his dahlias, to be honest.

C remained on the dock, looking back at the overgrown village, his hand on the butt of his pistol. Ambrose could easily imagine what he was thinking. Admiral Sir David Trulove, ex-Royal Navy, was not one known for slipping away from a fight. The idea of a shoot-out with these druggy bastards was not without a certain appeal. Still, he knew himself to be seriously outmanned and undergunned.

“Come on, Sir David, get below!” Ambrose whispered loudly. “And for God’s sake, don’t dive. It’s quite shallow!”

Trulove well knew they’d learn more from waiting and watching than from blasting away, so he sat down on the edge of the dock and withdrew his pistol from his waistband. Then, hoisting himself over the edge, he slipped easily into the water. Holding his gun aloft, he joined Ambrose under the dock.

“Shh!” he whispered. “They appear to be coming this way.”

The two men crouched under the sagging wooden trestles, the water lapping at their chins. Even at high tide, there was about a foot of air remaining under the dock, enough for them to stand on the bottom with their heads barely above water, breathing easily.

“Quiet,” C whispered. “Definitely coming this way.”

Ambrose was glad Sir David had his trusty Colt. He’d just glimpsed a man covered in blood emerge from the brush, staggering right toward the dock. The poor fellow had one hand clutched at his midsection, as if he were trying to hold his guts in place.

The man stumbled once, then lurched out onto the dock. The boards sagged and creaked under his weight. He was close enough now that the two men hiding beneath the dock could hear his low groans of pain.

Then, when he was directly overhead, he moaned loudly and collapsed to the dock, facedown.

Ambrose, looking up through the cracks at the dark form above, felt a warm spatter in his eye. He wiped it and saw his fingers come away dark and sticky in the dim light.

Blood. The man was hemorrhaging badly from the head and groaning with the pain of his wounds. The blood, a lot of it, was darkening the water around Congreve. Blood in the water was not a good thing.

Was that a fin? Yes! It was definitely a fin he saw slicing through the water near shore. Yes, not one but two! Three!

“What’s your name, old fellow?” C said, speaking as loudly as he dared. Between the cracks, they could see something of him. He had snow-white hair, matted with dark, gluey blood.

He murmured something unintelligible.

“Who shot you, old fellow?” C whispered.

“De guns, dat’s de ting,” the man croaked. “I tole dem de truth, but dey…”

Ambrose put a hand on Trulove’s shoulder. “No time for this, Sir David. We’ve got to get out of here now!” Ambrose whispered, the fear in his voice palpable.

“We can’t,” C hissed. “The bastards who shot this one are coming through the trees. Hear them? They’re likely armed to the teeth.”

“But the blood! You know what blood in the water does to sharks! We have to get away from-”

Congreve froze. Something had just bumped into his thigh, hard. He looked down and saw one long, dark, hideous shape gliding way. And many more circling in the shallows just beyond the sagging dock beneath which he and Trulove crouched.

“Sharks,” C said. “Good God, look at them all.”

“Sir David,” Ambrose said, his trembling voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t tell many people this. You need to know, under the present circumstances, that I am ablutophobic. Severe case. I’m afraid this won’t do at all.”

“Abluto what?”

“From the Latin ablutio, ‘washing,’ and the Greek phobos, ‘fear.’

Pathologically afraid of bathing. In the sea, of course. Swimming. I do bathe at home. Frequently.”

Trulove smiled and pried Congreve’s fingers off his forearm.

“As long as we remain still, they shouldn’t bother us,” he reassured the inspector.

“Of course, they shouldn’t! Will they, is the bloody question.”

The deadly creatures had arrived en masse, just as Congreve had feared they would do. He stared at the menacing black shapes moving silently and swiftly just below the surface, tips of their dorsal fins slicing the water. They weren’t ten feet away. The two men stared at each other; the dying man’s blood was spattering the tops of their heads and splattering the water all around them. Ambrose eyed the Colt Python that C was holding just above the water. Better to die by his own hand than be torn to bits by frenzied sharks? Perhaps, yes.

There were excited shouts of Jamaican patois from ashore now, as gunmen emerged from the deserted village and raced toward the dock and their victim.

Ambrose looked at C, both of them realizing that there really was nothing for it. Thoroughly trapped beneath the dock, they watched in horror as at least a half-dozen sharks began closing in, swiftly moving in ever-narrowing circles.

“Bugger all. I’d rather get shot by those bastards up there than eaten alive,” Ambrose hissed. He’d been absolutely terrified of sharks all his life. And now he was bloody swimming with them. He started to paddle away, but Trulove grabbed him and whispered fiercely in his ear.

“You know the bullets will kill you. With the sharks, we may have some ghost of a chance. Now, just remain perfectly still. I’ve got an idea.”

“What? Bang them on the nose? That’s a comfort.”

“Hush up, will you, the crazy buggers are coming out onto the dock!”

26

“Who does this X-Men flying machine belong to, Stokely?” Fancha asked him nervously as they rode the moving stairs up toward the hovering airship. There was a gleaming stainless-steel escalator extending out of the stern to the roof of the Miami Herald building. Apparently, they were the last guests to arrive, since everybody else seemed to be already aboard.

“That’s what I’m planning to find out on this trip,” Stoke said. “TSAR is a major Russian technology and energy conglomerate that owns the world’s third-largest oil company and this Miramar movie studio out in Hollywood, but who owns TSAR? Nobody seems to know.”

Girl looked a little peaked. She hated flying in general, and she sure as hell wasn’t thrilled about leaving the ground in something out of a damn comic book. But she was determined to go. A week had passed since their meeting at Elmo’s with Putov and Nikita, the two movie producers. Fancha’s phone had been ringing off the hook with calls from the studio about a possible movie deal, an action picture called Storm Front.

She’d agreed to a meeting with Miramar, and Nikita, a.k.a. Nick, had insisted they have it aboard the Russian spaceship. Some kind of flying press junket down to the Keys. They were going to love it, Nick said.

“C’mon, baby,” Stoke said as they stepped inside the ship. “Let’s go find Mr. Hollywood. See what he has to say for his bad self.”

“I guess,” she said, looking back as the stairs were retracted inside the fuselage.

“You do want this, don’t you, honey? Be a star, all that.”

“Baby, I want it so bad it hurts my heart.”

“Well, let’s go make it happen, girl. I wouldn’t take you up in this thing if I didn’t think it could fly.”

The main solarium of the ship was officially called the Icarus Lounge. It was big and luxurious and could easily accommodate the hundred or so guests who’d been invited on the short cruise down to the Keys. The arched ceiling at the nose was mostly glass and steel, and the room was filled with sunny morning light. Normally, it would be a great place to read or relax, have a cocktail in one of the red-velvet upholstered armchairs or chaises. Today, it had been set up for a press conference they’d obviously missed.

Fancha left Stokely’s side, wandered over to the nearest window, and looked down at blue Biscayne Bay. Up ahead, in the hazy distance, she could make out the outline of Key Largo.

Stoke noticed that there was an empty podium on the small stage. Next to it was a large model of another airship. It made the one they were flying in look like the entry-level model. It was sitting on a twelve-foot-long wooden table inside a glass case. It was all silver with gold trim. The word Pushkin stretched along its side.

Judging by the scale of the tiny model cars and little people on the ground holding the mooring lines, Stoke calculated the model airship to be at least five times bigger than Tsar. That would make Pushkin almost two thousand feet long. Behind the model, a flat-screen monitor was showing artists’ renderings of the airship’s luxurious interior. Staterooms, spas, movie theaters, the works.

“Sheldon, my man!” he heard somebody say, moving through the crowd with his hand in the air. Some little guy, Stoke couldn’t see his face for a second, but he knew who it had to be. His second-in-command, Luis Gonzales-Gonzales.

“Shark bait!” Stoke said. “You made it.”

“You think I’d miss this trip, Shel?” Sharkey said, holding out his fist for a pound. “This thing is freaking awesome, man.”

“You ready for this meeting, Shark? Fancha’s right over there if you want to wish her luck.”

“Luck is for losers, man. These guys won’t know who ate them for breakfast. Sharkman O. Selznick at your service,” the little Cuban said, tipping his hat.

Stoke laughed, assessing Shark’s get-up.

“You look good, little brother. I like this style on you, son. It says, ‘Gone Hollywood but got off the bus in Vegas to do some shopping first.’”

Luis was rocking what Stoke called his Frank Sinatra look, his straw hat cocked over one eye the way Frank used to do, with a pink blazer, white trousers, and his trademark white suede loafers. Kind of the ring-a-ding-ding outfit you might see on a Sinatra album cover from the fifties, with a TWA Super Constellation parked on the tarmac in the background.

Fancha saw Luis and came over to give him a peck on the cheek.

He said, “Do you guys believe this freaking batship? I’ve been all over this thing, man. Stem to stern, up and down. It’s just unbelievable.”

Stoke said, “You see our new pals from La-La Land?”

“Yeah. Nick is here, anyway. No sign of Putov. Nick was looking for you during the presentation. Dying to get with Fancha. He’s got a little meeting room all set up for us in a private lounge all the way in the back on the promenade deck. He said we should meet him there about fifteen minutes after we shove off. They’ve got lunch coming in.”

“Good, good,” Stoke said, looking at the model in the glass case. “Hey, Shark, what’s up with this model airship? Pushkin? Man, that big zeppelin is sick. Is it for real? I mean, they built it?”

“Damn right, it’s real. It’s being launched this week! Five times the size of this one. At least. Yeah, you missed the whole presentation, man. They had that guy from American Idol, Ryan Seacrest, up on the stage as emcee. It’s their new passenger liner. Biggest airship ever built, more than nineteen hundred feet long. Going to be the new standard in transoceanic travel, the Seacrest guy said. New York to London, Paris, whatever. Carries seven hundred passengers. Five restaurants. Staterooms, suites, the whole deal. Very deluxe, seriously.”

Suddenly, Fancha lurched and grabbed for Stoke’s arm, a look of terror on her face. “Baby, is that an earthquake?” Stoke felt light in his shoes, as if his heels were going to come right up out of his loafers. But it wasn’t any earthquake. He pulled her to him and gave her a hug.

“No, baby, we wouldn’t feel any earthquakes up here. Look out the window. We’re just lifting off, separating from the tower. Take it easy. Let’s go over to the window, and maybe we can see your house down there, huh? Relax, baby, stay cool.”

STOKE SIPPED HIS Diet Coke, listening to Nick schmooze Fancha. When they’d arrived at the meeting, Nick had said hello to Luis, nodded in Stoke’s general direction, and then proceeded to ignore the two men for fifteen minutes or so. But he was all over Fancha, practically spoon-feeding her caviar and refilling her glass with champagne. That was lunch. Caviar and Cristal, a lot of both.

Nobody had any bubbly except Fancha. Luis, who was at the far end of the table taking notes on the meeting, was drinking Perrier. Stoke had told Sharkey that for this meeting, he should let Stoke do all the talking.

But it seemed as if Nick was doing all the talking.

He said he’d seen the local dramatic production Fancha had done for Univision. She had everything, all the tools in the actor’s box. She could play sophisticated comedy, low comedy, straight drama, she could sing every possible kind of song, and she looked enchanting, the kind of face and body the camera would love. And Storm Front was sure to be a hit, with him, Nick, producing and Ed Zwick directing. It was going to be a period picture, set in the 1930s, about a handsome rumrunner who falls for this babe singing in some joint in Key West during the worst hurricane on record. Romantic but with a lot of action. All of this in his Hollywood schmooze voice with the Russian accent on top.

He told Fancha she was going straight to the top; with her looks and her angel’s voice, nothing could stop her. He said he was just glad he happened to be at the birthday party that night and heard her sing, because he wouldn’t trust her Hollywood career to anyone but Miramar. He, Nick Duntov, would personally focus his full laser-beam attention on her alone, turn over all of his other clients to other producers at the firm.

“Nick, tell me something,” Stoke said when it seemed as if he’d wrapped up the big schmooze. “How did you happen to be at the birthday party that night?”

“What?”

“No big deal, I’m just curious. Wasn’t exactly a Hollywood crowd over there in the Grove, right? Just a bunch of mobbed-up Russians, from what I could tell. Gangsters and Chechen gang bangers.”

“Mr. Levy, I don’t want to be rude. But what the fuck would you know about Hollywood? Sun Coast Artist Management isn’t exactly a player in that league.”

“Did he just use the F word, Shel?” Sharkey said, looking up.

“I believe he did drop an F bomb.” Fancha giggled.

Stoke said, “No, it isn’t. I’m just a naturally curious individual. I’m just looking out for my girl.”

“So am I. Look, we both have Fancha’s best interests at heart, Mr. Levy. So, why don’t we all try to get along, huh? Good idea? I have something here that will make you both happy.”

He pulled an envelope out of his inside pocket, opened it, and slid a yellow check across the table. It was made out to Suncoast, payable to Fancha. It took a sec for the amount to register. It was made out for a quarter of a million dollars.

“What’s this for?” Stoke said, looking at the name of the bank and the payee. It was a Swiss bank, small, private.

“Consider it a demonstration of my total belief in Fancha’s career, Mr. Levy. I have booked a one-night engagement for her. That’s her fee.”

“One night? A quarter of a million dollars?” Stoke said. “Come on.”

“Sheldon Levy, behave yourself,” Fancha said. “Let’s hear what the man has to say.”

“Fancha, thank you. Let me tell you about this one very special and historic night. Are you both with me?”

“Hit it,” Stoke said, leaning back in his chair. He glanced at Sharkey and rolled his eyes.

Nick paused a moment before he spoke, looking for some drama.

“Fancha, you missed this morning’s presentation, but I assume you saw the model of the TSAR company’s new passenger liner in the forward lounge? The Pushkin?”

“Yes, I did. Beautiful.”

“I’ve been aboard her. Let me tell you, the Pushkin is the most luxurious passenger ship ever to sail the skies. Named in honor of the famed Russian poet. She will make her maiden voyage on December 15. She will sail from Miami on a transatlantic flight, arriving at Stockholm on December 17 in time for the Nobel Prize award ceremony that evening at the Stockholm Stadshuset. It may interest you both to know that the owner of this vessel himself is to be awarded a Nobel Prize for his work in astrophysics.”

“She’s going to sing at the Nobel Prize ceremony?” Stoke asked.

“No. She’s going to sing onboard the Pushkin on her first night. There will be a gala dinner that night honoring the owner and all of the other Nobel laureates and nominees who will be joining us for the inaugural crossing. Many distinguished guests will be aboard, including the presidents of the United States and Russia and the premier of China. Not to mention their royal highnesses the king and queen of Sweden.”

“I’m going to sing for the president?” Fancha said.

“Yes, Fancha, you are. You’re going to sing for the world before we’re done. Does that sound interesting to you?”

Fancha looked at Stokely. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars? Baby, I’d do this gig for free!”

Nick smiled and pulled another envelope out of his pocket.

“What’s next?” Stoke said.

“Yeah, what’s next?” Sharkey echoed, getting into it.

“I have here a letter of intent saying that Fancha agrees to enter contract negotiations to star as the female lead in the upcoming Miramar production Storm Front, directed by Ed Zwick and also starring Denzel Washington and Brad Pitt. Executive produced by yours truly, Nikita Duntov. Accompanying the letter is a certified check from Miramar Pictures for two million dollars.”

“Oh, baby,” Fancha said, grabbing Stoke’s hand. “Is this for real?”

“I don’t know, Boo,” Stoke said, looking hard at Nikita Duntov. “Is it real, Nick?”

“Take it to the bank and find out, Mr. Levy.”

“You want to do this, baby?” Stoke said, looking at Fancha. She looked as if she was about to come out of her shoes.

“Do I want to do this, baby?” she said. “I’ve been wanting to do this since I was five years old!”

She jumped to her feet, grabbed Stoke’s head, and crushed it to her bosom. Her cheeks were wet with tears.

“It’s happening, just like I always imagined it. It’s real, baby, can’t you feel it? It’s real!”

Stokely gently wiped away her tears, then held up his hand in front of Nikita’s face.

“What’s that wet stuff on my hand, Nick?”

“Teardrops?”

“Correct. Real tears, Nick. Remember the lady’s tears, what they look like. Remember what’s real and what isn’t. Because if you forget, Nick, forget what’s real, something bad is going to happen.”

“Tears dry, Mr. Levy.”

“Not these tears, Nick. Bet on it.”

27

The midnight-blue Gulfstream IV was cruising at 45,000 feet. She’d slowed a bit for initial descent and was doing 400 kilometers per hour with a good tailwind due to the prevailing westerlies. She was less than an hour from her destination, Bermuda. The cabin lights were dimmed, and the two passengers were sound asleep. The attendant, a pretty young woman named Abigail Cromie, was making tea preparatory to landing, when a yellow light flashed in the forward galley. The captain wanted a word.

“Yes, Captain?” she said, poking her head inside the dark cockpit.

“I’ve got Diana Mars calling for his lordship,” Captain Tanner Rose said, turning to look at her. The young Scotsman’s usual smile was missing. Something was clearly wrong.

“He’s sleeping, I’m afraid. He asked to be awakened a few moments before landing. I’ve just put the tea on.”

“Well, you’d best wake him up, Abby. Lady Mars sounds desperate. She’s calling from a sat phone aboard some sailing vessel. Tell him it’s an urgent call.”

“Right away, Captain.”

Miss Cromie, a woman with ginger-colored hair and a well-tailored pale blue uniform, went aft to where Hawke was sleeping. His seat on the aircraft’s port side was reclined to horizontal, and he was snoring lightly. Forward of him, on the starboard side, Harry Brock was snoring loudly.

“Telephone for you, m’lord,” she whispered into his ear, simultaneously patting him firmly on the shoulder.

“What’s that?” Hawke said, his eyes opening drowsily.

“Lady Diana Mars for you, sir. A sat-phone call from Bermuda. Captain says it’s most urgent, I’m afraid.”

“Oh,” Hawke said, coming fully awake and bringing his seat upright. “Yes. All right, then, Abby, I’ll take it.”

There was a mounted telephone right beside Hawke’s seat. Abby pressed the flashing button and handed the receiver to Hawke.

“Alex Hawke,” he said.

“Thank God!” Diana said, her voice quavering.

“Diana, are you all right? What is it?”

“It’s Ambrose, Alex. Ambrose and David have gone missing. I’m afraid something terrible has happened. The two of them went ashore. Fifteen minutes later, I heard gunfire, and then-”

“Went ashore where?”

“Nonsuch Island. At the entrance to Castle Harbour. They decided to have a good look round. See what was going on with those damn Rastafarians, whatever they’re called.”

“Disciples of Judah. What happened, Diana?”

“They went ashore, as I said, whilst I remained aboard.”

“Aboard what?”

“Swagman. You know, my father’s old yawl. That’s where I’m calling you from now. She’s got a sat phone at the nav station, thank the good Lord.”

“They went ashore, and then what happened?”

“I watched them make their way east along the coast. I was desperately worried about Ambrose stumbling around in the dark on his bad leg. He’s only just got it working again, you know, after what that bastard did to him in the Amazon. Toward the southern end of the island, where we’d seen some lights in the interior, I lost track of them. They’d disappeared around the tip of the island, I imagine. There’s a dock over there, and we’d seen a launch headed that way with no navigation lights. Then, about ten minutes after I’d lost sight of them, I heard shooting.”

“Were they armed?”

“Sir David had his handgun. That’s it.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Half an hour ago, maybe forty-five minutes. I can’t stand it any longer, Alex, just sitting here. Should I go ashore and look for them?”

“No, Diana. Do not do that. Have you called the police?”

“Y-yes, of course, I did that first. I didn’t want to bother you with this. I mean, it may very well turn out to be nothing, you know, but still, I-”

“Diana, calm down. It’s going to be all right. Are the police coming?”

“I don’t know. The chap I spoke to sounded…indifferent. They said they’d send the marine unit around to investigate, but they didn’t sound any too urgent about it. It’s been more than twenty minutes, and no sign of them.”

