Ted Bell - Phantom

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

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

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

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

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

“I was going to insist on it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How, may I ask?”

“By going straight to the top.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

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

“You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly serious.”

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

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

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

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

“I don’t believe you did.”

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

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

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

He smiled at Congreve.

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

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

Cap d’Antibes, France

Hawke slept peacefully for most of the short flight from Gatwick south of London to the south of France. He was dreaming fitfully of the last time he’d visited the glittering Cote d’Azur. There was a woman in his dream, a beautiful raven-haired Chinese secret police officer.

Her dream name was Jet something… Jet Li. Yes, and even in his hotel bed, rolling among the twisted sheets, he sensed something wrong. An aura of threat surrounded her… yes… and at the climactic moment of love, she raised a knife above her head and plunged it into his heart…

“Fifteen minutes to touchdown at Nice Airport, sir,” he heard the copilot of his G-5 announce over the intercom. He picked up the phone mounted inside his armrest and raised his seat back, blinking awake.

“Is there any hot coffee left, Charley, or did you two polish it off?” Hawke said, raising his window shade, letting light flood the darkened cabin.

“Still a few drops in the pot, sir; I’ll step out and bring you a mug from the galley.”

Hawke normally had an attendant on board, but she’d been vacationing in Ibiza with her new husband and he hadn’t wanted to bother her at the last minute, especially for such a short hop.

“You fly the plane; I think I can still manage to pour myself a cup of coffee, believe it or not. How’s the weather? It looks beautiful down there.”

Hawke was peering out the big oval window at the sun-sparkled blue Mediterranean ten thousand feet below his airplane. He found himself smiling. If he had to meet with Putin, he’d much rather it be here in paradise than in Moscow, where every other chap he met might want to kill him.

“Eighteen Celsius right now, sir, winds light, about five knots, ten percent chance of showers late this afternoon.”

“Bloody perfect. What mischief are you two up to this weekend, while I’m off saving the world from the Evil Empire?”

“Thought we’d get a hired car, sir, drive along the coast over to Monte Carlo. Not far, and neither I nor the skipper here have ever been.”

“Ah, the casinos. Hold on to your wallets.”

“We might have a go, sir. A few quid.”

“I’d like to be wheels-up by ten Sunday morning. Back to London, unless my host has other ideas.”

“No problem at all, sir. We’ll have her topped off and ready for you.”

A silver chopper was waiting on the tarmac fifty feet away, rotors turning. Judging by the large red star and the blue-and-white Russian flag on her fuselage, she was clearly waiting for him. As Hawke descended the Gulfstream’s staircase, taking deep breaths of the fresh salt air, two men in white strode across the tarmac to greet him. Men who walked with the rolling gait of seamen. Heavily muscled jack-tars who no doubt carried concealed weapons.

Both wore white gabardine trousers and skintight white T-shirts with a silhouette of a megayacht and the name Red Star emblazoned below it. One stepped forward and extended his hand. He had a wide white smile and blond hair, cut close.

“Commander Hawke,” he said. “Welcome. I am Yaniv Soha and this is my colleague Yuri. The prime minister extends his warmest greetings and says he is looking forward to having you as a guest aboard Red Star. We are here to provide you with diplomatic security. And anything else you require. Can we help you with your luggage?”

Hawke had only the old canvas seabag slung from his shoulder.

“I’m good, thank you.”

“Do you mind if I look inside the bag, sir? Standard precaution.”

“I’d be worried if you didn’t.” Hawke smiled, handing it to him. The man picked through the items slowly and carefully, examining each one more than thoroughly.

“Excellent,” he said, returning the bag. “Very well, if you’ll come this way, it’s a very short flight out to Red Star. She’s anchored just off the Hotel du Cap at Cap d’Antibes.”

The three men started for the Russian military helo, which was spooling up.

“I saw her on final approach. Magnificent. What’s her l.o.a.?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Length overall.”

“Ah. One hundred meters, sir. Three hundred feet.”

“Impressive.”

T he silver chopper hovered above the yacht’s helo pad, located near the stern. As Hawke emerged from the cockpit he saw Vladimir Putin striding toward him, an honest smile on his face and his hand extended. He was wearing a black bathing suit and a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was in very good shape, much better than the pale skeleton he’d been when the two of them had been inmates at Energetika Prison.