Ted Bell - Phantom

“Yes, Dmitry. Issue presidential orders to put the entire Russian military on a war footing. Highest state of alert. Some madman in Washington may look upon this catastrophe as his personal Lusitania, served up on a silver platter. At long last, a good excuse for a preemptive nuclear strike on the homeland. I’m not being paranoid. It’s not beyond the realm of possibility.”

“Indeed not. Sorry to call with such bad news. Try to get some sleep.”

“No. I have to call the American president and tell him the Russian government had nothing at all to do with the sinking of their ship. Do you think I can convince him? It will be difficult to explain because, so far, I have no goddamn explanation. Except, of course, Lyachin’s mysterious ‘force.’ ”

Putin replaced the receiver, lay back against his pillow, and tried to figure out what the hell he was going to say to President McCloskey, a smart, leather-tough old cowboy from Montana.

Gloucestershire, England

Turn off the Taplow Common Road, just after exiting the deep green forest that enfolds that highway, and you will come upon a magnificent set of black wrought-iron gates. If the guards recognize you, the imposing gates will swing wide and you will be traveling back in time to another England. You will be motoring at a snail’s pace along the wide curving drive that will eventually lead you to a place called Brixden House. A snail’s pace because you won’t want to miss anything-an extraordinary piece of classical sculpture perhaps, quite voluptuous.

The macadam pathway meanders through countless acres of gardens and parklands. There are apple trees covered in blossoms, jardinieres full of pelargoniums in great blocks of color, and greenhouses covered with walls of nectarines, all scattered hither and thither across the hills. The dapple of sunlight on the deep green croquet lawns, lakes, the flower beds, and splashing fountains give new meaning to the word picturesque.

When you do finally catch sight of it, you will find the house imposing. Built originally in the mid-seventeenth century as a hunting lodge for royalty, the present Edwardian country house stands atop great chalk cliffs. Its countless windows overlook the rolling green Berkshire countryside. The main house, built in the classic Italian style, overlooks an idyllic bend in the Thames.

Built in the 1920s, the enormous Brixden House was the very height of luxury. The Visitor’s Book was a veritable Who’s Who of the era. Playwright George Bernard Shaw made the first of many visits in 1926, Winston Churchill was an occasional guest, as were King George and Queen Mary, Charlie Chaplin, Ambassador Joe Kennedy, and the aviator Charles Lindbergh.

This was the stately ancestral home of Lady Diana Mars. Her fiance, the former chief inspector of Scotland Yard, was currently in the library having a chat with his oldest friend, Lord Alexander Hawke. The smell of beeswax and old leather books and furniture, the scents of spilled liquor and tobacco smoke, all hung in the air, so much so that it was a part of the room’s history that almost had weight.

A John Singer Sargent portrait of Lady Mars’s great-grandmother Nancy hung imperiously above the yawning gape of the great hearth. A vast red velvet sofa faced the fire, big enough for several people to sleep in. An ebony grand piano dominated one corner of the room, though Hawke had never seen anyone lay a hand on it.

It was late afternoon, and the setting sun’s rays slanted through the tall, mullioned windows, casting a lovely pattern across the worn Persian rugs and highly polished wooden floors. Shadows fled up the walls and across the high vaulted ceiling. Beyond the opened windows, only the sounds of rooks, cawing in the trees, the hum of drowsy bees, and an occasional bark from Diana’s dogs, sprawled lazily in the late afternoon sun.

Hawke found Ambrose in the library, standing in the center of the room, trying to rip the cellophane from a fresh deck of playing cards decorated with Lady Mars’s family crest.

“Good evening,” Hawke said.

Congreve voiced his agreement with the sentiment.

“Cards, is it, Constable?”

“Hardly, Alex, it’s my new exercise program. Possibly not up to the standards of your daily Royal Navy regimen, but still, quite a tester.”

“You exercise with a deck of cards?”

“The latest thing, dear boy, the very latest. Observe and grow wise,” he said, and, with a dramatic flourish, flung the playing cards high into the air, scattering them all over the carpet. He then began scampering about the room, bending to pick each card up one by one and stuffing them carelessly into the side pockets of his green velvet smoking jacket.

When he’d pocketed the last one, he straightened, a bit winded, and beamed at Hawke.

“Well, then. What do you think of that?”

“Most impressive.”

“Want to have a go?”

“Good Lord, no. I’m exhausted just watching you. I could use some air. Shall we have a nice walkabout on the grounds and then repair to the bar for a small beverage to celebrate?”

After a long and tiring (for Ambrose Congreve) ramble about the hilly and sometimes rock-strewn grounds, the two old friends went to the small walnut-paneled bar for the restorative cocktail. Congreve sipped his single malt, Macallan; Hawke, his Gosling’s Black Seal rum, neat. The two deep leather chairs they sat in had served other gentlemen’s backsides well for innumerable generations.

“How can you drink that stuff anyway?” Hawke asked Congreve. “Tastes like liquid smoke.”

Ambrose bristled. “I’m a man, sir, who is simply fond of his scotch-the drink, mind, not the nationality.”

Hawke smiled at this riposte, enormously glad to be back in dear old Blighty (as the Americans were wont to call it) again, and had been bringing Congreve up to speed on their mutual friend Stokely Jones, his almost deadly wedding in Florida, and his nearly catastrophic honeymoon.

“Torpedoed, you say?” Congreve murmured, getting his pipe going. “Extraordinary.”

“Hasn’t hit the media, but yes. Stokely saw the trails of two torpedoes moments before they struck the ship. He was lucky to get his new bride up to the muster station and into a lifeboat before the panic began. A lot of people ended up in the water, and a couple of lifeboats overturned in the heavy seas.”

“Where is Stokely now?”

“Back in Miami, trying to save his marriage, I imagine.”

“No one has claimed responsibility for the sinking?”

“No. But these torpedoes were sophisticated weapons. One of them, magnetic, exploded directly beneath the big ship’s keel, breaking her back. It’s why she went down in less than forty-five minutes.”

“Stokely say how many casualties?”

“Bad, but he said it could have been far worse. Fortunately, an American sub was in the vicinity. She surfaced and picked up most of the survivors in the water.”

“Extraordinary. C is joining us for dinner this evening, you know. I’m sure Sir David will have a great deal to say about this.”

“How is the old bachelor? I haven’t seen him since my return from Russia. I know he’s been on holiday, believe it or not. Sardinia, I believe.”

“Well, Alex, he was not at all pleased with you going off the reservation, I can tell you that much. Perhaps he’s had time to cool off a bit. All those lovely beaches and gorgeous Italian women work wonders.”

“Nude beaches there, I’ve heard.”

“Ha! You know who goes to nude beaches?”

“Not a clue.”

“People who should never go to nude beaches.”

Hawke laughed and sipped his drink. He was looking forward to dinner. C was a crusty old bastard but he was smarter than any man Hawke knew, save present company. A monument of unaging intellect. And Diana always served rack of lamb when he was invited, and something very old and delicious from the vast cellars of Brixden House.