Hawke looked at the digital map displayed on the small monitor beside his seat. It told him his location, air speed, and time to arrival and showed a real-time image of the plane’s eastbound position approaching Bermuda.

“Diana, listen, I’m about half an hour out from Bermuda right now. This time of night, there’s no other traffic, so I could be on the ground in less than twenty-five minutes. I’ll tell the pilot to push it. Can you pick me up at the airport?”

“How would I do that?”

“You’ve got a dinghy, right?”

“Well, they took it ashore. But I could swim over and get it.”

“Good girl. You say Castle Harbour. Can you see the airfield from where you are?”

“Barely. Nonsuch is way out at the harbor mouth. Next to Castle Island.”

Hawke pressed a button and saw a Google Earth image of Bermuda. He quickly located Nonsuch Island.

“Outboard motor?” he asked.

“On the dinghy?”

“Yes.”

“Right, a fifty-horsepower.”

“Perfect. You’ll see me land. My plane is a dark blue Gulfstream IV. I’ll be coming in hot, right over Swagman’s masthead. I should be on the ground by the time your dinghy reaches the field. Just beach the dinghy wherever you can at the east end of the runway. Have you a flare pistol aboard, dear?”

“Yes.”

“Take it with you. When you beach your dinghy, fire a parachute flare to mark your location. I’ll come right to you. I’ve got someone with me, Diana. Fellow named Harry Brock. He and I can take care of this, all right? So don’t worry. Ambrose and David are going to be fine.”

“Oh, Alex, if anything happened to him, I just don’t know what I would do. With his bad leg, he’s so vulnerable, and…he means everything to-”

She was crying now, sobbing.

“Diana. Please listen to me. Ambrose is my best friend in the world. Sir David is my employer and the chief of the world’s most formidable intelligence service. Believe me, I will not let anything happen to either one of them. I’ll see you on the ground in twenty-five minutes, max.”

“Please hurry, Alex. I’m so sorry to bother you. Good-bye.”

HAWKE QUICKLY GOT up, pausing to rouse Harry Brock on his way forward to the cockpit. He quickly explained the situation to the captain and told him to forgo the performance parameters, firewall the throttles, and get him on the ground as rapidly as humanly possible. He held on to the back of the copilot’s seat for a few seconds as the aircraft shot forward, then moved aft. He collected Brock, and they went to the aftmost part of the second cabin.

There was a head back there, with a full-length mirror on the aft bulkhead. The mirror, to Harry’s surprise, swung open to reveal a tall gun safe with two wide drawers beneath, one for ammunition, the other containing camo clothing and other gear that one might use in an emergency like this one.

Hawke punched in a code, and the heavy safe door swung open.

“Guns,” Harry Brock said with a grin, pulling an M349 light machine gun from the safe. “I like guns.”

“Never leave home without one,” Hawke said, grabbing an identical weapon.

The guns were called SAWs, which stood for squad automatic weapons. Hawke much preferred them in the field, because they could be used either as automatic rifles or machine guns. The gun had a regulator for selecting either normal (750 rounds per minute) or maximum (1,000 rounds per minute) rate of fire. Hawke pulled a few standard M16 magazines from the ammo drawer and inserted one of them into the mag well in the 5.56mm SAW.

Hawke also donned a black Nomex jumpsuit and urged Harry to do the same.

“Nomex,” Harry said, holding one of the suits up. “I like black Nomex, too.”

“Why?” Hawke asked.

“High CDI factor.”

“CDI factor?”

“Chicks dig it.”

“God help me,” Hawke said, strapping on a Velcro thigh holster.

The jumpsuits had lightweight ceramic and Kevlar body armor sewn inside and were designed for jungle warfare. By the time the two men were dressed and fully armed with SAWs, assault knives, and SIG Sauer 9mm sidearms strapped to their thighs, the speeding plane was on final.

“Tea, gentlemen, before we land?” Abby asked as the two men in black returned to the main cabin and took their seats. Both were busy checking and rechecking their weapons.

Hawke caught the irony and smiled. “No, thank you, Abby. I’m afraid it might smear my war paint.” He and Brock were now applying nighttime camo paint to their faces.

“Landing in two minutes,” the captain announced. “Buckle up, please.”

“How do I look?” Hawke asked, smiling up at Abigail. His face was now painted light green, dark green, and black.

Abby smiled. “Like a seriously confused zebra, sir.”

Brock and Hawke laughed, fastening their seatbelts as Abby moved forward to her seat in the galley.

Looking out his window at the harbor spread out below, Hawke saw a pretty white yawl moored inside a small cove on the midsized island near the harbor mouth. A moment later, he saw the phosphorescent wake of Diana’s tiny dinghy nearing the eastern end of the beach stretching along the perimeter of the Bermuda airfield.

A wee bit to the north lay another familiar island, Powder Hill. He could almost make out Half Moon House, standing by a cove at the edge of the banana groves. Was Asia awake? Sitting before her easel in the small hours, smoking a cigarette and drinking gin while she painted his portrait? Was she sleeping on her big bed, the paddle fan revolving lazily overhead?

It was unusual, he knew, thinking like this. But it was the first time in a very long while that he’d been seriously interested in a woman. Since that first storm broke over Half Moon House, there’d been many blissful hours on the chaise and in her great four-poster bed. Her need was deep. As was his desire to fill it. Love? What the hell was that?

Harry was looking out his window as well.

“That’s Diana Mars’s yawl down there?” Harry asked, breaking his reverie.

“Yeah. Swagman.”

“Wooded area at the south end of the island,” Harry Brock said. “And lights down there. No movement.”

“Do you see the dock? The white launch tied up there looks very familiar.”

“Everybody buckled in back there?” the pilot said over the intercom. “Touchdown in fifteen seconds.”

“Drop your cocks and grab your socks,” Harry Brock said, hands gripping the armrests of his seat. They were coming in extremely hot, just as Hawke had requested. It was going to be an interesting landing.

Just as the rubber hit the runway, brakes screeching loudly because of the scalding approach, Hawke, craning his head around, saw Diana’s bright orange flare arc into the black sky, ignite, and swing gently beneath its tiny parachute as it floated toward the beach. He knew exactly where to find her.

DIANA RAN INTO Hawke’s open arms as soon as she saw him approach over the sand dune. There were two other men with him, one dressed like Alex in some kind of black camouflage, the other in a dark suit and tie.

“Thank God you’ve come, Alex,” she said, clearly distraught. “I’m going out of my mind with worry.”

“Diana, it’s going to be all right. But we need to get moving. This is a friend of mine from Washington, Harry Brock. This other gentleman is my pilot, Captain Tanner Rose. Tanner’s going to see that you get safely home.”

“Home?”

“Yes. I want you to go there immediately. Captain Rose will stay with you. Don’t do anything or go anywhere until you hear from me. Don’t pick up the phone. Do you understand?”

“But, Alex, I want to-”

“There’s nothing more you can do, Diana, believe me. Now, Mr. Brock and I are going over to that island. We will return shortly with your fiancé and Sir David. I’m afraid we’ve got to shove off. Tanner, take my car and see that Lady Mars gets home safely, will you? It’s the little yellow Jolly in the lot, keys under the seat. Let’s go, Harry.”

Hawke opened the throttle, and the little inflatable got its rounded nose in the air and flew across the dark water. To the southeast, he could now see two larger islands silhouetted against a dim smattering of stars along the horizon. The one on the right, heavily fortified centuries ago, was called Castle Island. On the left was Nonsuch. He steered for the southern tip, where he’d seen the dock and the familiar white launch moored.

Presumably, Ambrose and Sir David had gone there, since Diana had last seen them headed in that direction.

It took them ten minutes. During that time, Hawke filled Brock in on what little he knew of the man called King Coale and his Rastafarian enclave on Nonsuch Island. The man was a big enough fish to have attracted the attention of the DEA and had done serious time in the U.S. prison system. Now he was back on Bermuda and had taken an unhealthy interest in Hawke’s comings and goings. Tonight, Hawke planned to find out why.

“Red Banner to the rescue,” Harry said cheerfully as they slowed, approaching the dock.

“Our first operation, and it damn well better be successful,” Hawke said, slinging the SAW automatic weapon over his shoulder. “I can’t imagine what those two were thinking, going ashore in the middle of the night.”

“Looking for action, Alex. They don’t see much anymore.”

“I suppose that’s about right, Harry.”

In truth, he was far more worried about the two missing men than he’d let Diana see. Ambrose was a seasoned police officer. He’d risen from street copper through the ranks at the Yard and seen plenty of rough sledding in doing so. Sir David, on the other hand, was an old blue-water sailor. No one doubted his courage or intelligence, but he’d been piloting a desk for the last decade or so. Neither was a young man anymore, and Ambrose was still battling a crippling leg injury.

From what little he knew of the Disciples, they were a sketchy lot at best. Marijuana merchants being paid to keep an eye on him for some unknown reason.

At worst, they were a ragtag army of stoned killers.

There was no one in sight either on the shore or on the dock. Hawke disengaged the throttle and let the dinghy ghost up to the end of the old wooden pier. He looked closely at the island, his eyes roaming the dark fringe of vegetation reaching down to the white sandy beach. There was a village there, completely overgrown. It looked deserted, but a sniper could easily be waiting behind one of those vine-choked windows. He seemed to recall that this island had been home to a downrange NASA tracking station during the great manned-space-flight era.

He heard Harry slamming a mag into his SAW and looked up. They were three feet from the rotting wooden dock. There was a ladder descending into the water, and Brock tied the painter to it. The ladder looked barely strong enough to support their weight.

“You first, Harry,” Hawke said quietly. “Don’t forget to step up from the middle seat getting off. Balance.”

“Jesus, you think I don’t know that?”

“Just go, Harry.”

Hawke checked his weapon one last time and followed him up the ladder a few moments later. The first thing he saw was Harry Brock, halfway down the dock already, crouched over the body of a man who appeared to be very dead.

Hawke sprinted toward Harry and heard a froth of angry splashing coming from the water beneath the boards.

“Dead?” Hawke asked, kneeling beside Brock.

“Yeah. Look at the water, Alex,” Harry said.

Hawke did. It was a mess of sharks in a frenzy.

“Look at this,” Brock said, pulling back the dead man’s trouser cuff. “One of these toothy bastards came right up out of the water and took off his whole goddamn foot.”

28

The thrashing sharks were in a feeding frenzy, all that fresh blood in the water, flowing from the mutilated, nearly ex-sanguinated body above. The dead man was facedown, but Hawke already had a pretty good idea who it was. He knew that white launch well enough.

“Turn him over, Harry.”

Harry got his hands under the corpse and gently rolled it onto its back. The body was almost completely bled out, and the grey face had been partly shot away, but Hawke recognized him instantly.

“His name is Hoodoo. That’s his launch back there.”

“Old pal of yours?”

“He works for a Russian here on Bermuda named Korsakov. Somehow, Korsakov’s tied to this Jamaican lot. Let’s go.”

They quickly moved toward the deserted village of low concrete buildings, weapons at the ready, fanning out and looking for any hint of movement behind the black and empty windows. They’d decided to proceed with hand signals alone, and Harry now signaled Hawke that he’d enter the village first, clearing it with his SAW if necessary. Hawke indicated that he understood. Harry would clear; he would follow.

It wasn’t necessary to clear. They proceeded into the island’s jungle interior unopposed. It was tough going with the guns out front, their muzzles catching on the thick vines and undergrowth, but Hawke figured this was the way Congreve and Trulove must have traveled. The jungle gave way to a kind of path here, overgrown but clearly still well used as a route to and from the dock. Judging from the crumbling cement structures they’d seen, Hawke knew this was what was left of the old NASA tracking station, the buildings abandoned years ago. But these were pumping stations, maintenance sheds, and other secondary structures. The main building had to be somewhere deeper in the interior.

Brock went down on one knee, and his hand shot up, palm flat. Hawke froze, taking a knee as well, his SAW pulled tight into his shoulder. He could hear low voices ahead. The sweet smell of ganja hung in the still night air. After a few moments, he and Harry both pulled out the assault knives strapped just above their ankles and started moving again toward the sound of the voices.

There was a clearing and a small ravine ahead, deep and wide enough to have a wooden suspension bridge strung across it. There were two men guarding the entrance to the bridge, although guarding may have been too strong a word. They sat on the ground, cross-legged, on either side of the narrow bridge opening, with what looked to be automatic weapons across their laps. They were passing a thickly rolled spliff back and forth between them, joking about something in hushed tones.

Hawke came up behind Harry and whispered into his ear, “I’ve got left, you take right. Go.”

In an instant, moving swiftly and silently, they were on the two guards, wrestling them quickly to the ground. Hawke immediately went for his man’s throat, drawing his razor-sharp blade from right to left, feeling the sudden warm gush as the man’s jugular was sliced open. Harry’s man suffered a similar fate. They left them there and crossed the wildly swaying rope bridge at a run, automatic weapons at the ready.

Moving through dark jungle on the ravine’s opposite side, they felt the path start to climb. The vegetation was thinning out, there was starlight, and Hawke was sure they were nearing the Disciples’ compound. It would only make sense that the primary tracking station would be situated on the island’s highest ground.

“Lights,” Harry whispered, and they came to a stop, crouching side by side at the edge of wide clearing, still hidden within the heavy foliage. “Up there on the hill.”

A decrepit two-story concrete structure, almost completely hidden by heavy looping vines and overgrown banana trees, sat on the hillside. The windows were curtained, but pale light shone from within those on the upper floor. At the front, an arched entrance with the door ajar, light spilling out. On the roof, the rusted-out antennas and radar dishes of a bygone era, a space race the good guys won.

This building had once been used to monitor the trajectories of giant Atlas rockets roaring overhead just three minutes after they’d departed the launch pad at Cape Canaveral. How the mighty had fallen. Now this decaying ruin was the headquarters of old King Coale, and a not so merry old soul was he. At least, that’s what Hawke would bet.

“Guy by the door,” Harry whispered as they crouched in the bush. “Armed.”

“Yeah.”

“My gut,” Harry said, “Ambrose and Trulove are inside that building.”

“My gut, too, Harry. Sit tight. We’ve got to do this right the first time, or they could get hurt.”

“Assuming they’re still alive.”

“We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t assume that.”

Hawke felt an old twinge of irritation. Sometimes Harry talked too much. There was a negative cast to his personality that Hawke did not admire. Still, he was a good man in a fight, hard as hell to kill, and Hawke was glad he had him along tonight.

The man by the door was slouched in a chair, smoking a cigarette. A rifle dangled loosely from one hand. Hawke saw something familiar: the long dreadlocks hanging about the shoulders, the Selassie sweatshirt, and the heavy gold chains draped around the neck. And even in the low light, the gleam of gold at his mouth.

“I know this guy,” Hawke said, studying the figure through a small monocular hung around his neck.

“Who is he?”

“Calls himself the Prince of Darkness. Name is Desmond Coale. He’s the son of the man who’s been invading my privacy, Samuel Coale. Coale’s inside that building.”

“Head shot,” Harry said matter-of-factly. He’d affixed the silencer to his SAW and was putting his eye to the night-vision scope preparatory to putting a single round through Desmond’s left ear.

“No,” Hawke said, pulling the barrel down. “We’ll use Desmond to get to the father. We’ll split up, circle around through the woods to either side of the building, come at him from behind. On the count of thirty, make some kind of noise over on your side of the building, get him to come to you. I’ll do the rest. Thirty seconds. On my mark. Ready, Harry?”

“Born ready.”

“Remember, we want this character alive, Harry. Go.”

They separated, Harry going left, Hawke right, each man moving quickly and silently through the dense vegetation that surrounded the old NASA building. Hawke saw movement behind the curtains in an upstairs window. Someone pulled the curtain aside and peered out into the darkness for a few moments, then disappeared. There was music, loud reggae, and some raucous laughter coming from that upstairs room. Hawke recognized the song playing. Jimmy Cliff’s “The Harder They Come.”

Hawke ran quickly from the cover of the woods to the side of the crumbling concrete building. He paused briefly, looking at his dive watch. In five seconds, Harry would somehow distract Desmond. He moved to the front of the building and peered around the corner. Desmond was still in his chair, head down, reading his newspaper in the yellow light of the doorway.

A second later, a muddy old soccer ball bounced from behind the other side of the building. It rolled to a stop maybe fifteen feet from young Coale’s feet. He looked over at it, threw his paper to the ground, got up, and went over to see what the hell was going on.

“Who’s dat fuckin’ wit me?” he said loudly, still holding the rifle loosely at his side. Getting no reply, he went forward to pick up the ball.

That’s when Hawke made his move. He was around the corner and up behind Desmond before the Rastaman had taken three steps toward the ball. As Desmond stood, Hawke snatched a great handful of thick, matted dreadlocks, yanked the man’s head straight back, and lay the flat side of his serrated assault blade against his throat, just under the bobbing Adam’s apple.

“Dat’s me fuckin’ wit you, Prince,” Hawke whispered into the man’s ear.

“Who?”

“My name is Hawke, remember me? My colleague and I have come here to kill you. Or collect our friends. Your call. Nod if you understand your two choices, Desmond.”

The Jamaican made a strangled sound in his throat and said, “Dat’s not me, mon. I ain’t de Prince, mon, dat’s Desmond, he’s my bra’. My brother inside de house. I am called Clifford.”

“You look a whole lot like Desmond to me.”

“We twins, mon, I swear it’s de troo’t.”

Hawke sensed it was. It was tough to lie convincingly with a knife at your throat.

“Say one word, Clifford, you make any sound at all, and you’re dead. Understand me?”

Clifford managed to nod yes without slicing his own throat open. His brother had already told him this Hawke was a man to be taken seriously.

“Okay, Clifford, relax. We’re all going inside now.”

Hawke looked over his shoulder and saw Harry moving toward the open entrance with his weapon at the ready.

“Is your father inside? Upstairs?” Hawke whispered in Clifford’s ear. “Nod, yes or no.”

Getting a yes, Hawke said, “I believe the old man has company. Two Englishmen. Yes?”

He got another yes nod.

“Excellent. Let’s go see how they’re doing. You’d better start praying that no harm has come to them. You understand me?”

He turned the man around and marched him to the entrance, the two of them going inside the front door just behind Harry Brock.

They walked into a big square room filled with sofas and a blank large-screen TV on one wall. The room was empty except for the trash swept into the corners. So, apparently, was the smaller room beyond, which was dominated by a large snooker table, the felt long gone, probably used for meetings and dining. A naked bulb, dimly lit, dangled above the table. To the right, an open staircase led to the second floor.

“Where is everybody, Clifford? Whisper.”

“Dey mostly off island, it bein’ Saturday night. Drinkin’ wit de Skanktown ho’s at de Skibo Grill, mos’ likely.”

“Where’s your father?”

“He upsteers. Wit de prisoners. Wit my bra’. Dey havin’ a party up dere.”

“Let’s crash that party, shall we?”

They quickly mounted the stairs, Harry first with his SAW at the ready. There was a long hallway, hot, damp, and funky, leading to the rear of the building. The music was louder now, and also the sound of laughter was coming from the room Hawke had seen from the woods. The sweet stench of marijuana was almost overpowering. The heat inside the concrete building was intense, even hours after sundown.

“Okay,” Hawke said. “Harry, you’re through the door first, go in low, and show your weapon to get everyone’s attention. I’ll be right behind you with the Prince’s lookalike. Got it?”

“Got it, boss,” Harry said, smiling. He loved this stuff, lived for it. It was all over his face.

The peeling wooden hallway door was closed. From behind it came a confused roaring, laughter, and a breaking of glass. Hawke stood behind Harry, with Clifford still immobilized by his blade, and watched Harry’s right foot strike the door halfway up, blowing it inward. Harry went in low and racked the slide on the SAW, letting everybody get a good peek down the barrel, not a sight recommended for the faint-hearted. The ragged men were stunned but remained sitting in rows of chairs three deep that formed a ring in the center of the floor.

