Ted Bell - Tsar

Hawke could hardly believe the vision the head of SIS presented. And there was a woman with him. Blonde and very good-looking, in a simple linen shift of lime green that did little to hide her spectacular figure. It was certainly Pippa Guinness, he thought, squinting in the sunlight, one of C’s closest aides at MI-6 in London. Although he could not have explained why, Hawke was both surprised and not surprised to see her. The bad-penny principle, he supposed.

“Sorry to be late, sir,” Hawke said, shaking C’s hand. “Spot of bother on the road.”

“Spot of bother?” Sir David said.

“Minor irritation.”

C’s idea of tropical attire threw Hawke a bit. It was difficult to take a man in such costume seriously. Hawke was accustomed to seeing Sir David in a crisp foulard tie and a three-piece worsted number in either navy or dark grey from Huntsman of Savile Row.

C said, “You remember our Miss Guinness, don’t you, Alex? Guinevere Guinness? You two were on special assignment together, as I recall. Florida, wasn’t it?”

“Of course. How could I not remember Pippa, sir? She’s unforgettable. How do you do, Miss Guinness? Lovely to see you again.”

Hawke had been intimately involved with the woman during a previous mission that had taken them both to Key West. She was an intelligence analyst at MI-6, assigned to Hawke at a Caribbean security conference. They’d had an ill-advised fling and had not parted on the best of terms. He waited for her response with some curiosity. He imagined she felt hard done by and wouldn’t blame her if she did.

“Hello, Alex,” Pippa Guinness said, smiling as if she were actually happy to see him. A strange girl, indeed. The first time he’d seen her, she’d been one of the Garden Girls, working for the prime minister at Number 10 Downing Street. The last time he’d laid eyes on her, she was storming down the gangplank of his yacht Blackhawke , in tears.

“Anything serious? On the road, I mean?” C said, interrupting the awkward silence that followed their exchange.

“Young thug on a motorbike followed me from the hospital. I had a chat with him and convinced him it was unwise to continue.”

“Followed you. I don’t like the sound of that.”

“I’ve got a name. I’ll look into it.”

“Do that. Let’s get started, shall we? Miss Guinness and I think we’ve found just the spot.”

“After you, sir.”

C led the tour. “The first two floors are devoted to the Maritime Museum. Wonderful displays, you should see sometime, Alex. Bermuda war history. We’ve taken over the entire top floor with permission of the Bermuda government.”

C led them down a corridor and up three flights of beautiful Bermuda cedar stairs. Having attained the top floor of the building, Hawke saw that the abundance of tall French doors, windows, and warm sunlight made it far more hospitable than the ground floors.

“Here we are,” C said, a broad smile on his face. “What do you think, Alex? The new headquarters for our secret nest of spies?”

“Lovely views,” Hawke said. It was true. The views were to the south, across the South Channel toward the entrance to Hamilton Harbor. Sailboats, fishing boats, and ferries plied their way over the smooth blue surface of the Great Sound.

“Yes. I thought our chaps could take this end of the hall. Griswold and Symington, the two young MI-6 fellows I mentioned bringing over, will have their offices down there near yours. And I thought we’d put the Yanks down there at that end.”

“The Yanks, sir?”

“Didn’t I mention that? This is to be a joint operation with our friends at Langley. We could hardly afford to go it alone on our budgets, and since we’ve clearly a common interest, Director Brick Kelly at the CIA has agreed to a goodly portion of the funding. He’s picking someone now, a top American field operative who would liaise with you on Red Banner. Kelly envisions a secret allied counterterrorist training camp here. He’s even trying to get the Pentagon to recommission the Dockyard’s old sub pens and base one of their Atlantic Fleet attack subs here. SSN 640, the former USS Benjamin Franklin. ”

“I think it’s all brilliant, sir,” Pippa said, favoring C with her winning smile and then looking at Hawke. “Don’t you agree, Alex?”

“Are you planning to spend some time here on Bermuda, Miss Guinness?” Hawke said, his voice cracking slightly despite straining for nonchalance. Before she could open her lovely mouth, C spoke for her.

“I’ve asked Miss Guinness to be administrative head of Red Banner, Alex. Reporting to you, of course, should you decide to accept this assignment.”

“Ah. Yes. Quite.”

C looked at him and smiled. “What have you decided, Alex?”

Hawke looked at Pippa, smiling up at him with a combination of mirth and mischief in her beautiful eyes. He was trapped, and she knew it. Still, the job C offered was an important one. The more he’d considered C’s offer during a restless night, the more inclined he was to accept. Red Banner section would be a good way to serve his country perhaps more substantially than he had done previously. Perhaps even more rewarding than some of his last efforts on behalf of the service. He realized he’d already made up his mind. And it was too late to change it.

“Well, Alex?”

“I’d be honored, sir. I’m very flattered that you and the firm put such faith and trust in my abilities.”

“Splendid!” C said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “A good decision, Alex. Well, it’s nearly lunchtime. I think a bit of celebration is in order, don’t you both agree? There’s a lovely pub out here, just opposite the Maritime Museum. Called the Frog and Onion. Shall we all stroll over and have a tot of rum?”

“Oh, let’s do!” Pippa said, gazing not at C but at Hawke.

“Of course we should,” Hawke said with as much joviality as he could muster, wondering what in God’s name he had just gotten himself into.

He would learn soon enough.

Paddy felt a slight heaviness in his heels and knew that the airship must be climbing. He glanced out the nearest window and saw that they were angling upward, the sunlit towers of the Manhattan skyline pivoting away as they left the midtown mooring behind and headed out toward Long Island. So, he’d missed the whole departure thing, too, throwing off the lines and the TV crews and media people on the platform waving good-bye, et cetera.

Hell, he was news. For the first time in his whole freaking life, he was news. And he’d missed it.

He was also completely lost. He’d begun the tour along with his new best pal, Dr. Shumayev, and a bunch of journalists, everybody oohing and aahing over the luxurious interior appointments aboard the corporate flagship. He’d been at the back of the group and had stopped to admire a beautiful model of the Hindenburg , about six feet long, inside a glass case. This was on the B Deck, in the Atlantis reception lounge, where blonde babes in blue uniforms served coffee and Danish before the grand tour began.

Anyway, when he looked up, the group had left him alone, and he’d decided to just wander around on his own, see what he could see. It was cooler, actually, than tromping around like a bunch of ducks, listening to the ship’s purser (what the hell was a purser, anyway?) explaining everything in a whole lot more detail than he really needed. Looking at one of the passenger suites, the purser had informed them that all linen aboard was Egyptian cotton with a thread count of more than 1,200! Really, 1,200? Sign me the hell up!

So he set off on his own, heading aft along a wide corridor lined to his right with almost floor-to-ceiling windows. It was called the Promenade. Every five feet was a comfy-looking leather chaise facing the outward-slanting windows, little round tables in between. Light was pouring in, and a couple of windows were slid open a foot or so, and there was a nice chilly breeze blowing through. The views of Long Island Sound were spectacular.