Ted Bell - Phantom

Putin pulled on a pair of trousers and a wool sweater and was out the door of the owner’s stateroom and racing up the aft stairs to the pad as fast as he could. He emerged on deck and was relieved to see the main rotor blades and tail rotor on his helicopter already spinning, the powerful engines spooling up. He raced up the staircase to the pad and sprinted to the aircraft, leaping inside. His pilot, though stunned, had been trained for moments like this and was surreally calm and collected.

“Three more passengers,” Putin said breathlessly. “We’ll give them sixty seconds.”

Medvedev appeared moments later followed by Vice President Rosow. Both men were in pajamas and robes. Putin looked at his watch. Thirty seconds. Twenty.

“Get Captain Ramius on the intercom,” he shouted at his pilot.

Ramius’s voice came over the speaker. “Sir, I have never disobeyed a direct order in my life. But I cannot leave my ship without making sure my crew has disembarked to the last man. I apologize, sir.”

“He’s gone,” the pilot said.

“So are we,” Putin said. “Go! Go! Go!”

The silver chopper nosed down a few degrees as the pilot grabbed the cyclic.

“Maximum lift force,” Putin shouted and it was a good thing because just as the chopper rose into the air his yacht began blowing up right under his feet. The explosion rocked the aircraft violently sideways but not out of the air.

The shock wave actually shoved the helo upward, so that it barely stayed above the rising mass of flame and debris. The pilot, realizing he had less than a second to act before flying metal destroyed his aircraft, turned steeply, then used every ounce of thrust the powerful engines had to send his aircraft flying just above the surface of the water, away from the disintegrating Red Star at full throttle. When they were over the coastline, they climbed to a few thousand feet and returned to the scene where the fiery skeleton of Putin’s beloved yacht lit up the night sky with great plumes of orange, red, and yellow.

Putin felt a hollow feeling somewhere between his lungs and his stomach. He pulled out his mobile and punched in a number.

“Hello?”

“It’s me. Red Star is no more. I owe you one.”

“Yes, Volodya; I’m glad you’re safe.”

Putin looked down at the sea below, ablaze with flaming oil and fuel. No one could have survived this. No one.

The force of the three simultaneous nuclear explosions, heard for miles, knocked out windows all through the little port town of Portofino, including those in a little late-night bar called Ruffino where the three Russians were in the act of toasting their success with sloshing glasses of vodka.

London

A typically wet evening in London. The ceaseless patter of rain on the streets of Mayfair gleaming black and silver. Outside the Dorchester, doormen tried to whistle taxis up out of the darkness. Traffic was crawling through the narrow streets like one long glistening centipede with countless haloed eyes. Stuck in the middle of all this was an old grey Bentley. In the rear, Alex Hawke and Nell Spooner gazed out the rain-streaked windows at the rushing passersby huddled beneath their big black umbrellas.

It was Friday night. Their first “date.”

They seemed to have run out of conversation.

Hawke was drumming his fingers impatiently upon his knee.

“Henry,” he said, leaning forward to speak to his new driver, “I think if you take a left here on Audley Street, it might be a bit quicker.”

“Of course, sir. Sorry about the traffic.”

“Not your fault. It’s the bloody rain; it brings everything to a screeching standstill. I’ve never understood the concept. I just don’t want to lose my reservation. Taboori only has about eight tables.”

“I’ll do my very best, sir.”

Nell said, “Alex, how many blocks is it from here? Taboori?”

“I’d say five or six. Why?”

“I’m game for walking, if you are.”

“Walking? You’re barely off your crutches, Nell.”

“I think it would be good for me. I’m desperate for strength and balance exercise. And, besides, I love walking in the rain.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Henry, sorry, could you pull over? We’re going to hop out and walk the rest of the way.”

“Of course, sir,” he said, and pulled over to the curb. “At what time should I collect you?”

“Tenish would be good, thanks. See you then.”

They started walking up Audley Street in the direction of Grosvenor Square. The rain was misty now, but blowing into their faces beneath the umbrella Hawke held above them. He took her hand, squeezing it.

“You’re trembling,” he said. “Are you cold?” He put his arm around her shoulders, pulled her closer.

“If I’m trembling, it’s not weather related.”

“Sorry,” he said, quickly removing his arm.

“I did rather like the arm, though.”

He wrapped it once more around her shoulders and pulled her into him, the two of them cocooned beneath the big black umbrella.

“How do your legs feel?”

“Happy.”

“And you?”

“Happy, too.”

“Do you mind if we lose the umbrella? I think I might like walking in the rain, too. My mum used to say rain won’t hurt you unless you’re made of sugar.”

“Be brave. Go for it and see.”

Hawke paused on the sidewalk, collapsed the umbrella, and turned his face up into the gently falling rain.

“See? She was right, your mother. You’re not melting.”

They wandered on, blending into the Friday night crowd, hearing the music and laughter that wafted out of the opened pub doors. Hawke pulled her even closer to him.

“I-like you, you know,” he said.

“I know. It’s very nice.”

“Not far now. A few more blocks.”

“Tell me about your mum, Alex. Is she still alive?”

“No. She died when I was seven. My father as well.”

“How horrible. Accident?”

“Murder.”

“Oh, Alex. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

“Nobody does. It’s not something you can explain. Things happen. She left me a gift. She made me strong.”

Nell’s eyes glistened as she said, “ ‘The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of those you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.’ ”

“Ernest Hemingway.”

“Yes. A Farewell to Arms.”

A small table for two in the back. A flickering candle cast a glow on Nell’s face, while at his elbow an unintelligible waiter poured from a bottle of sparkling wine. Hawke had so many words bottled up inside he was afraid to open his mouth. He stared at her until she lowered her eyes, and then he stared at her lashes. The smells from the tiny kitchen intruded, strong and pungent.

“I hope you’re hungry,” he said, immediately regretting the pitiable triteness of the remark. The waiter arrived back at the table with the menus and saved him. Nell smiled and raised her glass. She said, “What shall we drink to?”

Hawke considered a second.

“Liking.”

“Liking?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, you mean liking, ” she said with a smile of recognition, and Hawke felt somewhat redeemed. “Yes, here’s to liking, Alex Hawke. Two people so desperately in like, they can barely speak to each other.”

Hawke laughed out loud, feeling the dam burst at last, and he reached across the white linen for her warm hand. What was it about her? Incredibly confident, with a way of moving and speaking that quietly declared she had no need of being told she was beautiful or worthwhile. She knew those things for herself, and that kind of self-possession drew him inexorably toward her.