Hawke followed Harry inside, took it all in at a glance. The temperature inside the unpainted concrete-block room had to be more than a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. The smells of copious sweat, coppery blood, and spilt rum hit him like a wall. There was a rooster trapped in the center of the circle, and the men seated all around were taking great delight in hurling empty rum bottles at the bird, the cock screeching and flapping about. The bird was bloodied, had been hit a few times, and the concrete floor was covered with smeared blood and broken glass. A pile of feathery corpses lay at the feet of one of the participants.

The men’s golden smiles froze on their dark faces, and the effect was startling. Some of them still held half-empty rum bottles poised above their heads, but they lowered them as they saw the grim expression on Hawke’s face. And the second semiautomatic weapon he held in his left hand.

Hawke pushed Clifford inside in front of him and let everybody get a good look at him. Harry began patting down the party boys, looking for weapons.

“Anybody armed, Harry?” Hawke asked. “Aside from the rum bottles, I mean?”

“Clean so far,” Harry said, moving around the circle, carefully checking each man for weapons.

“Which one of you hearty sportsmen is King Coale?” Hawke asked, although he’d already guessed Samuel Coale was the one in the flowing purple dashiki and the snow-white dreads that reached to his waist. He had a wide leather belt around his corpulent belly and an ugly machete dangling in a sheath. Behind him, on the wall, a huge Ethiopian flag and an old poster of Emperor Haile Selassie, fist raised, the Lion of Judah himself, reluctant father of the Rasta movement.

Old King Coale rose from his tatty throne, the only upholstered armchair of the lot. He kicked a few rooster corpses out of his way and took a step forward.

“Yahweh is Lord, and I am his king,” he said, Rasta-style. “You come looking for your friends, Lord Hawke?”

“I have. Where are they?”

King Coale inclined his head left toward a closed door on the far wall.

Hawke pressed the muzzle of the SAW deep into King Coale’s belly.

“You’ve got your Disciples following me all over this bloody island, Coale. Tell me why.”

“Someone pay me good money, mon. Why else you do anything?”

“Who pays you?”

“I forget.”

“Let me guess. Korsakov?”

“I tell you, he kills me.”

“You don’t tell me, I kill you,” Hawke said, using the machine gun’s muzzle to shove the man back into his armchair.

A loud shout of pain came from behind the peeling door. Hawke recognized the voice instantly. It was Ambrose Congreve.

“Harry, keep an eye on these gentlemen for a moment,” Hawke said, turning away from Coale. He quickly crossed the room, twisted the knob, and shoved the door open. He craned his head around and peered inside. Then he glanced over his shoulder, looking at Brock.

He wasn’t smiling.

“They’re both alive,” he said.

29

The two Englishmen were bound back-to-back, each sitting upright in a straight-backed wooden chair. At a cursory glance, both appeared to have been beaten about the head and face. A trickle of blood ran from Sir David’s nose and mouth. Desmond, the Prince of Darkness, was standing before Ambrose with a length of iron rod in his hand. Ignoring Hawke’s sudden appearance, he drew it back and struck Congreve against the shin of his wounded leg. The detective screamed out in agony, his body straining backward in his chair, his face a rictus of pain.

The explosive chatter of the SAW automatic weapon was deafening in the small room. All eyes swiveled toward Hawke, who had the ugly black weapon at his hip. He squeezed the trigger and fired another burst into the wall just beyond Desmond’s head, showering him with chunks of plaster.

“What de fuck, mon?”

“Drop the rod, Prince,” Hawke said evenly. “Now.”

“You disrespected my family once. Once is all you get.” He raised the bar again.

“Put the rod down. If you don’t, I’ll kill you where you stand.”

Desmond turned and glared, somehow imagining he could force Hawke to look away.

“Drop it,” Hawke said, “or die. Now.”

“I’ll drop de rod, mon. But you got to drop de gun. Then we see who de man is. Without de guns.”

Desmond’s eyes were blazing red, but whether it was rum or anger fueling his rage, Hawke was unsure. He could kill the man, shoot him now and be done with it. But something deeper, more primitive, in Hawke’s brain stopped him from pulling the trigger. He wanted to hurt the man who’d hurt his friend. He wanted to hurt him with his bare hands. It was more than wanting, he realized, as he stared into those blood-red eyes.

It was needing.

Hawke had since early youth, not frequently but often enough, found himself drawn to the wild freedom of a fistfight: the taunting, the restraining of friends, the squaring up, the outrageousness of one’s opponent. He found in fighting a thrilling unpredictability available to him nowhere else. Only when fists flew did he discover his spontaneous, decisive self-his truest self, he liked to think.

He smiled at Desmond and said, “You don’t want to fight me, Prince. I’m way out of your league.”

“Is dat so, mon? You mean ’cause you so old? Too old to fight like a man?”

“Just put the rod on the floor. Then I’ll put my gun on the floor. Okay?”

“You got two guns, mon. De pistol, too.”

Hawke put the SAW and the 9mm pistol on the cement floor, his eyes never leaving Desmond’s. Then he pulled his assault knife out of its sheath and slid it across the floor.

“Harry?” Hawke called out.

“Right here, boss.”

“I’m putting my weapons down in here. Keep yours at the ready until I’m done with this kid. Shoot anybody who moves in an unfriendly way.”

“You got it.”

“So,” Desmond said, dropping the iron rod to the floor with a clang. “Maybe you do still got a little bitty fight left in you, old man.”

“Harry,” Hawke called again over his shoulder. “I’m going to need your help. Mr. Coale in here has challenged me to a duel. I have accepted. Will you get those fellows out there to clear a space and agree to referee?”

“You got it, boss. Let me just get rid of these fucking dead chickens, and I’ll have a nice little ring set up.”

“Untie my friends, Desmond,” Hawke said, unzipping his jumpsuit and stepping out of it. Underneath, he wore only a faded Royal Navy T-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts, now suddenly wildly appropriate.

He motioned Desmond through the door and helped Ambrose and Sir David get to their feet. He was broken-hearted to see Congreve once more unable to stand on his own. Sir David got an arm around him and got him back into his chair. Ambrose had gone deathly white, and beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead. Sir David seemed sound enough and was rubbing his upper arms where the ropes had burned them.

“Are you all right, Constable?” Hawke asked his friend. “Tell me if you’re not. I will pick up my gun, and Brock and I will get you to a hospital right now.”

“I’ll survive,” Congreve said through gritted teeth. “But listen, Alex. You’re not really going to fight this man, are you?” he whispered. “He claims to be an Olympic champion.”

“Of course I’m going to fight the bastard. After what he did to you? It’s an affair of honor, the Code Duello. Surely you remember that fine old tradition, Constable? Precious few left these days. Sir David, some water for the chief inspector would be helpful.”

“Rum!” Congreve said in a hurry. “For God’s sake, rum! And then let’s get on with it. I haven’t seen a good fistfight in years!”

“Certainly,” Trulove replied, handing Congreve a half-empty bottle of rum.

Hawke said, “You might also want to shove that nine-millimeter of mine inside your waistband for the time being, Sir David. And Ambrose, keep my SAW handy if you’re up to it. Things might get spicy in there.”

“Good idea,” Trulove said, bending to snatch the weapons from the floor, handing Congreve the SAW.

Hawke left them and walked into the adjacent room. Desmond was posing in the center of the ring formed by the rows of wooden chairs and the Jamaicans who filled them, all of them now laughing riotously, clinking their rum bottles, smelling more blood. King Coale sat back regally in his tufted armchair, eager for the spectacle of his once famous son humiliating a white man.

Hawke stepped inside the ring, pulling his T-shirt over his head. He used it to wipe the green and black camo greasepaint from his face, then tossed the shirt aside. Desmond was dancing around on the broken and bloodied glass, stripped down to a pair of ratty track shorts.

It was close and unbearably hot inside the room. The two men in the ring were already drenched with sweat, though the fight had not even begun.

With the small crowd roaring support for their national hero, the two fighters squared up and began to circle each other. Desmond, a southpaw, quickly threw a few feints with his left to see if Hawke was paying attention. He definitely was. Hawke backed away, blinked his eyes rapidly, and tried to gather his wits. He’d boxed quite a bit in the Navy, with some success. But he’d never been in front of a lefty before.

Hawke was moving to his right. He immediately got tagged with a straight left hand to the jaw, followed instantaneously by a vicious right hook that connected, hard, rocking him back on his heels.

First blood. Hawke could taste it, the blood flooding his mouth. He remembered enough to swallow it quickly as he’d been taught, as something like tunnel vision and deafness descended on him. His anger at what this man had done to Ambrose had lifted itself and spiraled up into a kind of ecstasy. He was no great pugilist. But he was physically reckless, capable of unmitigated violence, he was strong, and he was motivated.

He had a chance.

Hawke smiled at his opponent, shaking it off, trying to rid himself of the carousel of cartoon canaries he saw circling inside his head.

“I’ve never been hit that hard before,” Hawke said, and grinned. “This is going to be more interesting than I thought.”

“I just gettin’ warmed up, old mon.”

“Your wrist seems to have healed nicely,” Hawke said, trying to get his feet moving again. He’d been hoping the injured wrist might still be a problem for his opponent. Been counting on it.

“Dat was Clifford’s wrist you broke, mon,” Desmond said, jabbing hard. “Not mine.”

“Called himself Desmond the day I broke his wrist on Tribe Road.”

“Cliff always sayin’ dat shit around town, mon. Sayin’ he Desmond. Say he get more pussy when he call himself me.”

Hawke kept his fists up beside his face in a defensive posture, still woozy from the tag, trying desperately to regain his composure. He knew he had to get back into the fight quickly. Because of Desmond’s lightning speed and power, Hawke couldn’t afford to get hit with another shot.

He moved left and right, stalling and thinking. The little camp boxing he’d done during the first Gulf War didn’t seem to be helping him much now. But one piece of advice kept trying to come back to him. What the hell was it?

When you’re facing a southpaw, Mr. Hawke, always lead with your right hand and throw a left hook behind it.

Yeah, that was it.

Hawke stepped into the man and threw the two prescribed punches, using everything he had. He saw immediately that he’d loosened a few of those shiny gold teeth in Desmond’s mouth. But Desmond shook it off and grinned.

The Jamaicans jumped to their feet, cheering their boy on with curses and shouts, hoots and hollers.

Desmond kept dancing, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his fist. “Is that it? Is that all you got, old mon? C’mon. Show me something. Show me what you got, white mon.”

Hawke realized that he’d just given this kid his two best shots and that they’d barely fazed him.

The fight was on.

Hawke circled Desmond. The Jamaican stood his ground, watching and waiting, a huge grin on his glistening black face. Hawke was bobbing and weaving. Desmond began to throw some brutal right jabs. One of them connected, catching Hawke over his left eye. The blow opened a cut that began to bleed instantly, filling Hawke’s left eye with blood.

“That’s one eye closed, Grandpa, now I’m going to shut the other one. You ready? Get ready!”

Desmond began jabbing wildly, dancing around the half-blinded Hawke, hurling insults and laughing loudly as Hawke’s punches went wide. The crowd was on their feet again, into it now, smelling the blood of an Englishman.

Hawke knew he was in serious trouble. His shots to the head weren’t connecting. The kid’s hand speed was lightning fast, and Hawke couldn’t see much anymore. His mind was scrambling, searching for anything useful he could dredge up from his brief boxing career. A phrase, something his coach used to beat into all of them in training, began to take form in his mind, and then suddenly he had it.

Kill the body, the head will die.

He stepped into the man and struck suddenly, viciously, and without warning. He threw two ferocious left hooks, delivered mercilessly, one to Desmond’s liver, the other to his ribs.

He saw a much surprised Desmond spit blood from the two body shots. The Jamaican had been wisely protecting his liver, keeping his elbows tucked in close. But Hawke had seen a fraction of an opening and had struck hard. And now the blood was surely bubbling up inside his opponent’s body. Desmond coughed, expelling a great looping gout of flying blood.

Hawke took one step backward and dropped a straight right hand directly on Desmond’s chin. The blow staggered the Jamaican, knocked him backward, arms pinwheeling, and he almost went down. Two old fellows leaped out of their seats and grabbed Desmond by the elbows, keeping him on his feet, one of them hissing in his ear, “Des, you going to let this old white candy-ass bastard kick your ass? No, you ain’t, boy! C’mon, now, fight! You a Jamaican, son, you a champion!”

Desmond stepped back into the fight. His eyes were moving around in his head, and Hawke could see he was forcing them to focus.

“Had enough, son?” Hawke said, keeping his feet moving. He had his breathing going now, feeling good, into it, the blood lust starting to rise.

“Just beginning to piss me off, mon. Thass all you be doin’.”

Hawke saw the anger flash in the kid’s eyes and knew he had a slight chance to win this. Get them mad, that’s how you win fights.

Suddenly, the kid charged him, windmilling, throwing a flurry of wild punches. Hawke got his hands up, catching punches on his arms. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the real punch coming from down low. A haymaker right hook. It was coming up fast and looked as if it could knock over a tall building.

But Hawke slipped that punch and countered with another pair of lethal left hooks to the kid’s ribs. He heard a loud crack, the whole room did, and felt the man’s bone break under his fist. Desmond stopped breathing, but Hawke stayed right on him and threw a fast four-punch combination to his face, wham-wham, wham-wham.

Hawke stepped back. One of his punches had caught Desmond over his right eye, now bleeding profusely, and loops of blood were flying out of both nostrils.

Hawke was vaguely aware that Harry Brock was circling the ring, considering whether or not to step in and stop the fight. But Harry hesitated. He could sense that Hawke must be seeing some fight left in the kid. Hawke clearly wasn’t backing off. He wanted to throw one last shot.

“You want me to stop this?” Brock asked Hawke.

“He hurt my friend. An eye for an eye, a bone for a bone,” Hawke said out of the side of his mouth, his eyes focused only on his target. He wanted more.

Hawke wound up and delivered a big right hand to the jaw. The Jamaican, his jaw broken, folded up like an accordion, collapsing to the filthy floor strewn with broken glass and chicken blood, adding a little of his own to the mixture.

Hawke backed away, saw Harry Brock bending over Desmond’s unconscious body. Harry gave Desmond a fair ten count, allowing him every chance to get back on his feet.

“…Ten!” It was over.

Brock whirled around and grabbed Hawke’s right wrist, thrusting his hand into the air in victory.

The Jamaicans went wild, some of them coming out of their chairs to cheer the victorious Hawke. They didn’t care much who’d won; it had been a hell of a fight. Collapsed in a chair against the wall, Congreve raised his fist in the air, saluting the victory. Sir David even stepped into the ring, pounding his man on the back, shouting into Hawke’s ear words he couldn’t hear because the blood was pounding so hard inside his head.

Hawke saw the defeated Jamaican on the floor, his arms flung out as if someone had thrown him away. He was now stirring about, eyelids fluttering open, moving his lips, and he stepped over to have a word. Desmond’s father, who’d been tending to his son, turned away in disgust. Hawke took his arm and spun him around.

“I don’t want to see your crew on my tail anymore. You understand me? What will happen if I do?”

Coale nodded yes and walked away, defeated.

Hawke then bent over the boy and looked into his blood-filled eyes. He spoke softly, just loud enough so the boy alone could hear him.

“It’s not about age, son, it’s about desire. You had it once and lost it. Maybe you should think hard about trying to get it back.”

“THANK YOU, ALEX,” Congreve said as they stepped outside into the cool night air. “A few more blows to the bum leg with that tire iron, and I’m afraid I’d have been totally out of commission. As it is, I think I’ll need some help getting back to the boat.”

The three Englishmen and Harry Brock had left the building full of drunken Jamaicans behind and were making their way through the dark underbrush toward the sea. Trulove and Hawke had Congreve between them, supporting his weight as they made their way across the rocky ground. Harry was at the rear, covering their retreat with the SAW.

“Are you managing all right, sir?” Hawke asked Sir David. He was huffing and puffing a bit, Congreve being no featherweight these days.

“Indeed, I think I am,” C said. “No teeth missing, just a split lip. Ambrose and I are both in far better shape than the chap you left back there on the floor. Or that fellow out there facedown on the dock. Did you see him, Alex? I demanded medical attention for him, of course. Not that there was much likelihood of it.”

“He’s dead,” Hawke said. “A man named Hoodoo.”

“You know the victim, Alex?” C asked.

“I do, sir. I know who he is, at any rate. Have you any idea what he was doing out here in the middle of the night?”

“Yes, we do,” Congreve said through his pain, speaking slowly and breathing rapidly. “He was delivering weapons to these chaps. Russian machine guns, now stowed in a locked room in the basement. Apparently, there was some disagreement about remuneration, as best we can surmise.”

“Before we were discovered, we’d been hiding under the dock as the guns were being unloaded,” C said. “We couldn’t understand a lot of what was being said, of course-even Ambrose doesn’t speak this particular Jamaican Rasta dialect-but we did hear a name. A man who may be the one selling them these weapons.”

“Who?” Hawke asked. “What name?”

“Chap named Korsakov,” Ambrose said. “Russian. Lives somewhere here on Bermuda. Ever heard of him?”

“Name rings a bell,” Hawke said. “I think that’s who’s been having me followed by the Rastas.”

“Why?”

“No idea, but I intend to find out.”

“Alex? I think you’d best put me down for a moment,” Congreve said. “I’m feeling a bit lightheaded.”

Trulove and Hawke gingerly lowered their friend so that he was seated on a soft clump of grass, his back against the smooth red bark of a gumbo limbo tree.

“Can you make it back down the hill to the dinghy, Constable?” Alex asked his oldest friend, kneeling down beside him.

“I think if I just rest a moment, yes. Should do. It’s a bit-painful, you know.”

“Breathe deeply. Try to relax. We’ll get you to a doctor as quickly as possible.” Hawke had tied his shirt round Congreve’s leg wound, cinching it tight. The blood flow appeared to have ceased. After an already long and difficult recovery, this fresh injury was a serious setback for his old friend.

“Bloody doctors. I thought I was through with them.”

“Anybody smell smoke?” Brock asked, sniffing the air.

“I do,” Trulove said. “Fire somewhere. Where’s the smoke coming from?”

“Down by the water,” Hawke said, “where you left the yawl anchored. We’d better get moving. Ambrose?”

Congreve nodded his head. Sir David and Harry Brock got Ambrose back on his feet and began to descend the steep pathway, Hawke taking the lead.

“Harry and I can take care of Ambrose. You go on ahead, Alex,” C said. “Make sure there are no more unpleasant surprises awaiting us.”

Hawke raced down the steep path and was the first to reach the clearing and the little cove where Diana had left her boat at anchor.

He was the first to see Swagman.

She was adrift and afire.

It looked like a Viking funeral. Someone had loosed her free, torched her, and trimmed her sails to carry her away.

Swagman was already well out, far beyond the reef line, running dead before the wind with all of her blazing sails flying, every last one of them burning brightly. She was lighting up the night sky, afire now from stem to stern, the orange and red flames licking out the windows of her cabin house and racing up her mainmast, and her mainsail had mostly burned clean through, falling away in flaming tatters as she sailed off ablaze toward the black horizon.

“Good Lord,” Congreve said, the three men suddenly at his side.

“Yes,” Hawke said. “Little we can do now I’m afraid.”

“The ring,” Congreve said, all of the life, all of the fight, gone out of his voice.

“What?”

“Diana’s engagement ring. The D Flawless. You told me to stow it somewhere safe until I was ready to present it to her. I wrapped it in one of my handkerchiefs and stowed it forward of the anchor locker. A little cubby hole in the bow.”

“It’s a diamond. We’ll buy her another.”

“It belonged to my mother, Alex. It’s all I have from her.”

“Then we’ll find it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Hawke said, and put a comforting arm round his friend’s shoulder. “We’ll get you in the dinghy and back to the airport. You’re going straight to hospital, and then I’ll take you home and we’ll split a bottle of rum. Sound good?”

“It does, Alex,” he said, his eyes filling with tears as he watched the beautiful old Swagman sailing for the far horizon in flames.

