Ted Bell - Tsar

“You’ve never been?”

“No. C’mon.”

They walked quickly forward to the prow and descended a staircase leading to the chained-off bow. One of the ferry crewmen, apparently recognizing Harry, opened the chain and let the two men move forward to the “Crew Only” section.

“Why the star treatment, Harry?” Hawke asked.

“I’m kind of a regular.”

Moments later, they saw the beautiful old colonial house high on the hillside loom up out of the mist and rain.

“Lovely,” Hawke said. “Just the way I’ve always imagined it.”

“Did you know Washington was the architect?”

“I did not.”

“Designed the whole damn thing himself. Not as elegant as Jefferson’s Monticello, maybe, but I like it better.”

“Me, too. What’s in the bag, Harry?”

Brock held up the large dark green plastic shopping bag he was carrying. “This? Top-secret spy shit. I’ll show you later.”

THE TWO MEN climbed a steep footpath that led up the hill through the old Virginia woods. Far above them to the right, Hawke could see the red rooftop and the white cupola of Washington’s home. The dirt path was strewn with rocks, slippery with mud, and fairly hard going. Hawke noticed that none of the other passengers aboard the Miss Christin had chosen this difficult route to the top.

“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” Hawke asked after a few minutes’ climbing. “The house seems to be the other way.”

“Trust me, okay? I’m a professional.”

They eventually came to a tiny open area in the woods, paved with mossy stone. A small brick structure with black wrought-iron gates stood against a thick backdrop of barren winter trees.

“What’s this?” Hawke asked.

“Washington’s Tomb. Not very grand, is it?”

“Grandeur wasn’t his style, from what I’ve read.”

“First time I came here, I was nine years old, and this place was completely overgrown with ivy. Nobody around, just an old guy standing at that gate there, gazing inside, tears running down his cheeks. I asked him why he was crying. Said his name was Timonium. Said he was descended from slaves Washington freed in his will. He said this was the grave of his true father.”

Now, instead of weeds and overgrown ivy, the area was manicured and well kept. There was even a small security booth off to one side of the tomb. An elderly black man in uniform was standing inside. He waved at Brock and stepped out to greet him, raising a small black umbrella over his head.

“Mr. Brock, a pleasure to see you as always, sir.”

Harry shook his hand and said, “Come say hello to my friend Alex Hawke. He’s from England. Came all this way to pay his respects to the general. First-time visitor.”

“Pleased to have you with us, sir,” the old black man said with a shy smile.

“Pleased to meet you as well. What’s your name, sir?” Hawke asked.

“Timonium, sir. And welcome to Mount Vernon. Let me open up the general’s vault for you, Mr. Brock. I know you’re most anxious to pay your respects.”

Timonium had a big brass ring of keys, and he used one large black one to open the heavy gates. Hawke saw a simple white marble sarcophagus in the middle of the small dark vault and felt a sharp chill run up his spine as he gazed at the final resting place of perhaps the greatest leader of men who’d ever lived.

“Let’s go inside,” Harry said quietly.

Hawke followed him into the dark tomb. There were two crypts inside. The plain white one to the left was the resting place of Martha Washington. The adjacent one, with a carved eagle crest, belonged to the general. Hawke felt another shiver up his spine and knew it wasn’t the damp and cold.

“I’ll only be a moment,” Harry said. “You can stay if you like.”

Harry bent to one knee beside the white marble crypt and opened the bag he’d brought along. Inside was a beautiful wreath of fresh olive branches. He placed the wreath atop Washington’s sarcophagus. Timonium stood watch just outside the gate, his umbrella folded, his head bowed in reverence.

Harry whispered a few inaudible words, his right hand reverently placed on the marble. Hawke found himself so moved by the sight that he, too, lowered his head. Placing his hand on the cold white marble, he found his own words of thankfulness come quite easily to mind. He was, after all, American on his mother’s side, and here lay an American hero for all time.

Harry rose to his feet and moved to the front of the crypt, peering into the gloom. There in the shadows, Hawke saw a leather courier’s portfolio resting against the base of the tomb’s rear wall. Hawke finally understood why Brock had brought him here. The Yanks were using Washington’s Tomb as a dead drop.

“Thank you for that, Harry,” Hawke said, visibly moved, as they walked out into the misty rain.

A few feet outside the vault was an old iron bench, placed there for quiet meditation. Hawke and Harry Brock sat there now, quietly watching Timonium lock up Washington’s Tomb before heading back to his station.

“Your orders?” Hawke asked, looking at the courier’s pouch resting on Harry’s knees.

“Yours and mine, Alex. There’s a fat Langley envelope in here for you, too. From the director, no less.”

“If you know what’s in it, tell me now, Harry. I’ll read the rest later on the plane.”

“Bottom line, we’re likely to be going to war with Russia again. Not now but soon. I’m sure you know most of this. We’re both going to have to scramble to rebuild our espionage network operations, and fast. Back to levels we had at the height of the Cold War. Lot of spade work ahead, old buddy.”

“Time to invoke your old ‘Moscow Rules’ again, eh, Harry?” Hawke asked with a smile, knowing how much Harry Brock loved rules of any kind.

The list of famous Cold War CIA survival stratagems had been developed by American clandestine operatives trying to stay alive for one more day in an extraordinarily hostile environment. The most famous of the rules, “Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee,” had been borrowed from Muhammad Ali.

“Fuck the Moscow Rules. There are no rules in Moscow. Not anymore. The only rule that will work now is, ‘We win, they lose. Period.’”

“Yeah. But to win, you’ve got to have boots on the ground. You don’t, and neither do we, partner.”

“No shit. For twenty-five years, they’ve chained our spies like dogs to a stake, and now that the damn house has been robbed, we get yelled at for not protecting them. Jimmy Carter, in his infinite wisdom, decided the best way to gather international intelligence was to use spy satellites, since, after all, you could see a license plate from two hundred miles up. Very helpful if you’ve been attacked by a license plate. But we’re being attacked by humans, and you can’t find humans with satellites. You have to use other humans.”

“Like us, Harry. We’ve got to find out fast who’s still usable on the ground,” Hawke said, thinking the thing through. He hadn’t been to Moscow in years. All of his former contacts there were surely long gone. It would not be easy.

Harry said, “CIA thinks the notorious gang of Twelve may be secretly planning a coup to overthrow President Rostov. Too doveish, I figure. Once he’s gone, they move troops and tanks into the old Eastern European republics.”

“That’s hard intel? What’s the psychology of these damn people?”

“Inferiority complex. That’s the trigger. These old Soviets, they see the U.S. running around the world playing planetary police, telling everyone what to do. And frankly, they don’t like it. They’re personally tired of being pushed around. Witness their reaction to us putting missiles into Poland and Czechoslovakia. On the flip side, they see our president as seriously distracted all around the planet, and they want to strike while the iron is cold.”