Ted Bell - Tsar

She was going to die now without saving her children.

“Good night,” he said. But instead of pulling the trigger, he brought the butt of the gun down hard on the top of her head.

SOMETIME LATER, SHE opened her eyes. She was in her bed, her head on a blood-soaked pillow. She tried to move her hands, but they were tied to something. Bedposts. Feet, too. The baker had pulled the chair up next to the bed, facing her. He had the metal drum in his lap. She couldn’t see his face anymore because of the mask. It had two glass eyes and a protruding round mouthpiece that made him look like a giant insect.

“Know what your surprise is?” she heard him say through the mouthpiece, lifting the drum. His voice was distorted, making him sound like a computer recording or something. Her head hurt terribly, and she wanted him to go away. She hurt in another place too, and knew that he’d abused her while she’d been unconcious.

“No,” she murmured, “please.”

“It’s a sleep machine,” she heard him say.

“What does it do?”

“Puts people to sleep. Either for a few hours or forever, depending on the strength of the formula. It’s new. I’m testing out different strengths for my company. Your family is helping out with our little experiment.”

“Oh. Strengths of what?”

“Same stuff we used on the Chechens in the Moscow theater siege. Remember that? We pumped it into the theater through the air-conditioning system to disable the Chechen terrorists. Kolokol 1, the stuff is called. An opiate-derived incapacitating agent. What I’m doing, my job here, is testing the various levels of lethality for use in a hostage-rescue situation. At this level, my guess is it takes effect very rapidly. Certainly with children. Probably within ten seconds or so with adults. We’ll see.”

“Oh,” she heard herself say again.

“I’m turning it on now.”

She heard the click of a switch and the whirr of the little fan on the lid.

She fought the restraints, twisting and turning her body on the bed, feeling the thin plastic cuffs cutting into her wrists, her ankles, knowing it was useless but fighting it until she had nothing left.

He watched her, looking down at her struggles with amused detachment.

Exhausted, she let her head fall back against the pillow, felt hot tears running down her cheeks, looking up at the monster looming over her bed, defeated.

“What about my-what about my children?”

“Already sound asleep,” he said, taking a clear plastic nose cone attached to a long hose and placing it over her nose and mouth. She screamed again and twisted her head violently from side to side, holding her breath, knowing she couldn’t allow this stuff down into her lungs, because if she did, she would surely just…

A moment later, she was asleep forever, too.

Pippa Guinness stuck her pert blonde head inside the door of Hawke’s new office at Blue Water Logistics. The Dockyard offices were nice enough. His own space was bright and airy, a corner office on the top floor, with sunny views on two sides overlooking the open ocean to the north and Hamilton Harbor to the south. On the ramparts, huge cannons stared out to sea. Furniture was a bit “moderne” for Hawke’s taste, but it looked appropriate for a start-up enterprise, he supposed. Eventually, he’d fill the empty shelves with books and ship models, and that would help.

“Alex? They’re almost ready for you in the Tank. C says ten minutes?”

Hawke and Harry Brock both looked up and nodded in her direction. She was wearing a short pink linen skirt and a tight-fitting blouse opened at the neck, and Hawke was viscerally aware of Brock’s spiking blood pressure.

“Ten minutes,” Pippa said again, smiling sweetly at the two men seated by the window, and then she pulled the door closed behind her.

“Who the living hell was that?” Harry Brock asked Hawke. Harry was leaning back in the ultramodern leather and steel Eames chair. His feet, shod in wildly inappropriate flip-flops, were propped up on the black leather ottoman covered with newspapers, sailing and motorcycle magazines, a few shipping trade papers, and copies of Tatler and The Spectator.

“That?” Hawke said, affecting an air of boredom. “That, Harry, was Pippa Guinness. Why do you ask?”

“Why do I ask? Are you kidding me? That is the single most gorgeous piece of ass on the big blue planet, and you are asking me why ?”

“She has her good points.”

“Two at the very least. That is one tasty little creampuff, boss.”

“A creampuff made on a welding machine,” Hawke replied, skimming through his folder for the upcoming meeting.

“What’s she do around here, anyway? And don’t tell me that’s your secretary. I will have you killed, m’lord.”

“She runs the joint, actually.”

“I thought you ran the joint.”

“I do. Off the books. But Pippa is the acting chief of station. I plan to travel a lot, as you know. She’ll mind the store while we’re in Russia. Ambrose, when he recovers enough to leave his wheelchair, will pitch in as well.”

Harry clasped his interlocking fingers behind his head and started singing, “Back in the U.S.S.R., boys, you don’t know how lucky you are, boys,” he said, almost getting the Beatles tune right.

“Yeah. It’s been a while for me. I’m guessing Moscow has changed a bit.”

Harry laughed out loud.

“You will not believe your eyes, comrade. The Communist Party World Headquarters is now a dilapidated two-story dump on a side street. They serve warm champagne in the lobby, trying to get people to come inside. Read all the fascinating Stalin, Lenin, and Trotsky FAQ brochures.”

“I wonder what the most frequently asked question about Trotsky might be.”

“As if anyone had any questions at all anymore.” Harry laughed. “Right across the street is the new Ferrari-Maserati dealership. Much better brochures over there, believe me.”

Hawke smiled and got to his feet, glancing at his watch.

“How’s Stoke doing down in Miami, Harry? Happy?”

“Over the moon. His fiancée just got this big movie deal, but I’m not so sure about the two guys she’s signing with. The fucking Russian oligarchs bought the whole Miramar motion-picture studio with cash and are signing every beauteous babe in Miami, Vegas, and La-La.”

“Have they actually made a movie yet?”

“Hell no. But she’s signed on to do some singing gig on an airship. Flying with a bunch of celebs across the Atlantic. Something to do with the Nobel Prize, I think.”

“Airship?”

“Yeah. Called Pushkin . Carries seven hundred passengers. Most amazing damn thing you ever saw.”

Hawke looked at Brock but didn’t say anything. Airship?

“Let’s go, Harry. Doesn’t pay to keep the king waiting.” Hawke slipped into the grey and white seersucker blazer that he’d hung on the back of the door.

“The king? Is there a problem between you and your boss I should know about?”

“Yeah. Pippa. She’s driving me crazy. Always looking over my shoulder. But I can’t do a damn thing about it right now. C wants her here to keep an eye on things. Which means keep an eye on me, basically.”

“Want me to take her off your hands?”

“How would you do that, Harry?”

“Offer her a glamorous new life as the new Mrs. Harry Brock. Take her away from all this.”

“I thought you were already married.”

“My divorce finally came through. Only took seven years. It’s high time I married somebody else I hate and gave her a house.”

“But you were obviously in love with the Brazilian special forces woman we met in the Amazon. Saladin’s sister, Caparina. Now, there was a woman, Harry.”