“Undeserved fate for a lovely old boat,” Hawke said, his eyes on her. “Diana will be devastated,” Congreve added. “Swagman will burn to the waterline and then slip beneath the waves forever.”

And his mother’s precious diamond would become just another bauble among countless jewels scattered across the sandy floor beneath the turquoise sea.

30

“Pelham?” Anastasia said, as the weathered cedar door swung inward to reveal a sweet-faced man, quite elegantly dressed in a white dinner jacket and black bow tie. He had a fringe of soft white hair and the palest blue eyes, and he held himself very erect. He did have the loveliest smile. This was Hawke’s “partner”? He had to be eighty if he was a day. In the beginning, she’d been exceedingly curious about Hawke’s roommate. Now, based on recent events, she found herself considerably more than curious.

“I’m Asia Korsakova. How do you do?”

“Very well, indeed, Madame. Won’t you come in?”

The invitation from Teakettle Cottage, surprisingly engraved on a stiff cream-colored card from Smythson of Bond Street, a good London stationer, had arrived with her mail yesterday. Her beautiful beach bum had his stationery engraved at Smythson’s? It had said “Dinner at Eight.” She was a little early, she knew, but she’d been unsure of finding her way through the maze of sandy lanes that wound through the overgrown banana groves. She knew that one of them would lead eventually to Teakettle Cottage, but which one? So here she was, at his door at a quarter to the hour.

“You may want to keep your wrap,” Pelham said. “You’ll be dining al fresco, and it’s a bit cool out on the terrace this evening.”

“Thank you, I will.”

She followed him into a large circular room with high ceilings and lovely old beams supporting the domed roof. In the fireplace, a blazing fire took the damp chill off the room. The views of the ocean and sky beyond the terrace were beautiful in the evening light. The sun had set over the turquoise sea, leaving a stage backdrop of brilliant pinks and corals.

“May I offer you something to drink, ma’am? A cocktail, perhaps? I’ve been accused of making a mean Dark and Stormy, if I may say so.”

“Lovely. But I’ll have vodka and tonic. Over ice, please.”

Pelham nodded and went behind the curved monkey-wood bar. There were two sturdy bamboo stools, and she perched on one while he fixed her drink.

“Slice of lime for you, then?” Pelham asked, regarding her out of the corner of his eye.

“Why not? So. How many are you two expecting this evening?”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am?”

“How many other guests for dinner?”

“Just you, Madame.”

“Just me?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Oh. Well. I thought it was to be more of a party.”

“I’ve no doubt it will be, Madame.”

“Ah. Well, then.”

“Here you are, a lovely vodka and tonic. I hope it will prove satisfactory.”

Pelham went silently about his mixology as she sipped her drink, tidying up, slicing some more limes, getting out a beautiful old sterling cocktail shaker, filling it with shaved ice, black rum, and ginger beer.

“Interesting pictures,” Asia said, leaning forward to look more closely at a particular photograph. Any number of black-and-white framed candid shots hung on the raffia-covered wall adjacent to the bar. The old photos, mostly of American and English film stars, were faded and water-stained and looked as if they’d been hanging right where they were for centuries.

“Errol Flynn, isn’t this one?”

“Yes, ma’am. All former tenants and guests at the cottage, mostly. The subject of a good deal of gossip, I gather.”

“I adore gossip,” she said, and downed the rest of her drink. She slid the empty glass toward him. “Any of the good stuff left?”

“A pleasure,” Pelham said, reaching for the Stolichnaya. For the first time, he noticed her long red fingernails. He was acutely aware that she was an extraordinarily beautiful woman, prodigiously possessed of what they used to call, in his day, animal magnetism. Suddenly, a good deal of his lordship’s recent behavior came into somewhat sharper focus.

“Pelham, may I ask a rather personal question?”

“I endeavor to be candid on any subject, Madame.”

“How long have you two been-together. You and Alex, I mean.”

“Together?” he said, seemingly surprised by her choice of words.

“Yes. Together. I mean, how long have you and Alex been…close? I’m just curious about the length of your…relationship. The duration. Roughly speaking, of course.”

“Well, I can be very precise about it. Come December 24, at precisely seven o’clock in the evening, it will be thirty-three years to the minute, Madame.”

She put down her drink, a little vodka sloshing over the rim of the glass.

“Thirty-three years? Is that what you said?”

“Precisely. I was present at his birth. He was born at home. His mother was having a rather difficult time, you see, and the doctors required me to-”

“His birth?”

“Yes, Madame. How time flies. Hard for one to believe that his lordship will turn thirty-three in just-”

“His what?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sorry. What you just called him. Called Alex. I thought I heard you use the phrase ‘his lordship’?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Charming. A joke between you two?”

“I beg your pardon, Madame? A joke?”

“One of your pet names for each other, I mean. I know couples do that after years together.”

“Couples? I have no idea what you’re talking about, Madame. I don’t wish to be rude, but I must say this conversation is-”

“You don’t mean to say he’s titled?”

“Indeed, Madame.”

“My beautiful beach boy is, in fact, Lord Hawke?”

“He is Lord Hawke, indeed. I’m hardly surprised you were unaware of it. He prefers not to use the title. If I may be so bold, I suggest you refrain from using it yourself, Madame. I myself absolutely insist upon this form of address, only as I believe it de rigueur for someone of my station.”

“And what, if I may be so bold, exactly is your station, Pelham?”

“I am in service, ma’am. I should have thought that much, at least, would have been somewhat obvious. I’ve been in service to the Hawke family for most of my eighty-four years. As, I daresay, were my father before me and his father before him.”

“In service. A butler, do you mean?”

“Rather more than that, Madame, but I suppose that appellation will suffice.”

“So you’re not…roommates? Partners?”

“Roommates?” Pelham said, almost choking on the word. His starched collar suddenly seemed far too tight, and indeed his face had turned a startling shade of red.

“Are you all right?” Asia asked, fearing he might be suffering from a coronary event or worse. She hurriedly poured him a glass of water.

Summoning every ounce of his dignity and with his exquisite patina of noblesse oblige barely intact, Pelham was able to croak in a strangled voice, “Hardly roommates, Madame.”

At that moment, Alexander Hawke strode into the room. He was naked save a small towel wrapped precariously around his waist. His body and his dark hair were still damp from the recent shower, and he wore a creamy white beard of shaving cream. In his hand was an old-fashioned ivory-handled straight razor.

“Oh, terribly sorry. I’d no idea you’d arrived,” he said, glancing at Anastasia. His eyes moved to Pelham, who seemed a bit rattled and was shakily knocking back a goblet of water or perhaps something stronger.

“My fault entirely,” Ansastasia said, swiveling her stool toward him. “I thought I’d get lost finding you, so I arrived far too early. Pelham and I have been having a grand time.”

Hawke and Anastasia stared at each other for a few long moments, neither of them willing or able to speak. Finally, Hawke’s face broke into a wide grin.

“Ah. Good. Good for you two to have some time to chat. Get to know each other a bit. Well. Perfect. I’ll be with you shortly. Pelham, you don’t have something brewing back there with my name on it, do you?”

“Indeed, m’lord,” Pelham squeaked.

Pelham came out from behind the bar with a frosted silver julep cup on a silver tray. Hawke took it and smiled at Asia. “My ‘dresser,’ you see. I always have a wee cocktail while I’m suiting up for dinner.”

“Good idea,” she said, smiling. “It’s reassuring that you haven’t finished dressing.”

Hawke looked at her, then down at his towel, seeming to have momentarily exhausted his gift for dialogue.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. Give me ten minutes or so. You look stunning in red, by the way.”

She nodded and watched him disappear down the hallway that led, she imagined, to his bedroom. When she turned her glance back to Pelham, her eyes were softer than before.

“Are you quite all right?” he asked her after a few moments of silence.

She looked up at him, her eyes shining.

“There’s an awful lot of little boy in that big man.”

“Most perceptive of you, Madame Korsakova.”

“A sad little boy, I’m afraid. What was he like, Pelham? As a child? Was he a very sad little boy?”

“His boyhood? Sad? Indeed, I suppose it had some of that, as everyone’s does.”

“Would it be terribly indiscreet of you to talk about him? You hardly know me, after all.”

“I know you well enough, I think, Madame. At least, where he’s concerned. We do have a few minutes before he returns.”

“Tell me a story, Pelham,” Anastasia said, leaning forward and resting her chin in her hands. “About the little boy you knew.” Her green eyes, shining and moist, had a lustrous depth, Pelham noticed for the first time.

It was only with some difficulty that he avoided falling into them himself.

“Shall we move out to the terrace?” she said. “The fresh breeze off the ocean is lovely.”

“LORD HAWKE WAS born healthy and boisterous as a three-ring circus on Christmas Eve around seven o’clock in the evening. He was born to a somewhat absent father, a career Navy man, and a doting mother in a leafy corner of Sussex,” Pelham said quietly. Anastasia sat back against the cushy linen sofa and placed one of her thin red cigarettes in a carved ebony holder. Pelham pulled up a chair and leaned forward to light it, an old Dunhill table lighter somehow appearing in his hand.

“His lordship spent a rather normal childhood in the company of various corgis and terriers, stern-faced maiden aunts, and an unending parade of frowning nursemaids, all supervised by yours truly.

“But how his eyes would light up at the sight of his mother. Often, she would venture upstairs to his nursery for his bedtime prayers, dripping with dewy raindrop pearls that never quite fell, whispering the softest ‘Good night, sleep tight,’ before vanishing again.

“On warm summer afternoons, Alex was always brought down to her rooms at tea time. The windows were opened to the gardens, and bees buzzed in and all about. She would read to him, stories of pirates and knights and fair damsels in distress. He loved them all. Rather fancied himself a swashbuckling pirate, I daresay.

“Eventually, they would both die, of course, Lord and Lady Hawke. Murdered by real pirates aboard their yacht on a family Caribbean vacation. Alex was only seven when it happened, but he witnessed the murders. It was horrible, ma’am, horrible beyond words. I don’t think he’s ever quite recovered. I-I know he hasn’t.

“He spent those awful months following the funeral at the shore below his grandfather’s home, building elaborate sand castles, tears streaming from his eyes. When a castle was complete, perfect, he trampled it, kicking away the turrets and battlements until it was just sand again. Then he would wander off along the sand and start another castle somewhere. So many ruined castles. So many sad days.

“The boy’s happiest early recollections would be of the great heaving blue sea beyond his windows. I can see him even now, ma’am, wheeled outside, on a small bluff directly overlooking the sea. He would sit bolt upright in his formidable navy-blue pram (it was made of steel, his first battleship, really) enraptured for hours on end.

“When storms came, nursemaids would squeal with fright and wheel their small charge back indoors. The young master, red-faced with fury at this removal from his beloved perch, would beat his small fists against the steel-sided pram, raging at the injustice of it all. He adored foul weather, always has.

“Around the age of sixteen, he left home for good. He studied first at the naval preparatory school, Homefield, in Surrey. The regime was harsh, with a curriculum geared to the needs of future midshipmen and commodores. He excelled and was accepted at the Royal Naval College in Dartmouth. He was a natural leader of men. He excelled on the athletic fields. He adored reading military history and the classics. Still does. Later, in battle, he learned that he was naturally good at war.”

“He’s a soldier?”

“He was. A pilot, Royal Navy. Now, he’s in business. Family enterprise. Quite extensive.”

“Is he happy?”

“In the absence of war, his spirits seem to go into steep decline. Sunshine and salt air help. It’s partly why we came to Bermuda. To try to mend-”

“Oh, hullo!”

Pelham stopped in midsentence and looked up.

“Fascinating stuff,” Hawke said, smiling at Pelham. “Please don’t let me interrupt.”

31

“So, you like war, do you?” Anastasia asked, once they were alone on the terrace.

“There is nothing quite so exhilarating as being shot at without effect,” Alex Hawke said, escorting her to the little red-checkered table, drink in hand.

“Churchill?” she said.

“Good for you. Winston nailed it, as usual. All right, then, who’s hungry around here? I’m famished!”

Dinner was served at the table for two overlooking the moonlit sea. A single candle inside a hurricane glass illuminated Anastasia’s face in a flickering umbra. They had simple fish, freshly caught in the grotto below, and a clean, cold white wine. Hawke had found cases of the stuff in the musty cellar.

“Delicious,” Asia said, putting the napkin to her red lips.

“Tell the chef,” Hawke said, smiling, “I think he’s already completely in love with you.”

“You don’t say? Silly me. Here I was, all the while thinking it was Pelham who cooked the dinner.”

“Very funny,” Hawke said, smiling at her.

“Bad joke. Anyway, it’s you he loves, Alex, not me. You’re very lucky to have such a kind and obviously devoted friend. To Pelham.”

She raised her glass, and he his.

“Anastasia, since the other day, that…stormy afternoon, I just want to tell you that I haven’t been able to-”

“You know what? Sorry. Let’s please change the subject, all right?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I think we’re talking about us, Alex. Let’s not talk about us tonight. I’m afraid of us. Scared to death of it. And it’s already far too romantic out here, anyway. So tell me about you, your life. What you do. I thought you were a simple beachcomber, a lost soul without two rubles to rub together. But I don’t think so anymore. Who are you, Alex Hawke? Tell me who you are, what you do.”

“Do? My friends all claim I wake up in the morning and God throws money at me.”

She laughed out loud at that one.

He sipped his wine, looking at her above the rim. Her dark blonde hair in the candlelight, the chunks of gold at her earlobes, her green eyes gleaming. She was lovely, but she needn’t worry. He wasn’t in love with her. How could he be? Love was strictly reserved for the innocent.

“Alex?”

“Yes?”

“I asked you a question. Tell me who you are.”

“Oh, yes. Sorry. Well. No one special, really. Another perfectly ordinary English businessman. Half American, to be honest. My mother was an actress from Louisiana.”

“An ordinary businessman? I don’t think so. Your body has too many suspicious scars for a businessman.”

“Oh, that was just a bit of nasty business. I got shot down over Baghdad. I got a taste of Iraqi hospitality before I checked out of my suite at the Saddam Hilton.”

“And now just an ordinary businessman.”

“It’s true. You should see me marching around the City with my tightly rolled umbrella and my battered briefcase. My family has a number of interests, none of which interests me very much. I’ve managed to hire enough captains of industry to steer the various ships without me. So I came out here to Bermuda for a while. Decided I liked it. I’ve actually got a small company here, a start-up. Blue Water Logistics. Quite exciting, really.”

“Logistics. It’s one of those words I’ve never really understood. What does it mean?”

“Fairly straightforward. People, future clients all, I hope, make various things. Things that need to get moved around the planet. Sometimes huge numbers of things at great expense. Pipe for pipelines. Nuts and bolts, steel and timber, oil. You make it, we move it. That’s my new motto.”

“You should meet my father. He makes a good many things. You might find him a good client for your Blue Water.”

“What does he make?”

“He’s an inventor, primarily. A scientist. He invented a computer cheap enough for the whole world. Called the Zeta machine. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

“The Wizard? I’ve got the latest one sitting on my office desk in London. Amazing little gadget. Changed the world. He invented that? You must be very proud of him.”

“He’s an amazing man. The most brilliant on earth, I think. A scientist. A humanist. A philanthropist. He’s made billions and given most of it away. He’s built schools and hospitals, not just everywhere in Russia but in every corner of the earth. India, Africa. He uses his money to try to make the world fit his view of it.”

“What is his view of it?”

“A natural philosopher’s view. That mankind should be in harmony, like planets orbiting stars, electrons around neutrons, like nature itself. That there should be peace, equilibrium, order. That the clouds of war need never blot out the sun.”

“A romantic idealist.”

“Perhaps. You might decide differently if you met him.”

“I should like that very much. Where does he live?”

“In the sky.”

“Ah. So he is God.”

Asia laughed. “No. He has an airship. A very special one that he designed. She’s called Tsar, which is the acronym of his scientific company, Technology, Science, and Applied Research. He travels the world aboard her. Of course, he has houses everywhere, including one here on Bermuda that you may have seen.”

“The converted fortress on Powder Hill. So that’s what the big mast is for. To moor his airship?”

“Yes. He spends some time here. And some years ago, he was kind enough to give me Half Moon House, where I live and work part of the year.”

“Where are you from, Asia?”

“Russia, obviously. I grew up in the country. A large estate we have outside St. Petersburg. It’s called Jasna Polana, which means ‘Bright Meadow.’ Tolstoy called his country house that, too. My father is a great admirer of Tolstoy. We have a lovely palace there. Orchards, meadows, stables, many streams. Do you shoot? Fish?”

“I do, occasionally.”

“Then you must come and stay with us. You and Father could have a nice business talk. Would you like that?”

“I think I should like it very much indeed.”

“Good. Consider yourself invited.”

“Asia?”

“Yes?”

“Stay here tonight. Stay with me.”

“What is that song playing now?”

“‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.’ The most beautiful song ever written.”

“And who is singing?”

“Charles Aznavour.”

“Shall we dance, Lord Hawke?”

“Please don’t use that title.”

“I forgot. Only Pelham is allowed to use it. Get on your feet and dance with me, Hawke.”

“I should be delighted.”

“Yes, you should be.”

A SMALL WINDOW directly above Hawke’s head proved accessible to sunrise; a fiery parallelogram now appeared on the far wall. The room was filling to the ceiling with the oils of sunrise, light containing extraordinary pigments, washing the whitewashed stone walls around Hawke’s bed with brilliant shades of gold and pink. He loved waking up in this room.

“Are you awake?” he asked her in the stillness of the early morning, stroking her thick golden hair. Her head was still on his chest, right where she’d last fallen asleep.

“Hmm.”

“Thinking of going for a swim.”

“Hmm.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Maybe later,” she said, her voice furred with sleep.

“No, now. It can’t wait. I have to ask you about Hoodoo.”

“Poor Hoodoo. A lovely man. He’s dead. Murdered.”

“I know. I’m trying to understand why.”

Asia sat up in the bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “What they said in the paper. You read it. He was killed by those awful Jamaicans living out on Nonsuch Island.”

“Yes, but why was he there?”

“It wasn’t in the papers?”

“No. You tell me.”

“My father sent him. To deliver a warning. My father wants those people off that island. It’s a nature sanctuary. They are living there illegally.”

“Why didn’t your father call the police?”

“My father never calls the police. He prefers to handle things himself. Besides, the police wouldn’t do anything anyway. My father says someone at the top in Government House is taking money from the Jamaicans. That’s why they’re allowed to stay.”

“I heard a rumor there were illegal weapons involved. That the murder was an arms sale gone awry.”

“Hoodoo? Selling weapons? Ridiculous. People say anything to sow discredit upon my father. I stopped listening long ago.”

“Ah.”

“Do you normally grill your suspects before they have a chance to wake up, detective?”

“Sorry. I’m a beast.”

“I’m beginning to wonder.”

“Come here. Look at this.”

Hawke rolled naked off the bed and lifted the ring attached to the circular section of flooring that concealed the top of his fireman’s pole and the blue grotto below.

“What’s that?” she said, flopping forward on the bed and staring at the hole in the floor.

“It’s called a fireman’s pole, for somewhat obvious reasons. There’s a hidden grotto just below us. You slide down the pole and into the water. I do it every morning. Great way to wake up.”

“Wait. Why are you so curious about Hoodoo?”

“Tell you later,” Hawke said, and then he disappeared through the floor.

“Hold on, I’m coming, too!” she cried, leaping from the bed. Grabbing the pole with both hands, she slipped down into his waiting arms.

32

Raining cats and dogs used to be true. Back in Robin Hood’s day, Stoke had read somewhere, the domestic animals used to sleep curled up inside the thatched roofs. When it rained really hard, down they came, wham on the dinner table. Hello, Sparky, hey, Ginger! It was raining that hard now. Luckily, except for a few Seminole tiki huts, there were very few thatched roofs in Miami today.

