Ted Bell: Phantom

“Take this crazy bastard down to the cells,” the captain said, stomping off toward the cozy warmth of the well-lit guardhouse at the gate, still shaking his head in wonder at the ridiculous Englishman who claimed to have walked across Siberia and strolled right up to the most heavily guarded KGB installation in all of Russia. With a smile on his face!

“Good morning to you, too,” Hawke said through gritted teeth. The Russian guard had poked him in the right rib cage with the muzzle of his rifle. Hawke was already grimacing at the sharp stab in his left side. Couple of ribs broken for sure. Damned nuisance, this Russian penchant for cruelty. There was absolutely no heat in his cell and he could see his breath, great plumes of it that hung in the air.

“Move!” the Russian shouted.

Hawke rolled his long legs over the metal frame of the cot and got painfully to his feet. He appeared to have dropped off to sleep in his fur coat, which had no doubt saved him from freezing to death down here in the dungeon. “Time for breakfast, is it, then? Splendid. I’m famished.” The guard stepped to one side so Hawke could exit the dimly lit cell. Noticing his dungeon quarters for the first time, Hawke thought they must have been constructed in the late seventeenth century.

There was a low, narrow corridor with a steep set of stone steps leading upward. A prod in the middle of the back told Hawke that was where he was headed. He started climbing, clearly not quickly enough to suit the giant because he kept getting sharp prods from the man’s rifle.

At the top of the stairs he came to another long corridor, this one brightly lit and finished in tiles of pea green. Hideous, but at least it was heated. “Move!” his jailer said, as if he actually needed more encouragement.

They passed any number of closed doors with tiny windows at eye level. Interrogation Centrale. The last one on the left was open. Inside was a plain wooden table with a battered pair of matching wooden chairs on either side. One wall contained a mirror that probably came in handy for prisoners wishing to tidy up after a long interrogation. Either that, or there was someone on the other side paying very close attention.

Hawke was shoved into the chair facing the phony mirror and the burly chap in a cheap dark suit across the table. His giant escort now stepped behind him and rested a black leather truncheon on his right shoulder. Most reassuring. A conversational icebreaker.

“Well, this is cozy,” Hawke said to the cheap suit for openers. “I must get the name of your decorator.”

“Hands flat on the table, stretched out in front of you and keep them there,” the interrogator grunted. Hawke, an old hand at this sort of thing, did as he was told.

“Your name?” the man said, his pencil poised above a pad. He leaned forward and put his nose ten inches from Hawke’s face, a hoary technique, but an effective one.

“Hawke. Alex Hawke,” he replied with a grin, giving it his best Sean Connery spin.

“You are an English spy.”

“Hardly. I’m rather well known as the Playboy of the Western World.”

“How did you get to this location?”

“Train, actually. Then, a mare. Then, shank’s mare.” The sadistic giant slammed the lead-weighted truncheon viciously into Hawke’s exposed and broken ribs.

He did not cry out as expected. Nor did he remove his hands from the table. He’d been held captive in an Iraqi prison, subjected to unspeakably brutal torture every day and night for an eternity. Starvation, hallucinogens, electroshock, the works. It would take a lot more than a couple of broken ribs and the giant’s nasty little truncheon to get any reaction out of him. A whole lot more.

“This is a maximum-security Russian military facility. Why have you come here?”

“I came here to speak privately with General Kuragin.”

“I want the truth,” the man screamed, and Hawke again felt the sharp explosion of pain in his side. He smiled patiently at his torturer. The smile was a very effective little trick he’d learned in the desert outside Baghdad. It increased severity but decreased duration. Eventually, they got bored with you and moved on to more entertaining victims. That trick was the only reason he’d survived long enough to escape.

Hawke said, “That is the truth, you stupid dolt. I’m here to see General Nikolai Kuragin.”

“What makes you think such a person exists?”

“I’ve met him. In person.”

“You’ve met him. And where did you meet him?”

“We took tea together once. At the Savoy Grill in London as I recall.” This earned him a blow to the side of his head. He saw stars for a moment but managed to shake it off and give the man an even warmer smile. Anger and frustration blazed in his interrogator’s eyes. A pushover, Hawke thought, gratefully. He could be out of here inside of an hour.

“What makes you think that this person, if he exists, can be found here?” the KGB man snarled. He had produced a small hammer and brought it down on each of the five fingers of Hawke’s left hand. Hawk flinched involuntarily but gave away nothing with his eyes.

“I was told that he lived here.”

“Told? Told by whom?”

“By a little bird, actually.”

“A little what?”

“Bird. You know. Wings? Flapping like mad?”

There was a sudden crackle of static from a hidden speaker, and then Hawke heard a familiar voice fill the room.

“It wasn’t a nightingale that sang by any chance?” the disembodied voice said with a chuckle. “In Berkeley Square?”

Hawke immediately recognized the laugh. The interrogator turned and stared at the “mirror,” completely baffled at this interruption coming from someone behind it. And that someone was General Nikolai Kuragin.

“Yes,” Hawke replied cheerfully. “And the moon that lingered over Londontown? Poor puzzled moon he wore a frown?”

Laughter and then, “Good morning, Lord Alex Hawke.”

“A very good morning to you, General Kuragin.”

“Sorry about all this dreadful unpleasantness. And the rather uncouth reception you received from my gallant centurions at the gates. A little advance warning, perhaps?”

“Ah. Should have done. Frightfully rude. It was a last-minute thing, actually.”

The door swung open and Kuragin was standing there with a smile on his face. He’d not changed much. He was a skeletal figure of a man in his eighties, dressed in his customary sharply tailored black uniform. Made him look like a Nazi SS man, Hawke thought. He had sallow skin, almost yellow, and heavy-lidded deep-set eyes. “I’ve summoned a doctor down to take a look at those ribs. When he’s through with you, someone will escort you up to the library. It’s my office now. We’ll get you some breakfast served there. What would you like?”

“I could eat a horse, but I’ll settle for caviar. And toast.”

H alf an hour later, Hawke, his ribs taped up and Percocet or some other splendid painkiller flowing mercifully through his veins, found himself seated in the same beautifully appointed room where, three years earlier, he’d first met Anastasia’s father, the late Tsar of Russia.

The high-ceilinged walnut-paneled library was filled with books, art, and military mementos from the last three centuries. A magnificent equestrian portrait of Peter the Great in battle hung above the mantel. A roaring fire lent the high-ceilinged room a cozy intimacy, and the two men sitting on either side of the cavernous stone hearth were speaking quietly.

“Just out of curiosity, how long would you have let that interrogation go on?” Hawke asked Kuragin, a mildly curious expression on his face.

“Until I found out what I wanted to know, of course. What else would you expect? Having you appear out of thin air like you did. I don’t get a lot of visitors out here as you can well imagine. And the ones who do come from Moscow arrive by helicopter, not on foot.”