Ted Bell - Phantom

“Alex,” Putin said as they shook hands.

“Volodya,” Hawke said, smiling.

“My old cellmate, we meet again.”

“Under considerably better circumstances, I would say,”

“Your pilot waggled his wings as he flew over Red Star. Made me laugh. I admire your style.”

“I was asleep. My pilot’s the one with the style. What an incredible yacht. Yours?”

“I’d never admit it publicly, but yes. The sea has become my sanctuary. Come on, I’ll give you a short tour. Just enough time for a tour and a cocktail before lunch. We’re going ashore to the Hotel du Cap. I hope that’s suitable. If not, my chef can cook anything you like.”

“You just happened to have picked one of my favorite hotels on earth. Fifty quid for a Salade Nicoise with a teaspoon of tuna is pushing it a bit, but still.”

Putin laughed, clapping him on the back. “Follow me. We’ll start on the bridge. You’re difficult to impress, but I think you will be. You still have Blackhawke?”

Putin walked very quickly and Hawke matched his stride as they headed forward along the starboard deck.

“Yes, but I’m building a new one in Turkey. Sail, not power this time.”

“Tell me about her. I’m new to yachting and have become fascinated with them.”

“Well, she’s basically a twenty-first-century clipper ship. Three carbon fiber masts, each one about twenty stories tall. Extreme, I suppose.”

“The more extreme, the better. How long is she?”

“Three hundred twenty l.o.a., forty-two-foot beam, and she draws twenty feet. The naval architect, a Turk named Badi, told me that if she were anchored in New York harbor her mastheads would reach up to the level of the tablet carried in the arm of the Statue of Liberty.”

“Good God, Alex.”

“You only go around once in life, right? You know what all megayacht owners love saying to each other? ‘Mine’s bigger.’ ”

Putin laughed. “Good one. I’ll have to remember that.”

“My idea for the new one was to have all the attributes of a classic sailing ship, teak decks, varnished cap rail, et cetera, but with the overall appearance sleek, metallic, ultramodern. She looks a bit foreboding, to be honest. Darth Vader’s intergalactic yacht, the architect calls her.”

“I hope you’ll invite me aboard sometime. She sounds magnificent.”

“Done. I’m going to Istanbul for her sea trials in a month or so. I’ll let you know.”

They entered the bridge, and all the officers and crewmen snapped to attention.

“Captain Ramius,” Putin said to Red Star ’s skipper, “I’d like you to meet our guest, Alex Hawke. He’s just built a new yacht in Turkey. He’s been admiring our beautiful ship, but he has something he’d like to tell you, don’t you, Alex?”

Hawke grinned at the captain.

“Mine’s bigger.”

Putin’s security insisted the two men dine inside the hotel’s Eden Roc restaurant rather than at a table overlooking the sea. Hawke noticed that the prime minister did not argue. He knew that the man felt safe only two places in the world: inside the Kremlin walls and on board Red Star. Countless men wanted him dead, a lot of them with good reason. For all his star power on the world’s stage and celebrity, he was virtually a prisoner.

Upon entering the Eden Roc restaurant and being shown their table, in the corner, overlooking the sea, Hawke immediately noticed that someone was already seated at their table. A large fellow in a navy blazer sat with his back to them, but the man was instantly recognizable to Alex Hawke.

Good God, Hawke thought, it’s Stefan Halter.

Putin being Putin, but there was nothing for it. He’d laid a small trap for his British guest. He’d be watching the two of them closely, looking for any sign of recognition. Stefan, an MI6 officer who’d been at Cambridge with Congreve, had been burrowed deep within the Kremlin, a mole for over three decades. He was far and away the most valuable asset Six had inside Russia.

Over the years, the two men had become good friends. Hawke steeled himself for the coming trial of that friendship as Halter rose to his feet and turned to greet them.

“Ah, Stefanovich, you’re early,” Putin said, beaming. He turned to Alex, introducing him. “You know Lord Hawke, no doubt.”

Putin smiled quizzically, foxlike, waiting to pounce.

Stefan looked at Alex, his eyes mercifully blank as he stuck out his hand. “Only by reputation, I’m afraid.”

“It’s his reputation that makes you afraid, isn’t it?” Putin said with unforced joviality, and both men smiled at the prime minister’s flash of wit.

Did we pass that test? Hawke wondered.

Drinks were ordered, and the luncheon seemed, to Hawke anyway, to go off without a glitch. He and Halter engaged in meaningless small talk, saving the serious stuff for their host.

The three tables surrounding the Russian leader had been reserved for nine bodyguards. And Hawke was certain there were Russian security officers scattered all over the beautiful gardens and lawns of the magnificent old hotel.

Hawke, for his part, was glad he was in a hotel so accustomed to celebrity guests that there was zero chance he’d be surprised by paparazzi. The last thing he needed was a big color photo of him dining with Vladimir Putin in Britain’s Hello magazine. They had just finished their Salade Nicoise when Dr. Henry Kissinger stopped at the table on his way out. He greeted the Russian leader warmly and graciously recognized Hawke when Putin introduced the two men.

Then the old American warrior bent and whispered something in Putin’s ear. Volodya nodded carefully, excused himself from the table, and walked with Kissinger past the maitre d’ and into the sunshine. Hawke could see them through the window, walking arm in arm through the tall pines, deep in conversation.

“Stefan,” Hawke said, leaning toward Halter and in a voice low enough not to be overheard, “I shall never be able to repay you. I knew you took a chance, telling me the Kremlin rumors.”

“I haven’t heard a thing. You’re still alive, thank God.”

“They are alive,” Hawke said, his eyes glistening with gratitude.

Halter had a difficult time maintaining composure.

“Alive. So it was true.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t tell me you managed to get them out.”

“Just my son.”

“Oh, Alex, how utterly marvelous.”

“You’ve no idea. His name is Alexei. Three years old.”

“And Anastasia?”

“Wouldn’t leave. Out of fear and-commitment. She married Kuragin out of gratitude. I was angry of course, at first. But in hindsight I can see the sense of it. I’ve forgiven her and-”

“She thought you were dead, Alex.”

“She did. And she felt great compassion for-here comes our host. To be continued.”

“W ell, Alex,” Putin said, taking his seat and a sip of his vodka, “I’m fairly certain you didn’t request this meeting because you’ve finally decided to take me up on my offer. But don’t worry, there’s no deadline. I’m sure one fine day you’ll come to your senses.”

Hawke smiled at the two Russians. “I’m sure you two gentlemen know why I’m here, Volodya.”

“That fucking submarine. It’s why I invited Stefanovich to fly down from Moscow this morning and join us. He’s been looking into the damn mess for me personally.”

Hawke said, “What in the hell really happened? This was a blatant provocation that has put the world in an extremely delicate situation. As you well know, American military has gone to DEFCON 3 readiness for war. MI6 is not buying the ‘accident’ story, nor is CIA. Nor, frankly, am I. One torpedo, possibly, but two? For the life of me, unless this commander went rogue or simply insane, I am mystified.”