It was just after two in the afternoon when Stoke turned the GTO off Collins and onto Marina, headed for the Miami Yacht Group’s showroom. It was located almost kitty-corner from Joe’s Stone Crabs. Big glass showroom with red, white, and blue flags standing out stiff from the tall poles surrounding the lot.

The weather today, finally, was perfect for what Stoke had in mind. Blowing hard out of the southwest, a big tropical depression headed up from the Keys, the leading edge about over Islamorada now. As he drove slowly through Miami Beach, palm trees were bent over backward, crap was flying around in the streets-no cats or dogs, though, at least he didn’t see any.

He’d taken a good long look at the ocean from the balcony of his penthouse apartment. Blowing like stink out there. Huge rollers, whitecaps with the crests whipped off soon as they peaked. He’d been waiting all week for weather like this.

Today’s the day, he thought, smiling at himself in the mirror, sliding the knot on his Italian designer silk tie up to his Adam’s apple. He adjusted his wraparound sunglasses. Would Sheldon wear sunglasses on a day like this? he’d asked himself. Yes. He had the whole Sheldon Levy thing down now. Hell, he was Sheldon Levy.

Traffic was light on a stormy day, and he’d made good time getting over the causeway. Miami Yacht Group looked just like a car dealership, except it had boats where all the cars would normally be. Big boats, little boats. The littlest ones were out front on trailers. The medium ones would be inside on the showroom floor. The big go-fast ones he was interested in, those of the Cigarette persuasion, they were in the water at the docks located on the marina side of the glitzy glass and steel showroom.

Soon as he walked through the front door in his shiny sharkskin suit, Elsa Peretti tie, Chrome Hearts wraparound shades and pointy-toed alligator shoes, a salesman was on him like sucker fish on a mako.

“Good afternoon!” the guy said.

“You, too.”

“And how are we doing today, sir?”

Stoke smiled at him. Tall and angular and blond. Blue-water tan. Faded khakis, no socks with his bleached-out boat shoes, collar of his navy-blue polo shirt turned up on the back of his neck. Two little crossed flags on his shirt with the words “Magnum Marine” underneath. Talked funny, too, through his teeth, like his jaw was permanently wired shut.

“I’m good, I’m good,” Stoke said, looking around the showroom.

“Heckuva storm out there, isn’t it? Golly!”

Golly? When was the last time you heard that word? Seriously.

“Golly is right, darn it,” Stoke said, as he bent over and peered out the big plate-glass showroom windows, as if noticing the weather out there for the very first time today.

“Nothing a Magnum Sixty couldn’t handle, I’ll bet,” Stoke said, clapping Larry Lockjaw on the back. “Right?”

“Well, n-now,” the salesman said, staggering a bit before recovering his balance, “you’d have to be pretty darn plucky to go out on a day like today. But you know what? Your timing is perfect. We’ve got a pre-Christmas special going on, and I-”

“Call me plucky, but I want to rock one of those Magnums right now!”

“Well, gee, you know, I don’t think today is ideal for-”

“Actually, you know what? I’m here to see one of your other salesmen. Piss, I think his name is.”

“Piss?”

“Yeah, Piss. Like-take a piss? I’ve got his card somewhere in my wallet.”

“I’m sorry, sir. My hearing’s terrible. Are you saying Mr. Piss?”

“Yeah, Piss. Pisser, something like that.”

“You’re looking for a Mr. Pisser? I’m afraid-”

“No, wait. Urine. That was it. I knew it was something like that. Like piss, I mean.”

“Oh. Yurin, you mean?” the guy said, sort of chuckling. “Right, sir, that would be Yuri Yurin. He’s our divisional sales manager here at the Miami Yacht Group.”

“He around?”

“Matter of fact, he’s on his lunch break. But I’m sure I can help you. I’m Dave McAllister, by the way.”

“I’m sure you could help me, Dave. But, you know what, I came here to see this Yurin guy.”

“Well, in that case, let me go back to his office and see if I can get him. May I tell him who’s asking for him?”

“Sheldon Levy.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Sheldon Levy. No, no, don’t apologize. I get that all the time. I don’t look all that Jewish, do I? But then, look at Sammy Davis, Jr. Know what I’m saying?”

“Don’t go anywhere, Mr. Levy. I’ll be right back with Mr. Yurin.”

Two minutes later, Yurin came out on the floor, wiping the mayo off his lower lip. Big boy, good-looking blond bodybuilder. He still had a little piece of shredded lettuce in the corner of his mouth. Big Mac, Stoke thought, seeing the guy eating one at his desk, wolfing it down, when he heard he had a fish on the line. Russians couldn’t get enough of Big Macs ever since Mickey D had opened that first one on Red Square. Beat the hell out of borscht, you had to figure.

“Mr. Levy!” he said, shaking Stoke’s hand, Yurin trying to figure out where the hell he’d seen the huge black guy before. He knew he’d seen him, you didn’t forget someone Stoke’s size easily. But where?

Like all the black-shirted security guys at the Lukov party, Yurin was muscled up, beefy, anyway, going to fat around the middle courtesy of the good life in sunny south Florida. Too many stone crab dinners at Joe’s.

“Yurin, Yurin, Yurin, good to see you again, man. You don’t remember me, do you?”

“No, I do, I do. I’m just trying to remember where we met.”

“The Lukov birthday thing. You gotta remember that. Kaboom?” Stoke clapped his hands together loudly when he said it, and both of the salesmen flinched, McAllister actually taking a couple of steps back.

“Ri-i-i-ght,” Yurin said, drawing the word out, deep Russian accent, still no clue. It was the suit, tie, and sunglasses Stoke was wearing, that’s what was throwing him.

“Fancha’s manager? Suncoast Artist Management?” Stoke said.

“Fancha! The beautiful birthday singer! Of course! So, what can I do for you, Mr. Levy? Dave says you’re in the market for a new Magnum Sixty.”

“I certainly am,” Stoke said, holding up a genuine crocodile satchel with his right hand. “Man, what a machine. I want to get Fancha one to celebrate her new movie contract. We just cashed the first check,” Stoke said, holding up the croc case again just for emphasis.

“You are in luck today, Mr. Levy. I just happen to have three brand-new Sixties in stock. Factory fresh. Pick your color. Diamond Black, Cobalt Blue, or Speed Yellow.”

“Is there a question? You got to go with the Speed Yellow, you got any style at all, right, Yurin?”

“Speed Yellow it is! Let’s go back to my office and work up a sales order, Mr. Levy. Or can I call you Sheldon?”

“Call me Sheldon.”

“Call me Yuri, then,” he said, big smile, fish already in the boat, easiest damn yacht sale in the entire history of South Florida yacht brokerage.

“I kinda like Yurin. Let’s stick with that, okay? You know who you look like, Yurin? Just came to me. Dolph Lundgren. The movie star? Agent Red? Red Scorpion? No? Doesn’t matter.”

A momentary look of confusion crossed Yurin’s face, but he grabbed Stoke’s biceps, or tried to, and steered him back toward where all the sales guys had their little offices. This guy Yurin was obviously used to being the biggest kid on the block. You could see he didn’t care for second place at all.

“Yurin, hold up a sec,” Stole said, stopping dead in his tracks just outside the guy’s office.

“Whassup?” In a Russian accent, the tired old hip-hop expression sounded funny instead of cool.

“Here’s the thing, Yurin. I truly want this boat. And I’ve got the money to pay for it right here. Cash.”

“We take cash,” he said, like a joke. Being funny didn’t come naturally to most Russians.

“But, of course, I’ll want to take her for a quick spin first.”

“Hey, no problem, Sheldon. We can arrange for a sea trial whenever you’re ready.”

“I’m ready.”

“Okay, what day should I schedule you for?”

“Today. Now.”

He laughed. “Good joke. Funny.”

“No joke, Yurin. I want to take her out there in a blow. See how she performs when it’s kicking up like this.”

“Kicking up? You’re looking at gale-force winds out there. It’s got to be blowing thirty, thirty-five knots. Gusting to fifty. Small-craft advisory warnings have been up since ten o’clock this morning.”

“Sixty feet’s not all that small a craft, Yurin.”

“Yes, I know, Sheldon, but this is an extremely high-performance racing boat with a planing hull. She likes flat water.”

“Yurin. Ask yourself one simple question. Do you sincerely want to sell a boat today? Say yes or no.”

“Yes.”

“You’re not afraid of a little wind and rain, are you, Yurin? Like my grandmother used to say, rain won’t bother you unless you’re made of sugar.”

“Afraid?” The look said it all. He was going.

Stoke clapped him on the back hard enough to rattle his molars. “All right, man, cowboy up, and get your goddamn foul-weather gear on, little buddy, we’re going sailing!”

33

The big yellow Cigarette was bobbing pretty good, even still moored in her marina slip. Like a bronco in the chute, Stoke thought, boat saying, “Cut me loose, cowboy, I dare your ass.” Although the Miami Yacht Group’s marina was pretty well protected from the ocean, it was still choppy with whitecaps inside the breakwater. Sailboat masts swung wildly, a forest of aluminum sticks, whirling and twirling in the storm. The skies were now very dark purple with a funny greenish cast to them.

Perfect.

Like some pretty ladies of Stoke’s former acquaintance, the Magnum 60 was all bow and no stern. She had a small open cockpit aft, inside which were four deeply contoured bucket seats, bright yellow like the hull, with harness equipment like you might expect on the space shuttle. Along her sleek flanks, she had five oval portholes forward, meaning there was built-out space below.

What you do down there, Stoke thought, is not take little nappies or read spy novels and do crossword puzzles. You go down there to take care of business with Mama once you get offshore and shut two engines down and crank up a third, the Johnson. Boat like this was all about testosterone, a little too much or a little too little, depending on the owner.

“Looks like a Chiquita banana on steroids,” Stoke said, uncleating a spring line and heaving it aboard. The Russian guy fake-laughed, going for the stern line.

He said, “This is the sister ship to the boat that won the greatest sea race in the world, Sheldon. The Miami-Nassau-Miami at an average top speed of over eighty-five miles per hour. You know what sister ship means?”

“Lemme think a sec. Identical twins?”

“You are a very intelligent individual. You’ve heard of Bounty Hunter? Don Aronow’s Maltese Magnum? These magnificent boats are names out of racing history.”

“Don’t I know it,” Stoke said, as if he had a clue.

Yurin started to climb down into the helm seat, and Stoke stopped him, grabbing his shoulder with a gentle squeeze. “I’ll drive,” he said. “You ride shotgun. You know what shotgun means?”

“Shotgun?” the Russian asked.

They already had their helmets on and two-way radio communication. It was the only way you could talk aboard these monsters, even when there was no hurricane blowing.

“You want to drive?” Yurin said. “Are you serious, man?”

“I just want to putt around. You know, here inside the marina. Get a little feel. Don’t worry about it.”

“You think you can handle this thing? You have some experience with this kind of boat? Any kind of boat?”

“Navy SEAL operations, Team Two. Riverine patrol boats in the Mekong Delta. Three tours.”

The Russian looked at him with different eyes.

“Good enough,” he said, and went around to the dock on the vessel’s port side, loosening the stern, spring, and bow lines. “Climb aboard,” he told Stoke. “I’ll cast you off and jump down.”

Stoke saw that the helm seat had no seat to speak of, only a curved backrest with a narrow bench you parked your butt on. The sides wrapped around you nice and snug, especially snug for him, but okay. He turned on all three of the battery switches, checked the fuel level and oil pressure. All good to go.

She had twin 1800-horsepower Detroit racing engines, and when he turned the key on number one, the response was one sharp blat and then a deep vibrating rumble. Followed by the second engine, the feeling of power coming up through the soles of his shoes was something else entirely.

Yurin freed the last line and leaped aboard as Stoke started reversing out of the slip. There was so much power on tap you had to handle the throttles like surgical instruments. Tiny adjustments.

Yurin was strapping himself into the portside seat as Stoke got the big Magnum turned around and headed toward the mouth of the harbor.

“Where the fuck are you going?” Yurin said. “Gale-force winds coming right up the Cut! We’ll get knocked on our asses out there.”

“Relax, Sunshine,” Stoke said, looking over at him. “I think we’ll poke our nose out in the Atlantic. Just get a touch of it, see how she handles the rough stuff.”

Yurin started to say something, thought better of it, and just shook his head. He planted his feet and held on to to the stainless grab handle mounted on the dash in front of him.

“That’s it. Just hold on, Yurin. We’ll be back in your office signing papers before you know it.”

Stoke lined up in dead center of the narrow channel, aiming for a spot midway between the two massive cement breakwaters that enclosed the marina. The entrance was funnel-shaped, with the narrowest part on the seaward side. Beyond the entrance, the Atlantic looked like really convincing special effects, pretty much the way it did in that movie The Perfect Storm. Mountainous crests, cavernous troughs, the wind rising to a wailing gale, ripping the crests off waves, well-defined streaks of foam marching off to the southeast. A boiling black sky overhead.

Stoke eased the throttles forward until he saw the tachs reading 2,500 rpm, mentally preparing himself like a bull rider in the chute.

“Ready?” Stoke said, glancing over at Yurin. They were mid-channel, almost out in open water, about to enter the funnel.

No reply. The copilot was wearing the thousand-yard stare, wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into, if his life was worth a measly million bucks for a plastic play toy.

Stoke suddenly firewalled both throttles, and the boat came screaming out of the water, leaping forward with a thunderous roar of exhaust as the big props grabbed water. The boat went flying through the chute, wide open. At the other end, an oncoming wave was building, rushing toward them. It looked to be a green frothing wall about twenty, thirty feet high, and it was just getting started.

“Watch out!” the Russian screamed.

“Not a problem,” Stoke said calmly in his lip mike.

The Russian’s eyes went wide with terror. His client seemed intent on slamming the Magnum head-on into the oncoming wall of water. They were going to smash it like a bullet to the forehead. Wave had to be forty feet high now. The water was glassy green, so clear you could almost see through it to the other side. The props whined as the sharp prow of the Magnum struck the wave, pierced it, and then Stoke just drove the boat right through the wall, the bow eventually emerging from the other side.

The bow was suspended in midair, the back half of the boat, including the cockpit, was momentarily still inside the wave, and then they were through and pitching forward, the nose dropping and the bottom of Stoke’s stomach falling away as they went screaming down the wall of another big wave, into the trough of a brand-new wave just starting to build.

“Holy fuck,” he heard Yurin say, sputtering. Stoke looked over at his drenched passenger and liked what he saw. Fear.

What was left of the boat’s curved windshield was a mangled piece of chromed frame wrapped around the Russian’s chest, sheets of broken safety glass in his lap and on the deck around his feet.

“Not bad, huh?” Stoke said. “I thought we’d lose a lot more than just the goddamn windshield. Look, we’ve still got the spotlight up on the bow. Now, that’s good construction.”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“Easy, Yurin. No way to speak to a prospective customer.”

“Go back!” Yurin said. “Turn us around. You’re going to snap this thing in two out here!”

“I’ll go back, but first I’ve got a couple of questions.”

“Questions? About the boat?”

“No. About you.”

“Me? I’ll tell you about me. I’m going to fucking kill you, okay? I’m going to rip your ugly head right off your-”

He was clawing at his safety harness, desperate to get out of his seat and remove Stoke’s head. Stoke looked over at him, smiling.

“Look, just calm down, okay? Let me explain something. Only take a second. You’re an asshole, all right?”

A sudden surge threw both men back in their seats, snapping their heads back. They were angled sharply upward now, Stoke was using the powerful engines to climb the nearly vertical face of another building wave. And keep Yurin firmly planted in his seat.

“What?” Yurin shouted. “What the fuck do you want to know?”

“You’re Black Beret, right? All you security guys at the birthday party. Russian Black Berets?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Just turn around and go back to the marina before you kill both of us!”

“I will, but bear with me a sec. Spend a lot of time in Chechnya, Yurin? Whupping Chechen ass?”

“Never been there.”

Stoke put the wheel hard over to port, and the boat fell off the steep climb and started skidding sideways down the wave. Then the wildly cavitating props caught water, dug in, and she was headed on a better diagonal course down into the trough. Stoke had just enough control for a second to pull the 9mm Glock from inside his foul-weather jacket. Yurin saw the gun, and it seemed to make his already perfect day even more complete.

“Yurin, listen up. Get out of your harness.”

They were in the trough for the moment. Stoke pulled the throttles back to idle and unsnapped his own seat harness. If you planted your feet wide, you could probably stay on them. At least long enough to do what he had to do.

“What?”

“You heard me. Get your ass down on the deck. On your knees, Red Rider. You’ve got three seconds before your brains won’t work so good anymore. One…two…

“Three,” Stoke said. He turned and fired a round about a foot in front of Yurin’s nose.

“Fuck!” Yurin unbuckled the fasteners and slid out of the harness, one hand still clenching the sissy bar, what the Navy called the “oh-shit bar.” They were still moving uneasily along the trough. The Magnum was rocking and rolling, and it wasn’t easy, but the Russian managed to kneel on the deck between the two seats without getting thrown out of the boat.

“Jacket off. Everything off, waist up.”

“Jesus. A fucking giant black homo with a death wish.”

“Now.”

Stoke tapped him gently on top of the head with the pistol butt. Yurin ripped at the zipper on his yellow slicker, somehow managing to get it off. The wind whipped it right out of the cockpit, and it disappeared aft in a cloud of spume.

“Now the shirt.”

He was wearing a black T-shirt, the same kind he had on the night of the party. Macho muscle-boy crap. People who had Ferraris didn’t wear Ferrari shirts. And people who had real muscle didn’t wear muscle shirts.

The shirt came off as Stoke carefully moved around behind him and jammed his left foot into the back of Yurin’s neck, shoving him forward, facedown on the deck, the man’s neck and shoulder muscles all thick cords and knots bulging as he tried to squirm away. Made the image Stoke had expected to see a moving picture, but yeah, there it was, all right. He saw just what he thought he’d see.

The Head of the Tiger.

34

The tiger’s head was tattooed right between Yurin’s shoulder blades. Stoke had to admit it was impressive, even though it was only about the size of a softball. But it was the work of an artist, beautifully etched into the skin. Below the scowling tiger’s face was the tattooed name Stoke had been thinking about ever since he’d first met Yurin and his black-shirted bully boys at the birthday blast.

OMON.

The Russian special forces, the so-called Black Berets. Death squads who had roamed Chechnya before and after the carpet bombing of Grozny, killing anything and everything in their path that remained alive. Elite forces during the war, paid killers after. He’d kept his mouth shut, hadn’t told Brock about his suspicions that night. He thought he’d pry around the edges a little and see what broke loose first. But he’d been doing his research.

Now that Putin’s second Chechen war was long over, OMON worked for the new dark forces of the interior ministry inside the Kremlin. They roamed Moscow in armored personnel carriers, wearing their trademark black and blue camo fatigues, doing odd jobs for the powers that be. When they got bored, or loaded, they picked up gutter drunks in Red Square, hauled them off to the tank at Lubyanka in the APCs, and beat the shit out of them. Or worse.

Stoke leaned down to speak directly into Yurin’s ear. He kept his foot planted on the guy’s neck, just to keep him from getting any frisky ideas. The kid had stopped squirming and bitching, but only because Stoke had put a little more weight on the back of his neck, compressing his vocal cords.

“What brings you bad boys all the way to Miami?” Stoke asked.

“Sunshine,” Yurin croaked as Stoke increased the pressure. And leaned down again to scream into his ear.

“You want to go home tonight, Yurin? Hit the vodka? Sleep in a nice warm bed? Or do you want to be just another accidental drowning in a storm? Too many beers, taking a piss off the stern, oopsy-daisy. A tragic mistake, officer, happens all the time. Your call.”

“What’s your fucking problem?”

Stoke’s immediate problem was that he felt the Magnum starting to roll over on her beam ends as the sea started piling up rapidly on the port side.

“Whoops, another big one coming. Hold on, Tiger.”

