Ted Bell - Tsar

“Wow.”

“In a word, yes. Wow. That mast tower up there was originally intended to be a dock for mooring airships back in the 1930s. However, after several futile attempts at mooring a zeppelin in the strong winds present up here at 1250 feet of altitude, the idea was scrapped. So, Mr. Strelnikov, you and I have the honor of witnessing a very historic moment.”

“How many passengers will it carry?”

“Exactly one hundred. Just like the late Concorde aircraft. But our passengers will travel in a great deal more comfort and style, I promise you.”

“How fast?”

“A bit slower than the Concorde,” the little guy said with a smile. “She’s capable of 150 miles per hour. Considerably faster than the new Queen Mary 2 , I might add, if one’s crossing the Atlantic as she’s just done.”

“I think I just found your wife,” Paddy said, grabbing the little guy’s elbow. A huge red-haired woman in a black sequined gown was plowing through the crowd and headed straight toward them, murder in her eyes. “Thanks for the info, Doc. I’ll be seeing you around.”

“No!” Shumayev whispered, “Please don’t go. Just stay with me for a few minutes, all right? Until she calms down?”

You had to feel sorry for a guy who needed a bodyguard around his wife. He said, “Yeah, okay. But it’s going to cost you, Dr. Shumayev.”

“Anything. What can I do?”

“When all the excitement dies down, I’d like a guided tour of that thing. The Vortex 1 . Could you arrange that?”

“Consider it my privilege, Mr. Strelnikov,” he said as the lady arrived.

Mrs. Shumayev was one unhappy camper. She was opening her wide, red-painted mouth to let her hubby have it when the little guy interrupted.

“Dearest, this is my colleague, Mr. Strelnikov. I was just about to invite him to join us aboard TSAR for the demonstration flight out to Long Island tomorrow morning.”

“Say what?” Paddy said.

“Where the hell have you been?” the irate woman said in Russian. “I step into the powder room for two seconds, and-”

Paddy Strelnikov gave her his best smile and said, “It’s my fault, Madame Shumayev. I’m with security. I thought there was a threat situation here, and I removed your husband until we got it cleared up. So-hold on a sec.” Paddy spoke into the sleeve of his jacket and cupped one ear, listening intently to a nonexistent earbud. “What’s that? All clear? Good.” He smiled. “All clear now, Doctor. It’s safe for you and your wife to go up to the platform now.”

“Thank you, Mr. Strelnikov,” Shumayev said. “Your concern for our safety is deeply appreciated.”

“TCB,” Paddy said, and headed back to the bar for another cocktail. “TCB.”

“Lovely day for it, Cap,” Hawke’s driver said, looking back at his passenger with a huge white smile. He was a handsome young Bermudian police cadet officer named Stubbs Wooten. Attached to the British consul’s office in Hamilton, Wooten had been assigned by C to fetch Hawke from St. Brendan’s Hospital.

Now they were driving west out along the South Road in the direction of Somerset Village. They had passed the venerable resort at Elbow Beach and the lovely old Coral Beach Club, and were en route to what Bermudians called the West End. There, at the very tip of the island, stood the Royal Naval Dockyard.

Having risen early and endured the physical ordered by his superior, Hawke was now scheduled to meet C at the Dockyard at eleven o’clock. He had half an hour, which Stubbs assured him was plenty of time.

The ocean, periodically visible on their left, was brilliant blue, and only a few white clouds drifted in over the island from the west. Their route took them past the Southampton Princess Hotel, a huge pink palace sitting atop a hill overlooking the Atlantic. Just beyond, Hawke could see the soaring white tower of the Gibb’s Hill Lighthouse, built of cast iron in 1846 and providing comfort to seafarers ever since.

But Hawke wasn’t interested in sightseeing at the moment. He was far more interested in the noisy black motorcycle some hundred yards behind him. He thought he was being followed.

“I wonder, Stubbs,” Hawke said, craning around once more to look over his shoulder at a lone motorcyclist. “Did you see that chap on the bike back there in the parking lot at St. Brendan’s Hospital?”

Stubbs studied the fellow in his rearview mirror.

“No, sir. But I did notice he’s been following us quite a while. A Jamaican, I think. Rasta gang member, possibly. You think something’s wrong, sir?”

“I think he was parked up in the trees by the emergency entrance. I’m fairly sure I saw him when I came out to meet you.”

“Possible, sir. You want me to lose him?”

“When is the next turning off this road, Stubbs?”

“We got Tribe Road Number Three coming up on the right. ’Bout half a mile now.”

“Good. Turn into it, and stop the car. Let’s see what this fellow does.”

“You got it, Cap,” Stubbs said, clearly enjoying this bit of drama. He loved his job, the important people visiting his island whom he got to meet, but it was seldom exciting.

Stubbs didn’t signal his turn or even slow much, just suddenly braked and jerked his wheel hard right. The little sedan threatened to go up on two wheels as it negotiated the hard turn. As soon as they were safely around, Stubbs stood on the brakes and skidded to a stop on the side of the road.

As the dust settled around the car, Hawke kicked open his rear door and said, “Wait here, Stubbs. I’ll see what he wants.”

“Are you armed, sir?” Stubbs asked.

“Yes, why?”

“Because some of these Rastafarian gentlemen will be armed, sir. Watch out for him. He most likely has a knife. Maybe a gun.”

The cyclist, caught short by Stubbs’s sudden maneuver, almost lost it. But he stayed upright and managed the turn without a spill. He braked to a stop, eyes on the man standing in the road, hands in his pockets, smiling at him. Without a word, the biker splayed his long legs out on either side of the bike and stared insolently at the tall white man now coming across the road toward him.

“Morning,” Hawke said, looking around as if taking in the beautiful day. The biker was dressed like a typical Bermudian tough. Jeans, motorcycle boots, and an oversized jersey with Emperor Haile Selassie’s image plastered on the front. Masses of gold chains around his neck. Chunky gold watch that looked real enough.

He was young, maybe twenty-five, Hawke thought, and had the build of a serious prize fighter. One who still worked out with the bag or in the ring on a regular basis. His nose was as flat as his face. Massive upper-body strength, lean with well-developed arms, quads, and lats, and riding a very expensive Triumph motorcycle. He was either dealing drugs or working for someone who paid him large sums to do the odd, violent favor.

“I said good morning,” Hawke repeated, taking another step toward the bike.

The kid didn’t reply, just leaned back on his seat and slowly removed his helmet, shaking his head as he did so. Dreadlocks suddenly exploded from under the black helmet and fell to his shoulders. He smiled for the first time, revealing a mouth full of golden teeth.

“You got a bad driver, mon. I serious. Him very dangerous.”

“What’s your name?”

“My name? Desmond. Don’t try to lose me like that again, mon. It won’t work. I stick to you like glue on glue.”

“Now, why on earth would you want to do that, Desmond?” Hawke asked, his right hand gripping Desmond’s handlebar and wrenching the front wheel hard left so that the bike was immobilized.