Ted Bell - Tsar

“Delicious,” Asia said, putting the napkin to her red lips.

“Tell the chef,” Hawke said, smiling, “I think he’s already completely in love with you.”

“You don’t say? Silly me. Here I was, all the while thinking it was Pelham who cooked the dinner.”

“Very funny,” Hawke said, smiling at her.

“Bad joke. Anyway, it’s you he loves, Alex, not me. You’re very lucky to have such a kind and obviously devoted friend. To Pelham.”

She raised her glass, and he his.

“Anastasia, since the other day, that…stormy afternoon, I just want to tell you that I haven’t been able to-”

“You know what? Sorry. Let’s please change the subject, all right?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I think we’re talking about us, Alex. Let’s not talk about us tonight. I’m afraid of us. Scared to death of it. And it’s already far too romantic out here, anyway. So tell me about you, your life. What you do. I thought you were a simple beachcomber, a lost soul without two rubles to rub together. But I don’t think so anymore. Who are you, Alex Hawke? Tell me who you are, what you do.”

“Do? My friends all claim I wake up in the morning and God throws money at me.”

She laughed out loud at that one.

He sipped his wine, looking at her above the rim. Her dark blonde hair in the candlelight, the chunks of gold at her earlobes, her green eyes gleaming. She was lovely, but she needn’t worry. He wasn’t in love with her. How could he be? Love was strictly reserved for the innocent.

“Alex?”

“Yes?”

“I asked you a question. Tell me who you are.”

“Oh, yes. Sorry. Well. No one special, really. Another perfectly ordinary English businessman. Half American, to be honest. My mother was an actress from Louisiana.”

“An ordinary businessman? I don’t think so. Your body has too many suspicious scars for a businessman.”

“Oh, that was just a bit of nasty business. I got shot down over Baghdad. I got a taste of Iraqi hospitality before I checked out of my suite at the Saddam Hilton.”

“And now just an ordinary businessman.”

“It’s true. You should see me marching around the City with my tightly rolled umbrella and my battered briefcase. My family has a number of interests, none of which interests me very much. I’ve managed to hire enough captains of industry to steer the various ships without me. So I came out here to Bermuda for a while. Decided I liked it. I’ve actually got a small company here, a start-up. Blue Water Logistics. Quite exciting, really.”

“Logistics. It’s one of those words I’ve never really understood. What does it mean?”

“Fairly straightforward. People, future clients all, I hope, make various things. Things that need to get moved around the planet. Sometimes huge numbers of things at great expense. Pipe for pipelines. Nuts and bolts, steel and timber, oil. You make it, we move it. That’s my new motto.”

“You should meet my father. He makes a good many things. You might find him a good client for your Blue Water.”

“What does he make?”

“He’s an inventor, primarily. A scientist. He invented a computer cheap enough for the whole world. Called the Zeta machine. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

“The Wizard? I’ve got the latest one sitting on my office desk in London. Amazing little gadget. Changed the world. He invented that? You must be very proud of him.”

“He’s an amazing man. The most brilliant on earth, I think. A scientist. A humanist. A philanthropist. He’s made billions and given most of it away. He’s built schools and hospitals, not just everywhere in Russia but in every corner of the earth. India, Africa. He uses his money to try to make the world fit his view of it.”

“What is his view of it?”

“A natural philosopher’s view. That mankind should be in harmony, like planets orbiting stars, electrons around neutrons, like nature itself. That there should be peace, equilibrium, order. That the clouds of war need never blot out the sun.”

“A romantic idealist.”

“Perhaps. You might decide differently if you met him.”

“I should like that very much. Where does he live?”

“In the sky.”

“Ah. So he is God.”

Asia laughed. “No. He has an airship. A very special one that he designed. She’s called Tsar, which is the acronym of his scientific company, Technology, Science, and Applied Research. He travels the world aboard her. Of course, he has houses everywhere, including one here on Bermuda that you may have seen.”

“The converted fortress on Powder Hill. So that’s what the big mast is for. To moor his airship?”

“Yes. He spends some time here. And some years ago, he was kind enough to give me Half Moon House, where I live and work part of the year.”

“Where are you from, Asia?”

“Russia, obviously. I grew up in the country. A large estate we have outside St. Petersburg. It’s called Jasna Polana, which means ‘Bright Meadow.’ Tolstoy called his country house that, too. My father is a great admirer of Tolstoy. We have a lovely palace there. Orchards, meadows, stables, many streams. Do you shoot? Fish?”

“I do, occasionally.”

“Then you must come and stay with us. You and Father could have a nice business talk. Would you like that?”

“I think I should like it very much indeed.”

“Good. Consider yourself invited.”

“Asia?”

“Yes?”

“Stay here tonight. Stay with me.”

“What is that song playing now?”

“‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.’ The most beautiful song ever written.”

“And who is singing?”

“Charles Aznavour.”

“Shall we dance, Lord Hawke?”

“Please don’t use that title.”

“I forgot. Only Pelham is allowed to use it. Get on your feet and dance with me, Hawke.”

“I should be delighted.”

“Yes, you should be.”

A SMALL WINDOW directly above Hawke’s head proved accessible to sunrise; a fiery parallelogram now appeared on the far wall. The room was filling to the ceiling with the oils of sunrise, light containing extraordinary pigments, washing the whitewashed stone walls around Hawke’s bed with brilliant shades of gold and pink. He loved waking up in this room.

“Are you awake?” he asked her in the stillness of the early morning, stroking her thick golden hair. Her head was still on his chest, right where she’d last fallen asleep.

“Hmm.”

“Thinking of going for a swim.”

“Hmm.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Maybe later,” she said, her voice furred with sleep.

“No, now. It can’t wait. I have to ask you about Hoodoo.”

“Poor Hoodoo. A lovely man. He’s dead. Murdered.”

“I know. I’m trying to understand why.”

Asia sat up in the bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “What they said in the paper. You read it. He was killed by those awful Jamaicans living out on Nonsuch Island.”

“Yes, but why was he there?”

“It wasn’t in the papers?”

“No. You tell me.”

“My father sent him. To deliver a warning. My father wants those people off that island. It’s a nature sanctuary. They are living there illegally.”

“Why didn’t your father call the police?”

“My father never calls the police. He prefers to handle things himself. Besides, the police wouldn’t do anything anyway. My father says someone at the top in Government House is taking money from the Jamaicans. That’s why they’re allowed to stay.”

“I heard a rumor there were illegal weapons involved. That the murder was an arms sale gone awry.”

“Hoodoo? Selling weapons? Ridiculous. People say anything to sow discredit upon my father. I stopped listening long ago.”