Stoke grabbed the back of his seat, struggling to stay upright with one foot braced against the Russian’s head and the other on the deck. They were in free fall again, speeding down the face of a huge wave, rudder amidships, but now no one was at the wheel. Stoke couldn’t let go of the seat to grab it for fear of being thrown from the cockpit. The boat’s motion was ridiculously violent and disorienting, but Stoke had seen worse. He’d once ridden out a mid-Pacific typhoon solo in a two-man Zodiac. Six days of that, this little blow was cake.

“Who do you work for, Yurin? I want a name!”

“Get the boat out of this c-crazy-shit ocean, and m-maybe I’ll tt-talk,” he sputtered, his nose and lips mashed against teak decks that were now awash, seawater sloshing in and out of his damn mouth, just the kind of modified water-boarding technique Stoke had been shooting for out here.

“Talk now, before we bury the bow again and wash both our asses into the drink. Who do you work for?”

“The Dark Rider.”

“The what?”

“Dark Rider. What he’s called. No one knows his real name.”

Stoke leaned forward and grabbed the spinning wheel. He held it hard over, keeping the nose from burying itself and instead starting up the next wall on a reasonable angle.

“You get orders from somebody. Who?”

“Directly from General Arkady Zukov. Retired now, from the KGB. A great Russian patriot. We are all patriots, working to restore Russian pride.”

“Shitty job so far, Yurin.”

“Piss off.”

“Rostov? Is Rostov the Dark Rider?”

“No. Not Rostov. Higher.”

“Higher than the president?”

“Maybe.”

“What was that? I can’t hear you.”

The boat was totally out of control.

“I said yes! Higher!”

“Here’s the big one, Yurin. Ready? What the fuck are Russian OMON troops doing here in America?”

No answer.

Stoke shifted his foot to the back of Yurin’s head, driving his face hard into the deck as they crested the thirty-footer. In a few seconds, they’d drop sickeningly down the other side.

“Tell me about OMON. Now!”

“Fuck. A mission. We’re here training for a mission.”

“What kind of mission you on, Yurin?”

“Hostage rescue.”

“Like you rescued those schoolchildren in Beslan?”

“Fuck you. Shoot me.”

Stoke mashed his nose hard into the deck and heard a howl of pain.

“Where you training?”

“Oh, shit! Out in the Everglades. An abandoned airstrip.”

“OMON is going to rescue hostages here in Miami? Is that it? Why doesn’t that make any sense to me, Yurin? Unless maybe you’re training to prevent a hostage rescue, know what I’m sayin’?”

Yurin was silent.

Stoke removed his foot from the back of the big Russian’s head, stepped over Yurin, and carefully slid back into the helm seat. He didn’t have it all, but it was a good start. It was enough to get Harry Brock’s attention. Harry was headed to Bermuda for a high level powwow with Hawke. Stoke had gotten what he’d come for, good hard intel. Russia was on everybody’s mind now, especially Alex Hawke’s.

“We’re going back,” Stoke said, steering off the wave crest, taking a diagonal back down the face. “Get up. Slowly. See if you can get back in your seat without getting tossed into the drink, all right? I’m not in a rescue mood right now.”

The big yellow race boat was pointed sharply downward on the foamy green face of the wave at a forty-five-degree angle.

“Jesus,” Yurin said, managing to get to his feet by holding on to the bar. He slid back inside his seat, buckled up. Stoke kept the Glock in his hand, in case the guy got courageous. But he was a little green around the gills now, his nose mashed over to one side, the blood and spittle trickling out the sides of his mouth blown backward on both cheeks, not looking too sporty.

“Your nose is broken, Yurin. You want me to fix it? I can do it back at the dock. What I do, I jam my two little pinkies straight up your nostrils and, pop-pop, voilà, straight as an arrow again. Hurts like a bitch, though, I gotta be brutally honest.”

Yurin didn’t reply, didn’t even look over.

It wasn’t easy getting through the narrow end of the funnel with a fiercely following sea, but Stoke managed it, just surfed a big roller all the way through the chute.

When they were back in the relative calm of the marina, the seriously pissed-off Russian said, “Any reason why we couldn’t have had that conversation in my office?”

“Just two,” Stoke said, nosing the big Magnum back toward the Miami Yacht Group docks. “Number one reason, I’m a habitual thrill seeker.”

“Yeah? You Americans haven’t seen anything yet.”

“That’s a threat?”

“That’s a promise.”

“What’s your problem with Americans, Yurin?”

“You people are a fucking error that needs correcting.”

“So, I guess you don’t want to hear the second reason.”

“Yeah, yeah. What?”

“Me being just a fucking error, like you say, I guess you wouldn’t want to sell me this boat?”

“What?”

“I guess you don’t want to sell me the boat, Yurin.”

“You serious? You actually want to buy it?”

“Of course I want to buy it.”

“Jesus. You are serious. I thought Moscow was crazy. Miami is the freaking moon.”

“Windshield will have to be replaced, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Give me a number,” Stoke said, smiling at the Russian guy for the first time all afternoon.

35

Mayor Monie Bailey spooned the last little bit of macaroni and cheese into her four-year-old daughter’s mouth and then used a dishcloth to remove the rest of Stouffer’s finest from her child’s hair, ears, cheeks, and the scruffy terry bib hanging by a thread below her chin.

“More,” Debbie Bailey demanded, banging on the plastic highchair tray with a wooden horse. “More mac.”

“All gone!”

“No! More!”

“All gone, I said. Night-night time!”

“No night-night! More!”

“You ate the whole thing, Debbie. The whole Family Size. You must have worms.”

“No worms. Yucky!”

She plucked the child from her chair in the kitchen and carried her upstairs to the room she shared with her older sister, Carrie. The room always made her smile. It was what she’d always wanted as a girl but was never able to have. A pink powder-puff dream, walls, rugs, curtains, duvet covers, even the two dressers and the mirrors above them, all the same pale shade of pink. And the pink lampshades everywhere just made everything glow.

Carrie, who’d turned nine last week, was propped up against her fluffy pink pillows, reading. She’d received a hardcover illustrated Black Beauty for her birthday, but that remained uncracked, jammed in among all the shelves of well-thumbed graphic novels and paperbacks in the pink bookcase beneath the window.

“Hi, Mom,” Carrie said, her eyes never leaving the page.

“Street Girl,” Monie said, eying the book’s lurid cover. “Interesting. What’s that one about?”

“Hookers. Well, not really hookers. See, their moms are all hookers, and their kids all sort of grow up in the life, you know? You know, they, like, copy the behavior of the parents, or parent in this case, since there don’t seem to be a whole lot of dads in this book. Just gangsta pimps, mostly. But this one girl, Amanda, she’s, like, the hero, and-”

“Heroine.”

“Right, heroine, and she’s determined to break out of the vicious cycle and make something of herself, you know, beyond just shooting smack and hooking.”

“Isn’t that great?” Monie said, tucking Debbie in, pulling the duvet cover up under her chin. It was supposed to get really cold tonight, dip down into the teens. “A girl with spunk, huh? If you like girls like that, you should try Nancy Drew, girl detective. Talk about spunky.”

“She’s cool. I like her.”

“Nancy Drew? You do?”

“Noooo-a, Amanda, silly. Now, shush, Mom, I’m at a really good part. Amanda’s about to get caught with her mom’s crack pipe in her purse at school. She didn’t put it there, of course. Her mom’s scag boyfriend, Notorious Ludacris, did it.”

“Sorry, Charlie. Lights out. Tomorrow’s a school day, remember?”

“Okay, okay, Mom. Just lemme finish this chapter, okay?”

“Now. Light’s out.”

“My God! We are, like, so strict in this household, it’s just pathetic!” She closed the book and put it on the nightstand.

“Go to sleep. Sweet dreams, you two.”

“More kissing!” Debbie cried.

“Kiss-kiss, now go to sleep.”

Monie flicked a wall switch by the door that turned all the lights off. “Night-night, Mommy,” Debbie said.

“Night, Mom,” Carrie said. “Love you.”

“I love you, too, sweetie. Both you guys.”

She pulled their door closed and walked a few feet down the hall to her husband’s study. George was at his desk, staring at his computer screen. EBay Motors, most likely. George spent every evening he wasn’t playing fantasy football or watching the Golf Channel on that damn eBay, chasing his dream car. She walked over and stood behind him.

Yep, eBay.

“How’s it going, hon?” she asked.

“Aw, hell. You know that dirt-cheap ’58 Vette I was bidding on? The maroon one? White interior?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Some butthead aced me out at the last second. I mean, the very last second. One second before the time expires, he slips in there at five hundred over my final bid. Damn it!”

“Aw. Did you have a good day at the office?”

George turned around in his swivel chair and smiled up at her. “Isn’t that an oxymoron?”

“Probably.”

“Kids asleep?”

“One down, one to go.”

“One X-Men flashlight shining under the blanket?”

“Yep. That’d be my guess, five minutes after lights out. She should be clicking it on right about now. She’s started a new book.”

“Black Beauty?”

“Dream on, clueless dreamer. She’s reading Street Girl. By the beloved author of Ho Town.”

“Sounds bad.”

“Mmm.”

“Hey. You want to fool around?”

“How’d you know?”

“I don’t know. The way you’re standing with your one hip cocked out. Usually a reliable indicator. How’s the mayor business?”

“Endless meeting with the Civic Association. Annual report from the Public Relations Committee. You know my definition of a committee?”

“A group that keeps minutes and wastes hours.”

“Correct. Well, guess what the chairman of that committee told me at the end of his annual report? At the end of his endless two-hour PowerPoint presentation?”

“No clue.”

“He said that after an exhaustive study, it was the unanimous recommendation of the PR Committee that the town of Salina not toot its own horn.”

George laughed. “The PR Committee guy said that?”

“Yep.”

“Isn’t the very definition of PR tooting your own horn?”

“I thought so.”

“So, what did you do?”

“I disbanded his committee on the spot.”

“One less committee for mankind.”

“You can search every park in every town in America, and you will never, ever see a statue of a committee.”

“That’s my girl. Disband ’em all. Don’t leave a single one standing.”

“Turn that thing off and come to bed,” Monie said, running her fingers through George’s soft but thinning brown hair.

In the bathroom, pulling a shorty see-through black negligee over her head, she remembered the phone call while she was taking the mac and cheese out of the nuker.

“Honey,” she said, cracking the door an inch or two.

“Yeah?”

“Did I forget our anniversary or something?”

“Nope, that’s next week. Why?”

“I got a call from some bakery. Said they were delivering the surprise and wanted to make sure someone was home.”

“The bakery? Not me.”

“That’s weird. I thought maybe you were springing some big news or something. That promotion I keep hearing about.”

“I’m springing something big, all right. Come out here and have a look.”

“George! You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

At that moment, the front doorbell rang.

“Who the hell could that be? It’s almost nine o’clock,” George said, pulling her to him, pressing his erection against her belly.

The little nightie that could, Monie thought, smiling up at him. “Probably the bakery.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I said I hadn’t ordered anything. Of course, I wasn’t completely sure you hadn’t.”

“I’ll go get rid of them,” George said.

“Not with that thing sticking out, you won’t. I’ll put a robe on. As for you, mister, go directly to bed. And hold that thought.”

George went to the window and peeked under the shade at the driveway below. “Bakery, all right. Big white truck.”

She grabbed her blue terry robe from the hook on the bathroom door, slipped it on, and padded down the stairs barefoot, knotting the sash around her waist.

“Hello,” said the very fat bakery man when she opened the front door. He was all in white, even his shoes. You could barely see his face because of the huge white box in his hands, tied with a bright pink ribbon.

“Hey. I think you guys made a mistake,” Monie said. “We didn’t order anything.”

“This is the Bailey household, correct? You’re Mayor Monie Bailey?” he asked, peering at her over the top of the box.

“It is. I am.”

“Well, then, ma’am, this is the right place.”

“But, like I said on the phone, we didn’t order anything.”

She felt uncomfortable and realized the guy was staring at her breasts. Not openly, but she’d caught him looking. She was suddenly aware of how cold she was and looked down. Well, no wonder. Her sash had come undone somehow, and her robe had fallen open. The little black see-through wasn’t covering up much cleavage. Her “strategic assets,” as George called them. She quickly pulled the robe together at the throat and managed to tie the sash with one hand.

“That doesn’t mean someone somewhere doesn’t want you to have a very special surprise, does it, now?”

“N-no, but we-look, it’s nine o’clock, and we’re plumb tuckered out, so could you just-”

“Could I just come in and set this beauty down? It weighs a ton. And it’s definitely for you.”

“Well, I-okay, what is it?”

“A cake. A gorgeous chocolate cake with coconut icing.”

“And who ordered it for us?”

“Name’s in the envelope inside the box. You have relatives in Topeka?”

“Only my mom. Oh, Mom, that’s it, her old-timer’s kicking in again. She’s starting to get dates mixed up lately. And next week is our anniversary, so I bet-come on in. Sorry to keep you standing out there in freezing cold. Put it in the kitchen, if you don’t mind. Right through there.”

“Sure thing, lady,” the fat man said, moving past her toward the kitchen.

“Through the swinging door,” Monie called out, turning on a couple of living-room lights and following him toward the kitchen. She paused at the foot of the stairs and called up to George.

“It’s okay, honey. I’ve got it. It’s a surprise from Mom. One week early.”

“Okay,” came the muffled reply from upstairs, and then she was through the dining room and pushing open the swinging door into the kitchen.

He’d put the box down on the butcher-block center island and was leaning back against the counter by the sink. He had a big smile on his face and, what the hell, a gun? It was black and stubby in his chubby white hand.

It was pointed straight at her heart.

“Oh, my God.”

“My name’s Happy. I’ll be your worst nightmare this evening.”

“Sweet Jesus, what is this all about?” Her heart was suddenly pounding against her ribs, threatening to splinter them. She flashed on Debbie and Carrie upstairs in their beds and knew she had to stay calm somehow, suppress the sudden terror and panic threatening to overwhelm her sanity, and somehow get through this alive, get this maniac out of her home.

He smiled.

“Not good, is it? Ruin your day, something like this.”

“Omigod, omigod, omigod. Who-who are you? What do you w-want?”

“Well, that depends. I only came here to make a delivery. But sometimes life throws you a bone. Bone. Get it?”

“What the hell do you want? Huh? Tell me! It’s yours! Money? Jewels? Just take what you want and leave, okay? Please. Just, just leave.”

“First I want to see exactly what you got on under that robe. Then we’ll get to the other stuff I want.”

“Oh, Jesus, oh, sweet Jesus. My God, a stalker. You’re a stalker? You’ve been following me? That it?”

“Just a week.”

“A week? Why? Why me?”

“The robe, honey. Now.”

“My husband’s upstairs. If I scream, he’ll-”

“He’ll what? Come running down here to find a guy with a gun more than happy to put his brains on the wall? C’mon, mayor. Take the robe off, and we’ll see how this plays out. Maybe everybody gets out of this alive, you play nice. Otherwise, maybe not.”

Her entire body was suddenly shaking uncontrollably. Terror. Anger. The freezing cold. All of the above.

“Look, if it’s money you want, we’ve got plenty. There’s a safe. I’ll show you. Hidden behind a mirror in the linen closet. There’s twenty thousand in there. Cash. And all my jewelry. Take it all, and get the hell out of here. I’ll even give you an hour headstart before I call the cops.”

He pulled back his sleeve and showed her the chunky gold Rolex with the diamonds encrusting the dial. He’d bought it at the Blue Diamond King on West Forty-seventh with his first paycheck since the new job. “I’m up to my ass in jewelry right now. What I want is for you to lose that robe. Do it. I got a gun in my hand and a rap sheet two miles long, cupcake. One more dead broad in my life just ain’t all that significant, believe me.”

“Oh, God…can’t we-”

“Do it, lady!”

36

With trembling hands, she loosened the terry sash. Then she shrugged out of the robe and let it fall to the floor, puddling around her bare feet. She’d turned the heat off downstairs. It was already freezing in the kitchen. She could feel goose bumps all over. She saw the wooden knife block sitting on the counter. Eight brand-new German knives from Kitchenworks.com. Knife against gun? Paper against scissors, but better than nothing.

“Nice,” he said, staring at the nipples hard against her sheer black nightgown, her breasts like cantaloupes encased in silk. “You know how much I could get for you in Saudi? Dubai? Whoa!”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m not really a baker, as you may have guessed. I’m an old-fashioned iceman. Professional-grade button man, born and bred on the streets of Brooklyn, New York. But I do a little flesh peddling now, sell women on the side. Damn good business, too, Ukrainian girls, mostly. Beautiful. But not as pretty as you. Some sheik of Araby would pay top dollar for those tits.”

“Look. Whatever you want from me, just do it, okay? Do it. Then leave. I won’t scream. I won’t make a sound.” She was trying to picture getting him preoccupied, then grabbing one of the big butcher knives out of the block.

“I don’t mind a little screaming now and then, tell you the truth, mayor.”

“Mayor? Why’d you call me that?”

“I like to bone up on my targets, you know, do my research. Part of the fun.”

She looked behind her at the swinging door. It had a small porthole window she’d had installed back in the day when they could afford a cook. She knew she’d never get through that door alive.

“Please. Hurry up and get this over with. My husband could come down any second.”

“Come over here, bitch. And lose the nightie, okay?”

“Okay. Okay. You win.”

She walked around the center island, pulling the flimsy nightgown up over her head. There is only one way out of this nightmare, her brain was screaming. Give this asshole what he wants, and pray to God she could get hold of that butcher knife on the counter. If that didn’t work, what? Anything to get him away from the house. Far away from her children. Anything. She would do-she dropped the nightgown on the floor-anything, she realized, to save them, save her family.

“There,” she said, positioning herself in front of him, where she could maybe lean forward and grab the knife. “Is this what you wanted? Go ahead. It’s all yours, Happy. Have at it. Then get the hell out of my house.”

He stayed put. He kept the gun on her, then reached out with his free hand and squeezed her left breast, testing it like fruit at the market, gently kneading the flesh but pinching her nipple hard, harder. And still harder, waiting for some reaction in her eyes that she would never, ever give him.

She could feel his hot breath on her, the scent of testosterone suddenly filling a family kitchen so recently smelling of macaroni and cheese. He was hurting her now. She suddenly took his free wrist, guided his hand down between her legs, let his fingers pry apart the soft flesh, while she backed against the counter, put her hands behind her, spread her legs wide. Her right hand was now maybe three feet from salvation.

He looked at her and smiled.

“Looks like I came to the right house.”

“Do it,” she said, calculating how and when she might lunge to grab a weapon. She knew she’d only get one chance. Happy was smiling at her.

“Do what, honey? Ask for it.”

“You want me to suck it? Is that it? Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll do it right goddamn now.”

She reached out, found the zipper under the protruding belly and yanked it down. Hooked her index fingers inside his stretch waistband and pulled his white baker’s pants down to his knees. His penis was standing straight up, just like George’s upstairs. Then she bent her head to him, took him in her mouth, and gave him what he wanted.

Somehow, she’d have to get him when he used both hands to pull his pants up. That would be her only chance, catch him when-

“What the hell?” a new voice somewhere said.

George. He was at the kitchen door. She stood up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her husband was standing there in the doorway in his striped woolen robe, a look of total incomprehension on his face. He looked at his naked wife, then at the fat baker, then back to her.

“Monie? What’s going on?”

“He’s got a gun, George. But it’s okay. He got what he wanted. Now he’s leaving. Go back upstairs. I can handle this.”

“Go back upstairs?” George said.

“The flashlight, George. Check on the X-Men flashlight. Make sure it’s off and nobody can ever get to it. Got that?”

“Check on the X-Men flashlight,” George said robotically.

“You know what, George?” Happy said, moving away from her so he could keep an eye and his gun on both of them. Then he was hitching his trousers up and zipping up his fly. “We’re all going back upstairs. You’re going to show me the safe, and then we’ll take it from there. How’s that sound?”

“You said you’d leave if-”

“Lady, I didn’t say shit. You did all the talking. Remember? It was your idea, not mine. Let’s go. And leave the robe and the nightie there on the floor. We might need them later. George, do me a favor. Bring the cake up, will ya?”

