Ted Bell - Tsar

“Having a splash of whiskey myself. Join me?” C said, his eyes drifting past the decanters on the sideboard and up toward the shelves of books rising to the octagonal skylight above. A narrow railed parapet ran around the room at the second-story level, looking hardly substantial enough to support a bird, much less a human being with a stack of books in his hands.

“No, thank you, sir.”

“Alex, I hate to disturb what is no doubt a pleasant interlude in your life. God knows, after your last assignment, you’ve certainly earned your respite. But I’m afraid we must speak about a situation that may require your involvement.”

He looked at Hawke, making him wait a beat. Both men knew perfectly well the precise three-word phrase forthcoming from the lips of the head of British Intelligence. He did not disappoint.

“Something’s come up.”

“Ah.” Hawke tried not to betray the pulse-quickening feeling that always accompanied hearing those three magic words from his superior.

“Are you fully recovered from your maladies? Jungle fevers gone? No recurrence?” His hard eyes regarded Hawke attentively. Hawke had very nearly died of an assortment of tropical diseases, including malaria, in the Amazon recently. There were some in C’s inner circle at the old firm who believed Hawke might never fully recover.

“Clean bill, sir. Never felt better, to be honest.”

“Good. I’ve made an appointment for you tomorrow morning with a friend of mine here on Bermuda. At St. Brendan’s Hospital.

Chap named Nigel Prestwick. Internist. Quite a good man. Used to be my personal physician in London before he came out.”

“I’d be happy to see him, sir,” Hawke said, trying to hide his irritation. He’d yet to meet the doctor who knew his body better than he did, but it was obvious C was taking no chances. Hawke was secretly pleased. This level of concern boded well for an interesting assignment.

“I very much doubt that. Your feelings about physicians are no secret. Nonetheless, your appointment is at nine sharp. No food or drink after midnight. After your physical, I’d like you to meet me out at the old Naval Dockyards. You’ll find a car and driver waiting outside the hospital. I’m looking at some real estate out there, and I would value your opinion.”

“Real estate, sir?”

“Yes. Let’s skip the chase and cut to the denouement, shall we?” C said, leaning forward and putting his hands on his knees.

“Fine with me.”

“It’s the Russians.”

“Back to the good old Cold War, are we?”

“Not yet. A lukewarm peace, perhaps. But it won’t last. There’s a distinct chill in the air.”

“A new turn for the worse?”

“You remember when Mother Russia was the sworn enemy of democracy and freedom?”

“I do.”

“She’s swearing again. Like a bloody sailor.”

“I’d really no idea.”

“Good heavens, Alex, have you read a newspaper lately? Turned on your television?”

“Don’t have a telly. And my reading pretty much centers around a pair of chaps named Huck Finn and Nigger Jim at the moment. I did hear something about critics of President Vladimir Rostov, journalists, getting bumped off at a rather alarming rate, but I’m afraid that’s about it.”

Sir David rose to his feet, clasped his hands behind his back, and began pacing back and forth in front of the hearth as if he were stalking the poop deck while enemy mastheads climbed the far horizon.

“These recent political assassinations are the tip of the iceberg. Our relations with the Russians have just about bottomed out. Last summer, Russia signed a billion-dollar arms deal with Hugo Chavez, the charming Venezuelan chap you had a run-in with recently. Chavez wasted no time in fantasizing aloud about using Venezuela’s new weapons to sink one of our aircraft carriers, the HMS Invincible, which is in the Caribbean at this time. Last week, the Russians delivered highly sophisticated SA-15 antiaircraft missiles to Iran. We know why, too. To defend Iran’s nuclear sites, a clear threat to the balance of power.”

“The new Russia’s sounding a lot like the old Russia.”

“If that’s not enough, the Sovs-excuse me, the Russians-are building a bloody billion-dollar Bushehr reactor for Iran, which will produce enough spent plutonium to produce sixty bombs minimum.”

“These are not our friends.”

“How much do you know about the Grey Cardinal and the Twelve?”

“Sorry? Grey Cardinal?”

“Kremlinese for Rostov. Tells you a bit about how he’s regarded.”

“Don’t know a great deal, sir. Ex-KGB. Strong, silent type. Cold as ice. Impossible to read.”

“Hardly. He’s a passionate, emotional man who is extraordinarily good at concealing his true feelings.”

“A good poker player.”

“As a matter of fact, yes, he loves the game.”

“I hope you’re not going to ask me to lure him into a few hands of five-card stud. Cards are hardly my strong suit, sir.”

A brief smile crossed C’s lips.

“Vladimir Rostov is not a democrat. Nor is he a Tsar like Alexander II, a schizophrenic paranoid like that pockmarked dwarf Stalin, or a religious nationalist like Dostoyevsky. But Alex, he is a little of all of these. And that is just what the Russians want in a leader right now. He is nashe, even though he frequently drinks Diet Coke instead of vodka.”

“Nashe?”

“Russian word for ‘ours.’ Symbolic for the new Russian pride in all things Russian. A reaction against the groveling, humiliating embrace of Western culture during the nineties, guilty embarrassment at being caught at a McDonald’s wolfing down a Big Mac, slurping Pepsi instead of quaffing vodka like a true Russian. Listening to the Dixie Chicks on the radio.”

“I would also imagine it is quite refreshing not to have your brave leader stumbling around the Kremlin knocking over the samovars.”

C smiled. “I miss Yeltsin, actually. Look here, I have our abbreviated Rostov dossier, which you can read at your leisure. But let me give you a quick sketch as a basis for our immediate discussion. Vladimir Vladimirovich Rostov, known popularly as Volodya, was born into a poor working-class family in 1935. Both parents were survivors of Hitler’s brutal nine-hundred-day siege of Leningrad. His two brothers were killed by the Nazis and his father grievously wounded in the defense of the city. These were prime motivators in his decision to enter the intelligence game.”

“So, he hates the Germans. That could be useful.”

Trulove nodded, happy to note that Hawke was already thinking ahead. He said, “At age fifteen, Rostov saw a film, The Sword and the Shield, which glorified a Soviet spy’s exploits inside Germany during the war. He tried to join the KGB at age sixteen. Just marched into the local headquarters and asked to sign up. They turned him down, obviously, and told him to get a university degree, study law and languages. He did, and they recruited him upon graduation from Leningrad State University.”

“He finds espionage romantic,” Hawke said, rubbing his chin.

“What?”

“I’ve seen that film you mentioned. Very romantic portrayal of the fearless Soviet double agent, alone, deep inside the Reich, stealing secret documents to sabotage German operations. In other words, accomplishing single-handedly what whole armies could not.”

C took a sip of his whiskey.

“I wonder, do you find it romantic, Alex? Espionage? The black arts of derring-do?”

“Not even slightly.”

C’s eyes registered approval, and he continued, “Tall, thin, and delicate in appearance, our little Volodya, at age ten, fell prey to neighborhood bullies. He began a lifelong study of sambo, a Soviet combination of judo and wrestling. He was deadly serious about it. Still is, actually. He earned black belts in both sambo and judo and nearly made the Olympic team. A year after earning his international law degree and joining the KGB, he became judo champion of Leningrad. I mention all this only because I think it provides a vital clue to his true personality.”