George, carrying the cake, was first up the stairs, then Monie. Then Happy, a step behind her with the gun. She could feel his eyes on her naked bottom all the way to the top.

“Which way’s the master bedroom?” Happy asked.

“Left,” George said, on automatic pilot. He took a left and walked down the hall toward their room.

“Kids are in there?” the baker said, pausing as they passed the pink door of the girls’ room.

“We don’t have any kids,” Monie said, striving mightily to keep her voice even.

“Really? I counted two.”

“Neighbors’ kids. I pick them up at school sometimes,” she said. “Their parents are dead. Not dead. Away.”

“In here?” George asked, reaching their bedroom.

“Right in there, George. You, too, cupcake.”

She hesitated a beat, and he nudged the muzzle of the gun into her right butt cheek.

“You bastard,” she hissed. “I’ve got an entire police force under me that’s going to tear your fat ass to shreds for this. They’ll boil the meat right off your bones.”

“Spunky, huh? We’ll see about that. Okay, George, put the cake on the dresser there near the bed. That’s right. Now, you and little wifey-poo here climb in the bed and pull the covers up. But keep your hands out where I can see them. Got that?”

“In the bed? Together?” George asked.

She looked at her husband’s eyes for the first time. He was in a complete state of shock. No help there. Thanks, George. She was waiting for another break. She just needed a distraction. Anything that would let her go for the gun. Or, wait, scissors. She had a pair of crimping shears, big ones, in the top drawer of the dresser, right beneath where George had put the cake box.

“At least let me open my surprise,” she said, moving quickly toward the dresser before he could say anything.

“You want to open it? Why not? Go ahead, it’s for you, after all.”

In the mirror, she saw him watching her move. Enjoying this. Saw George climbing into the four-poster bed, still in his robe. He pulled the covers up and splayed his hands out on top. Then he put his head back against the pillow and closed his eyes.

“George?” she said to his reflection, “You may not have noticed, but we’ve got a shit-for-brains psycho doughboy in our bedroom. He’s going to rape me and kill us all. And you’re in bed with your eyes closed? Jesus, George!”

Her husband of twenty years never even blinked.

And she could see Happy in the mirror, too, his eyes were still all over her. She tried to shield her hand with her body as she pulled open the small sock drawer where she kept the scissors. She reached in, dug through the socks, all the way to the back, her fingers desperately searching but coming up empty. Wait, maybe the other drawer? Where she kept her bundle of old love letters from George? Yeah. The scissors were right on top.

“Whatcha doin’ over there, honeybun?” he said.

She glanced in the mirror. He’d pulled up a chair and was sitting now, watching her, into the live nude show, the gun loose in his right hand.

“Scissors,” she said, holding them up so he could see them. “To cut the ribbon.”

“Oh. Sure, why not?”

But now that she had them, what was she going to do with them? Charge him? She’d be dead before she took three steps. No. She’d open the box, try to palm the scissors somehow, hide them behind her back, wait for her chance. She cut the pink grosgrain ribbon and ripped it away. Then she lifted the top off the box and dropped it to the floor.

“Bring the box over here,” he said, his voice flat and thick with lust now.

“Okay.” She lifted it and turned toward him, the scissors still in her left hand.

“Leave the scissors on the bureau. So you’re not tempted to be a bad girl. You know what happens to bad girls.”

“Sure.”

She carried the box to him, her mind clawing for another weapon, another plan, a little hope here, please. The box was full of red crepe paper and heavier than a box with a cake should be.

“Put it on the floor. By my feet.”

She did it.

“Look inside. Take a peek at what you got.”

She pulled the paper away and felt something metal, smooth, heavy, shaped like a small drum. She lifted it out and stood up with the thing in her hands. Okay. Smash him in the face? Bring it down hard on the hand with the gun? Which? Now! She had to do it now, or-

She heard the click as he cocked the trigger back.

“Silly girl,” he said, the gun pointed at her face. “Put it on the floor, and get into bed with your husband.”

“What is this thing?” she asked, looking at the object in her hands. The silver drum had a small fan built into the lid, beneath a wire mesh. And there was a dial and some buttons.

“I’ll tell you when you’re all tucked in under the covers with Georgie, okay?”

The bad dream wouldn’t end unless she ended it. She looked at him one last time, searching his feral eyes for God knows what, mercy, sanity, and then she slammed the metal drum down on the top of his head as hard as she possibly could.

He screamed in surprised pain and tilted the chair back to get away as she raised the drum again, blood pouring from a deep gash in his forehead. They could both tell the chair was going over backward with his weight, and she dropped the drum and dove for the gun with both hands, trying to wrench it from his fingers as he hit the floor.

“George!” she screamed. “Go get the girls! Get them out of the house! Run! Now!”

Happy was on his back on the floor now, dazed but still functioning. She pounced on him, knees in the middle of his chest. She had one hand around his wrist and the other around the barrel of the pistol. She slammed the hand against the wooden floor, hard, once, twice, trying to shake the gun loose. But the goddamn barrel was so short she couldn’t seem to get good enough leverage to pry it out of his fingers.

“Let go!” he said, his voice surprisingly calm.

“Fuck you!” she screamed. She gave up on the gun and went for his eyes with her fingernails, raking his face with both hands, ten bright red stripes appearing instantly on his face.

“Bitch!” he screamed, and then she was flying backward, slamming into the dresser and collapsing to the floor. She saw George on his feet, coming toward her, no shock in his eyes now, coming to help her.

“George, watch out! He’s still got the-”

“Good-bye, George,” the baker said, and shot her husband in the head, a fine red mist where the top used to be. Her husband staggered and fell, his body sprawled across hers. He was dead. She had to get him off. She had to get to the kids, she had to-

The man who had killed her husband and was now going to kill her was standing above her, the gun pointed at her head. His face was shredded, and the blood was pouring down his white baker’s shirt, splashing onto her. He put the muzzle of the pistol in the middle of her forehead.

She was going to die now without saving her children.

“Good night,” he said. But instead of pulling the trigger, he brought the butt of the gun down hard on the top of her head.

SOMETIME LATER, SHE opened her eyes. She was in her bed, her head on a blood-soaked pillow. She tried to move her hands, but they were tied to something. Bedposts. Feet, too. The baker had pulled the chair up next to the bed, facing her. He had the metal drum in his lap. She couldn’t see his face anymore because of the mask. It had two glass eyes and a protruding round mouthpiece that made him look like a giant insect.

“Know what your surprise is?” she heard him say through the mouthpiece, lifting the drum. His voice was distorted, making him sound like a computer recording or something. Her head hurt terribly, and she wanted him to go away. She hurt in another place too, and knew that he’d abused her while she’d been unconcious.

“No,” she murmured, “please.”

“It’s a sleep machine,” she heard him say.

“What does it do?”

“Puts people to sleep. Either for a few hours or forever, depending on the strength of the formula. It’s new. I’m testing out different strengths for my company. Your family is helping out with our little experiment.”

“Oh. Strengths of what?”

“Same stuff we used on the Chechens in the Moscow theater siege. Remember that? We pumped it into the theater through the air-conditioning system to disable the Chechen terrorists. Kolokol 1, the stuff is called. An opiate-derived incapacitating agent. What I’m doing, my job here, is testing the various levels of lethality for use in a hostage-rescue situation. At this level, my guess is it takes effect very rapidly. Certainly with children. Probably within ten seconds or so with adults. We’ll see.”

“Oh,” she heard herself say again.

“I’m turning it on now.”

She heard the click of a switch and the whirr of the little fan on the lid.

She fought the restraints, twisting and turning her body on the bed, feeling the thin plastic cuffs cutting into her wrists, her ankles, knowing it was useless but fighting it until she had nothing left.

He watched her, looking down at her struggles with amused detachment.

Exhausted, she let her head fall back against the pillow, felt hot tears running down her cheeks, looking up at the monster looming over her bed, defeated.

“What about my-what about my children?”

“Already sound asleep,” he said, taking a clear plastic nose cone attached to a long hose and placing it over her nose and mouth. She screamed again and twisted her head violently from side to side, holding her breath, knowing she couldn’t allow this stuff down into her lungs, because if she did, she would surely just…

A moment later, she was asleep forever, too.

37

Pippa Guinness stuck her pert blonde head inside the door of Hawke’s new office at Blue Water Logistics. The Dockyard offices were nice enough. His own space was bright and airy, a corner office on the top floor, with sunny views on two sides overlooking the open ocean to the north and Hamilton Harbor to the south. On the ramparts, huge cannons stared out to sea. Furniture was a bit “moderne” for Hawke’s taste, but it looked appropriate for a start-up enterprise, he supposed. Eventually, he’d fill the empty shelves with books and ship models, and that would help.

“Alex? They’re almost ready for you in the Tank. C says ten minutes?”

Hawke and Harry Brock both looked up and nodded in her direction. She was wearing a short pink linen skirt and a tight-fitting blouse opened at the neck, and Hawke was viscerally aware of Brock’s spiking blood pressure.

“Ten minutes,” Pippa said again, smiling sweetly at the two men seated by the window, and then she pulled the door closed behind her.

“Who the living hell was that?” Harry Brock asked Hawke. Harry was leaning back in the ultramodern leather and steel Eames chair. His feet, shod in wildly inappropriate flip-flops, were propped up on the black leather ottoman covered with newspapers, sailing and motorcycle magazines, a few shipping trade papers, and copies of Tatler and The Spectator.

“That?” Hawke said, affecting an air of boredom. “That, Harry, was Pippa Guinness. Why do you ask?”

“Why do I ask? Are you kidding me? That is the single most gorgeous piece of ass on the big blue planet, and you are asking me why?”

“She has her good points.”

“Two at the very least. That is one tasty little creampuff, boss.”

“A creampuff made on a welding machine,” Hawke replied, skimming through his folder for the upcoming meeting.

“What’s she do around here, anyway? And don’t tell me that’s your secretary. I will have you killed, m’lord.”

“She runs the joint, actually.”

“I thought you ran the joint.”

“I do. Off the books. But Pippa is the acting chief of station. I plan to travel a lot, as you know. She’ll mind the store while we’re in Russia. Ambrose, when he recovers enough to leave his wheelchair, will pitch in as well.”

Harry clasped his interlocking fingers behind his head and started singing, “Back in the U.S.S.R., boys, you don’t know how lucky you are, boys,” he said, almost getting the Beatles tune right.

“Yeah. It’s been a while for me. I’m guessing Moscow has changed a bit.”

Harry laughed out loud.

“You will not believe your eyes, comrade. The Communist Party World Headquarters is now a dilapidated two-story dump on a side street. They serve warm champagne in the lobby, trying to get people to come inside. Read all the fascinating Stalin, Lenin, and Trotsky FAQ brochures.”

“I wonder what the most frequently asked question about Trotsky might be.”

“As if anyone had any questions at all anymore.” Harry laughed. “Right across the street is the new Ferrari-Maserati dealership. Much better brochures over there, believe me.”

Hawke smiled and got to his feet, glancing at his watch.

“How’s Stoke doing down in Miami, Harry? Happy?”

“Over the moon. His fiancée just got this big movie deal, but I’m not so sure about the two guys she’s signing with. The fucking Russian oligarchs bought the whole Miramar motion-picture studio with cash and are signing every beauteous babe in Miami, Vegas, and La-La.”

“Have they actually made a movie yet?”

“Hell no. But she’s signed on to do some singing gig on an airship. Flying with a bunch of celebs across the Atlantic. Something to do with the Nobel Prize, I think.”

“Airship?”

“Yeah. Called Pushkin. Carries seven hundred passengers. Most amazing damn thing you ever saw.”

Hawke looked at Brock but didn’t say anything. Airship?

“Let’s go, Harry. Doesn’t pay to keep the king waiting.” Hawke slipped into the grey and white seersucker blazer that he’d hung on the back of the door.

“The king? Is there a problem between you and your boss I should know about?”

“Yeah. Pippa. She’s driving me crazy. Always looking over my shoulder. But I can’t do a damn thing about it right now. C wants her here to keep an eye on things. Which means keep an eye on me, basically.”

“Want me to take her off your hands?”

“How would you do that, Harry?”

“Offer her a glamorous new life as the new Mrs. Harry Brock. Take her away from all this.”

“I thought you were already married.”

“My divorce finally came through. Only took seven years. It’s high time I married somebody else I hate and gave her a house.”

“But you were obviously in love with the Brazilian special forces woman we met in the Amazon. Saladin’s sister, Caparina. Now, there was a woman, Harry.”

“I am in love with her. Love is exponential, Alex. You should know that at your age.”

“Let’s go, Harry.”

THE TANK WAS the secure conference room on the second floor. It was in the very middle of the building, accessible only from the third floor by a single private elevator. The lift had a keypad and required a retinal scan to operate. Outside the secure room were cubby holes for all cell phones and BlackBerrys. There was a metal detector at the door and two Royal Marines standing guard on either side. This single room was probably the most secure place on the Atlantic Ocean, Hawke imagined.

C looked up as Harry and Hawke entered. He smiled, got to his feet, and shook hands, first with Alex, then with Brock. Hawke noticed three other men at the table, plus, of course, Pippa Guinness. He’d also noticed Sir David’s black eye, courtesy of the Jamaicans on Nonsuch Island. It seemed better today but was still visible. Ambrose had been in bed ever since that night, but he was recovering nicely.

“Welcome, gentlemen. Would you like any coffee? Tea?” Sir David said.

Brock and Hawke both declined and took the last two seats available at the round table in the center of the small, completely sound-insulated room.

“I’d like to introduce our friend Professor Stefanovich Halter, just arrived from Moscow,” C said, smiling at a tall, portly man who immediately stood up and shook hands with Hawke and Brock. His face was handsome in a classical way, strong-boned, with sharp, dark eyes. “He’s here to brief you on the current political situation in Moscow and offer further assistance to Red Banner as we redouble our intelligence efforts there.”

“Please, call me Stefan,” the Russian said, in a pitch-perfect rendition of the upper-crust Oxbridge English accent. Hawke found it impossible not to notice his tattered tweed blazer and the old school tie, unusual here on Bermuda.

Professor Halter was known to Hawke only by reputation, but the man was legendary inside the British service. Twice posted to England by the KGB on long, deep-cover assignments in London and, later, teaching at Cambridge University, the elegant Russian spy had been recruited by MI-6 whilst at Cambridge. He was now a double agent on C’s payroll and had been working both sides of the aisle ever since, currently serving as a mole deep inside the KGB. When not operating inside Russia, he was a teaching fellow at Cambridge, with several doctoral candidates in Western studies under his tutelage.

Despite a number of incredibly close scrapes, this large, perfectly urbane and charming fellow had managed not only to survive but to play the most dangerous game at a level even few in it could understand.

He was currently working for President Vladimir Rostov’s new KGB in a far less esteemed job, having been caught in a compromising position with the wife of a high-ranking KGB officer. He’d been temporarily removed from the operational work he so loved and remanded to the analytical division, where he spent long hours developing and refining reports no one ever read.

Still, he was a treasured MI-6 asset inside the Kremlin and had been generous in helping Red Banner as it began to re-build a network in that savage city. Many of the former Russian agents who’d secretly played for England’s side were now dead, either of natural or other causes.

“Can’t help but admire your tie, Professor Halter,” Hawke said with a smile. It had a dark blue background and diagonal light blue stripes with the Eton College heraldic shields between the stripes.

“Old Etonian, are you?” Halter replied.

“Not me, my father. But I’m delighted to meet you. My father, in his unfinished memoir, speaks very highly of you.”

“Thank you, Alex,” the Russian said. “As it happens, I was deeply involved in one of your father’s rather ticklish adventures. That single-handed raid of his on the Arctic Soviet SOFAR installation during the Cuban missile crisis. It is still the stuff of legend, you know. How he survived that dreadful business, no one knows to this day.”

Hawke smiled, trying hard to remember his father as he had lived and not how he had died, murdered at the hands of drug-smuggling pirates aboard his boat in the Caribbean.

The Russian spy seemed to pick up on the younger man’s feelings and said brightly, “Well, Alex, Sir David thinks I might be of some help to you when you arrive in Moscow.”

“Any assistance will be most appreciated,” Hawke said.

“Yes, Alex,” C said. “I thought we’d just give Stefan the floor this morning, let him give us a bit of an update, and then I’m sure he’d be happy to take any questions. Does that suit everyone? And let’s keep it informal, shall we? If you have a question, pipe up.”

They all nodded, and Halter picked up a slender remote from the table. Suddenly, a slide appeared on a heretofore invisible wall-sized screen at the far end of the room. An old photograph of Vladimir Putin filled the wall.

“Dear Volodya,” Halter began. “Now wasting away at a hideous island prison off St. Petersburg called Energetika. A very bad business, indeed. A sad end, I must say, for a man who did do an enormous service for his country, despite his many flaws.”

“What service?” Brock said, somewhat aggressively. Putin, in his book anyway, was an ex-KGB tough busy building a police state when he’d been disappeared. Shutting down the free press, arresting dissidents like Kasparov, and throwing them into Lubyanka with no access to attorneys. Among other things.

“You have to look at it from the Russian perspective. Is he pro-democracy? Not exactly. But-the country was in free fall. A kleptocracy, run by criminals throughout the nineties, thieves who shipped countless billions offshore, bankrupting the country. Humiliated by the loss of the Cold War and what was seen as American arrogance. Putin restored order, gave the people back their pride, put the oligarchs in prison or at least out of the way. That’s a service.”

“If I may add to that,” Sir David said, “it was Putin who put the final nails into the Communist Party’s coffin as well.”

“Still, democracy never had a chance,” Pippa said, looking at Stefan for confirmation.

“Yes, actually, it did, Pippa. But there was no infrastructure to support it, and so, sadly, it led to chaos. And at any rate, as I say, Putin was never a Western-style democrat at heart. He was a professional KGB officer. You must remember the KGB, wherein he grew up, isn’t remotely interested in ideology. It’s interested in power. And law and order. And that, frankly, is what the Russians craved after all those years of drunken disorder inside the Kremlin and blood in the streets. They were shamed and humiliated. That’s why the country has now reunited so strongly against the West.”

Another slide appeared. The current president, Vladimir Rostov.

“Our fearless leader,” Halter said. “He’s basically pursuing Putin’s goals but with a much more aggressive anti-Western posture. I assume you’re all familiar with the term irredentism?”

Hawke, Trulove, and Brock came up with blank stares.

“Irredentism,” Pippa Guinness said in a sing-song schoolgirl manner Hawke found especially irritating, “the annexation of territories administered by another state on the grounds of common ethnicity and/or prior historical possession, actual or alleged.”

“I was going to say that,” Harry Brock said, and Hawke smiled at him across the table.

“Can you use irredentism in a sentence, Harry?” Hawke asked.

“No. And you can’t make me.”

Both men laughed out loud, earning a stern look from C, who continued.

“Miss Guinness is quite correct. I believe Rostov is a determined imperialist who won’t stop until the old borders of the former Soviet empire are restored. Eastern Europe, the Baltics, et cetera. He, too, grew up as a KGB man in the Cold War. All he understands is conflict, the clash of two systems. He doesn’t give a bloody fuck about personal ethics, it’s all about the conflict. You’re either with us or against us.”

“Precisely right,” Professor Halter said, nodding vigorously.

“Revanchist Russia wants a fight, any fight,” Sir David Trulove said. “Witness their recent bullying of independent Ukraine and Georgia, two former vassal states, both desperately hopeful of joining NATO. Rostov also wants to take on the West now, because he sees it as weakened. Win, lose, or draw, Russia is back on stage as a world power. And, because of their vast energy holdings, and the price of oil, they’ve got enormous cash reserves. They can also shut off the flow of energy to Europe at the slightest provocation. They won’t be bullied, I daresay.”

“Quite true, Sir David. Now, these men,” Stefan said, flipping through slides of various Kremlin personalities, “are called the siloviki. The president’s hand-picked innermost circle. There used to be twelve, but two were recently eliminated for crossing the line. All are former military and KGB cronies of Rostov’s. They are like a brotherhood. A secret fraternity. They look the same, talk the same, think the same. And they now have unassailable control over the levers of power. They control the Duma, the parliament, all the governors and mayors throughout Russia, the legal system, the tax system, and, of course, the military and the KGB.”

“A one-party system?” Hawke asked.

“Exactly. Two-party politics is finished in Russia. The Kremlin now has unchecked power. They’ve got all the instruments at their disposal, and it is a very, very dangerous situation. Washington-Moscow nuclear tensions are at the highest levels seen since the end of the Cold War.”

“What’s Moscow’s current attitude toward the U.S.?” Brock asked, “I mean specifically.”

“Are you familiar with the Russian word nashe, Mr. Brock?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Roughly translated, it means ‘ours.’ As in ‘ours’ versus ‘yours,’ meaning American. Nashe is a buzzword in Moscow these days. Anything nashe, anything Russian, is good, anything American is bad. Music, politics, culture, what have you. It’s all about Russian pride reasserting itself.”

“So, negative feelings toward America.”

“Extremely negative. Within both the government and the general population. Everyone in Russia feels betrayed by America. The media is full of anti-American propaganda, of course. Day and night, because all media is state-run now.”

“What are they saying?” Hawke asked.

“That the Americans are stupid, greedy, and the cause of more instability around the world than any other nation. That they rubbed Russia’s nose in it at the end of the Cold War, but now Russia is strong and rich once more. And now the revanchists shall have their revenge.”

“Revenge?” Hawke asked. “Revenge for what?”

“For kicking their bloody arses in the Cold War, Alex. And then having the cheek never to let them forget who’s boss,” Stefan said.

“And do we have any idea how they intend to exact that revenge?” Hawke asked.

“No. Exactly what they intend, we’ve no idea. We’re hoping that Red Banner will help us find out.”

“The Pentagon doesn’t see them starting a shooting war,” Brock said. “They’re in no position to do that now. Someday soon, perhaps, but not now.”

“What about the so-called Third Man?” Hawke asked.

“Now you’re getting to it, Alex,” Stefan Halter said. “You’re referring to the three chaps Yeltsin met with at that Belarussian hunting resort. The vodka-fueled meeting where they unilaterally decided to abolish the Soviet Union. There was Kravchuk from the Ukraine and Shushkevich from Belarus. And a third man, as you say, who has never been identified.”

“But who has long been rumored as the power behind the throne,” C said. “A virtual Tsar who rules but is never seen or heard. A man who destroyed the old Soviet Union so that he might one day reign over the New Russia.”

Stefan Halter smiled at the group assembled. “He’s called the Dark Rider by the KGB.”

“Stefan,” C said, “perhaps a brief explanation of the Dark Rider concept would be helpful.”

“Certainly. Historically, two types of leaders rise to the pinnacle of power in Russia. In my country, we call these two types pale riders and dark riders. The pale rider is a benevolent soul, weak-willed, concerned more about the well-being of his countrymen than the welfare of the state. The last Tsar, Nicholas II, who forfeited his entire empire to the Bolsheviks in 1917, is a good example.

“A more recent example would be Yeltsin, a corrupt, good-hearted drunkard. A dark rider always comes on the heels of a pale rider. He is tough and single-minded, interested only in consolidating power and in the security of the state. The power of the state to enforce its will on the people is his raison d’être. He will sacrifice all, including personal ethics, honesty, and human lives, for the good of the state. Putin was a dark rider. But not quite dark enough for some. That’s why they got rid of him.”

“And Rostov?”

“So, too, is Rostov, a few shades darker. But rumored to drinking heavily lately and getting long in the tooth, I think. The natives are restless, from what I gather.”

“And the Third Man?”

“The darkest of the dark. It would save a great deal of time if I could tell you his identity. Unfortunately, I cannot. It’s the most closely held secret in the Kremlin.”

“Where do we start looking?” Hawke asked. “Russia is a sizable country.”

“My lack of an answer constitutes my single greatest failure as a counterintelligence agent, sir. I have no earthly idea. But I can tell you this. Rostov may be strong and tough, but he comes with strings attached. He is still a puppet. Perhaps one of the siloviki is pulling his strings. Or an outsider we know nothing about. But working in the Kremlin as I do, I sense a rising tide of anxiety inside the walls.

“Maybe the military has gained the upper hand and will attempt to seize power. Maybe there will be some preemptive Russian strike against the West. That revenge motive we discussed is very powerful right now. I simply do not know. But if you can learn the identity of the real power behind the throne, you will gain critical understanding of what is going on within the Kremlin walls. That knowledge is vital to Red Banner’s mission. Key to it, in fact.”

Hawke thought for a moment, then looked directly at Halter.

“Stefan, have you heard of a man named Korsakov? Count Ivan Korsakov?”

“Of course. Korsakov is one of the most interesting figures in modern Russia. Not so much beyond our borders, as he is a very private individual. An absolute genius, from an ancient family rich beyond measure. Beloved across the width and breadth of the country for his philanthropy, his kindnesses to the poor. But you won’t find his name on any schools or hospitals. Always anonymous.”

“What’s his background? Is he political?”

“Not at all. First and foremost, he’s a scientist and inventor. Recently nominated for a Nobel. But he’s a great businessman. A poet, a gifted composer as well. As I said, he’s a descendant of one of Russia’s oldest, most powerful families. The Korsakovs rose to the heights of power around the time of Peter the Great, who in 1722 made them barons and later counts. They conquered Siberia, for one thing, brought it under the control of the Tsars.”

“I see.”

“Why are you so curious about him, if I may ask?”

“His daughter, Anastasia, has recently become a friend of mine. She has invited me to visit their country estate outside St. Petersburg. I was thinking of going for a few days’ visit before my arrival in Moscow. I was wondering if it would be worth the time. Her father will apparently be there.”

“Alex, if you have the opportunity to meet and gain the confidence of Count Korsakov, you will have advanced the cause of Red Banner enormously. No one knows more about what really goes on inside Russia than that man. He is privy to the darkest secrets imaginable. He may even be able to lead you to the Dark Rider.”

C had lit one of his poisonous black cheroots. He inhaled, expelled a cloud of smoke, and said, “Just how close are you and the count’s daughter, Alex?”

“She’s invited me for some Christmas house party, that’s all. They have some kind of winter palace out in the countryside. Why?”

“Just curious. If you have a relationship with her, it could be very helpful to the cause.”

Hawke stared at his superior angrily but said nothing. C hadn’t put him in this position. He’d brought it on himself.

Pippa smiled at Alex. “She’s a painter, isn’t she? Anastasia, I mean.”

“Yes. She is.”

“I’ve seen her work at a small gallery over on Front Street. Male nudes. Some figure studies that looked vaguely familiar, Alex. Quite exciting. There was one large one that I almost thought could have been-”

Hawke’s eyes blazed.

“Pippa, may I speak with you privately for a moment?” Alex said. “Outside?”

“Of course,” she said, following him to the door.

“My apologies, gentlemen,” Hawke said, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. “I’ll be back momentarily.”

“Fucking hell, girl,” Hawke said to her when they were safely outside the sound-proofed room and away from the Marine guards. He had to restrain himself from slapping her face.

“What is it, Alex?” she asked, an innocent smile flitting across her face. “Have you fallen in love with this little Russian princess?”

“Damn it, Pippa.”

“Don’t be embarrassed, darling. You know I’d recognize your-I mean, you-anywhere.”

38

The president’s trim, blonde secretary, Betsey Hall, walked quickly down a short hallway to the small White House reception room, where the secretary of state and her security entourage had just arrived.

“Betsey, good morning!” Consuelo de los Reyes said, standing to embrace her good friend. The two single women often spent time in each other’s company. Dinner once a month at 1789, long one of Georgetown’s popular restaurants, and sometimes an evening of ballet viewed from the secretary’s private box at the Kennedy Center. They never talked politics. They talked men, and they were seldom complimentary.

“Madame Secretary, welcome,” Betsey said, shaking hands with her friend and smiling at the security team. “Good morning, everyone.”

“Is anyone else already in the Oval?” de los Reyes asked.

“Yes, but they were early. You’re right on time.”

“Who’s here? The vice president?”

“No, the McCloskeys are down in Miami. They’re taking that airship cruise to the Nobel ceremony in Stockholm. The president was invited, but his schedule didn’t allow it.”

“So, who do we have in there?”

“His crisis team. General Moore from the Joint Chiefs, CIA Director Kelly, FBI Director Mike Reiter, the new Director of National Intelligence, Simon Pinniger, and a couple of guests. Brits from MI-6.”

Consuelo’s eyes widened. “Alex Hawke is in there?”

“Sorry, no,” Betsey said, patting her friend’s shoulder. She knew how Consuelo felt about the dashing British spy. Their on-again, off-again affair had been rocky from the beginning. From the look on her friend’s face, Betsey knew nothing had changed. Off again.

“Who, then?” she asked.

“It’s Sir David Trulove and his new assistant station chief from Bermuda.”

“Bermuda? What’s his name?”

“It’s a she. Pippa Guinness.”

The secretary of state rolled her eyes and whispered in Betsey’s ear. “Bermuda. That’s where Alex Hawke is living now, damn Miss Guinness to hell.”

“I know, dear. Sorry.”

“How does the little bitch look these days?”

“Restless as an eel.”

The secretary laughed out loud. Then she straightened herself. “Oh, well. Nothing new, I suppose. He is who he is. What’s the weather like in there this morning?”

“We had a nasty nor’easter blow through here earlier this morning-Senator Kennedy-but now it’s all sunshine and roses in there. He’s in a great mood. Feisty.”

“He must not have seen the new polls this morning.”

“Of course he did. You know what he said?”

“Can’t even guess.”

“He said, ‘Well, I guess I’m never going to be popular, so by God, Betsey, I’ll just keep on being right.’”

The secretary laughed and headed toward the private entrance to the Oval Office. She was looking forward to her weekly meeting with the president. It was always informal, kept deliberately small, and anyone could bring up any topic they wished. And she was naturally curious about the crisis du jour.

President McAtee stood as the beautiful Cuban-American secretary swept through the door. The members of the president’s team all stood and extended their hands in greeting. Pippa also stood and smiled, but Consuelo pointedly ignored her.

“Conch, good to see you!” the president said. “Congratulations on your Mideast trip. I think we made a lot of progress.”

“I think we made as much progress as we can make with the Saudis and the Iranians, Mr. President. At least for the time being.”

When everyone was seated and the steward had served more tea and coffee, President Jack McAtee said, “Conch, I want to save your recent trip for last. We’re all looking forward to hearing your insights and points of view. But Brick is just back from a meeting in Estonia with our new ambassador there, Dave Philips, and picked up some insights into our Russian friends that I think we should discuss immediately. Brick?”

“Thanks, Mr. President,” the lanky, red-haired Virginian said in his slow drawl. He leaned back in his armchair and stretched out his long legs. The director was wearing, as always, beautifully polished cowboy boots with his navy suit.

“Based on my two days with Ambassador Philips, I’d say we’ve got trouble on the Russian front. Just a quick anecdote. Dave went to a reception at the French embassy in Tallinn with the Russian ambassador a week ago today. He’s become friendly with the guy, they’ve gone out drinking a few times. Anyway, the ancient Russian ambassador shows up in uniform. He was a general under Stalin. And he’s wearing his old uniform.”

“Odd,” the president said. “What’s that all about?”

“Dave asked him. He said all Russian ambassadors had received a directive from Rostov himself. From now on, they are to wear their military uniforms to all official state functions.”

“Speaks volumes,” General Moore said. “They are going to a war footing.”

“You believe that, Brick? War? With us?”

“It could all be posturing, you know, on the part of a resurgent Kremlin. Part of their new public relations campaign to climb back onto the world stage. They might be just sticking their toe in the waters of the Baltic. See what we’ll let them get away with.”

“What’s the military assessment, Charlie?”

General Moore handed each of them a thin blue folder marked “Most Secret.” Moore started speaking as the group began flipping through the folders.

“Here are the most recent satellite passes over Eastern Europe and the Baltic. And what you’ll see isn’t posturing, it’s Russian troops. Three divisions have massed along the Ukrainian border, here, here, and here. Another two divisions are poised here along the Estonian border. And most troubling of all, here you see five divisions moving into place at the Latvian and Belarus border. From our recent war gamers’ perspective, and from where those troops and tank corps are positioned, it’s a straight shot through Lithuania and back into Poland and the Czech Republic, where we’re deploying our antiballistic-missile batteries.”

Brick Kelly said, “Sir, you’ll remember that only recently, Rostov threatened to deploy cruise missiles in the tiny Russian enclave of Kaliningrad, if we go ahead with missile defense in his backyard.”

The president said, “Tell me again where Kaliningrad is, Brick? I swear I’m bad at geography. Always have been.”

Kelly got up and spun the globe. He stopped it at Eastern Europe. “It sits right there between Poland and Lithuania. One Kremlin ploy might be to say they were sending troops in to reinforce their threatened enclave. It’s all tap-dancing and saber rattling right now, but I don’t think we can afford not to take it very, very seriously, Mr. President.”

“Jesus,” the president said, loosening his tie. “Didn’t anyone see this coming?”

“It was a sudden movement, but clearly the planning for this operation has been under way for some time,” the CIA director said. “We should have caught something, but we didn’t. We’re playing catch-up ball in Moscow, Mr. President. It’s going to take a while before we can get our field-agent network back up to where we were during the Cold War.”

“Britain’s doing the same thing, Mr. President,” Sir David Trulove said. “As you well know, we’ve recently joined forces with Langley to create something called Red Banner. A secret division to deal with the resurgent Soviet-excuse me, Dr. Freud, I meant Russian threat. Based in Bermuda and headed up by Alex Hawke, whom I’m sure you remember.”

“How is Alex bearing up, Sir David? He was quite ill for a while, I know.”

“Well and good, sir. Living the good life in Bermuda these days until I darkened his door.”

“Yanked him out of early retirement, did you?”

“I keep him busy.”

“Give him my regards, will you?”

“I’ll do that, sir. Thank you.”

At that moment, Betsey Hall entered the Oval through her private door. Her expression was grim, and she went immediately to the president, bent from the waist, and whispered something into his ear. McAtee listened intently, nodded his head, and got to his feet.

“I need to take this call,” he said. “Urgent. No need to leave, sit tight. Please excuse me for a minute.”

McAtee walked behind the historic Resolute desk. In 1850, the British HMS Resolute had gotten lodged in Arctic ice and was long abandoned before being discovered adrift by an American fishing vessel that towed her to port. Congress purchased the vessel, refitted her, and presented her to Queen Victoria as a token of peace. Resolute served in the Royal Navy for twenty-three years. After decommissioning, Queen Victoria ordered two identical desks built from her timbers, presenting one to President Rutherford B. Hayes in 1880 and placing the twin in Buckingham Palace, where it stands today.

McAtee sat at the historic desk, flanked by the two flags, and picked up the receiver on the phone that was blinking.

“This is the president,” he said.

He listened impassively, his expression giving little away to anyone in the room who glanced his way. A few minutes later, he said, “Thank you very much. You’ll be hearing from me shortly.”

He stood and crossed the room, returning to his favorite chair by the fire. He sighed deeply and leaned his head back against the cushion of the chair. No one knew quite what to say, and a lengthy silence ensued.

“That was the governor of Kansas,” McAtee said. “Along with Bill Thomas at NSA. Last night, the mayor of Salina, someone I knew personally, was murdered in bed, along with her husband and two children. There are no suspects, and Monie Bailey didn’t have an enemy in this world. It was the work of terrorists. The husband was shot dead, the other three were gassed.”

“Gassed?” Mike Reiter said as he leaned forward. “Terrorists? In Kansas? Good Lord. Will you excuse me, Mr. President? I need to make a few phone calls.” McAtee nodded, and Reiter quickly left.

“A cell phone was left on Monie’s body. There was a message on it. It came from a member of a group calling itself the Arm of God.

NSA has already traced the call. It came from another cell. The caller was in an apartment complex in a suburb west of Tehran when the call was made. We have assets on the way to that building now.”

“Unbelievable,” General Moore said.

“It gets worse,” Jack McAtee said.

“Sorry. Go ahead, Mr. President.”

“The caller, whose voice was electronically altered, said that at precisely six o’clock Tuesday morning, Central Standard Time, that’s tomorrow morning, the town of Salina, Kansas, will no longer exist. He said evacuation of the entire population should begin immediately. Then he ‘allahued Akhbar’ three times and hung up.”

The room sat in stunned silence.

“Salina, Kansas,” Moore said. “Why? It doesn’t make any sense. There’s nothing there.”

“Except churches and schools and families with little girls and boys,” McAtee said, his expression blank.

Brick Kelly stared at the still-spinning globe. He stuck out a finger and stopped it, found Salina on the map of the U.S., and said, “This is interesting. Salina is in the absolute dead center of the country. Look. Right square in the middle of the north-south axis and the east-west axis.”

“A shot to the heart?” General Moore said. “Some kind of warning shot to the heart of America?”

“Maybe,” the president mused. He’d been thinking along the same lines.

“What does NSA think, Mr. President?” Sir David asked. “Is this threat at all credible?”

McAtee nodded gravely. “Very credible. They say I should authorize immediate evacuation. This radical group, this so-called Arm of God, has a blood-soaked history. They’re a Soviet-sponsored terror network headquartered in Iran. Lately, they’ve been training foreign fighters to infiltrate Iraq and Afghanistan with ever more sophisticated IEDs. And they’re the ones currently negotiating with the Russians on the purchase of new shoulder-fired missiles to bring our Ah-64 Apache choppers down.”

“The Russians. Why do they keep coming up?” Consuelo de los Reyes said, to no one in particular.

“I’m sorry. I’ve got to call the governor,” Mc Atee said. “I’ll have to cancel the remainder of this meeting, I’m afraid. There are forty-two thousand souls in that town whose lives are at stake. I want to thank you all for coming and we’ll regroup soon, I promise. I’ll keep you abreast of this situation as it develops. Betsey will call your offices with a time to reconvene.”

The president stood, and so did everyone else. As they were filing out, he stopped Sir David and said quietly, “Could you stick around another minute or so?”

“Certainly, sir.”

When the room had cleared, McAtee said, “I want you to promise me something, David, all right?”

“Anything.”

“This man of yours. Hawke. He’s heading up that new division for you. What’s it called again?”

“Red Banner.”

“Right. I trust Alex Hawke. Completely. A couple of years ago, he single-handedly saved my life up on the inaugural platform. Not only mine but my wife’s and everybody in the damn government, most likely. We’ve got nobody like him, David, nobody who operates at his level. I want Hawke inside Russia. Tonight, if possible. If anyone can figure out what the hell these mad Russians are up to, it’s him. Quote me. Tell him I said that. And tell him there’s not a second to lose.”

“You seriously think the Russians may have something to do with this Kansas situation, Mr. President?”

“It’s possible. But I’m beginning to think the Russians have something to do with everything on the damn planet lately. Nothing those people do would surprise me at this point. They’ve pulled out of the arms treaty, they’re flying long-distance bomber sorties over Guam again, they’ve got troops massing on the NATO borders, they’re retargeting European cities with their missiles, and they’re selling advanced weapon systems to our most feared enemy, Iran. Friend or foe, David, you call it.”

The president took a deep breath and sat back in his chair, looking at the chief of British intelligence. “Sir David, I’m sorry. I’ve got to get back on the phone with the Kansas governor. Get those poor people out there in Salina to safety. I’ll speak to you soon. Safe journey back to London.”

“Good-bye, Mr. President. Thanks for your time. And good luck to you. It looks as if we may stand together yet again.”

“It does, sir, it certainly does.”

The president was distracted, already on to his next call, his next crisis, but he looked Trulove in the eye and spoke from his gut.

“We’re it, you know, Sir David. Our two countries. The last barricade. We’re all that’s left. God help us.”