Ted Bell - Tsar

But Fancha was already in the head with the door closed, changing her outfit. Didn’t hear him.

Stoke’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket.

“Hello?” he said, flicking it open.

It was Harry Brock. Calling from Moscow, where it had to be the middle of the night.

“Stokely, you watching this? Television? CNN?”

“Yeah, Harry, I’m watching. Happy the Baker.”

“Damn right, our old pal Happy the Baker from the birthday party in the Grove. Jesus Henry Christ. Happy the freaking bomb baker. He blew up that town, Stoke. That’s all there is to it. Why else would he be there?”

“Why the hell does he blow up a whole town?”

“Good question. How soon can you get out there?”

“To Salina?”

“Of course, Salina. You’re the only one on the planet who knows this guy on sight. Knows what he looks like, talks like. I need you out there now, Stoke. Is there a problem?”

“I’m onboard the Pushkin, about to take off. Check out this Tsar operation on the airship going to Stockholm. With Fancha. I told you about it. She wants me-”

“Stoke, listen carefully. Ever since the party, I’ve been looking hard at your boy Happy. He is a Russian-American. A made mafiya assassin from Brooklyn. His real name is Paddy Strelnikov. He’s undercover KGB, is what they’re saying at Langley. The bombing of Salina was intended to look like an Iranian operation. A group calling itself Arm of God. But it’s not Iranian, damn it, that doesn’t make any sense. The ayatollahs are scared shitless of the U.S. right now. So, maybe it really is a goddamn KGB operation. Fucking Russians, I wouldn’t put it past them these days. Anyway, look, I want you to get out there and find Happy’s fat ass or find out where he went. Find him, and bring him in. The Russians might be making some kind of move, Stoke, a big move. This might be part of it. That’s all I can tell you now, okay?”

“I’m on my way.”

“Get this guy, Stoke. He’s critical. One more thing. Before he blew up the town, he murdered the mayor and her family in their beds. Husband. Two little kids. Left a cell phone with a phony Arabic message on one of the corpses. That information has not been released to local law enforcement.”

“Christ,” Stoke said.

“You’re going?”

“I’m gone.”

The phone went dead in his hand just as Fancha opened the door to the head. She’d changed into a beautiful turquoise skirt and blouse. She’d never looked prettier. That smile, the one he loved, the one that meant she was happy. She spun around, and her skirt flared out like a ballerina’s.

“Hey, baby, why isn’t that champagne opened yet? This girl is thirsty.”

“Oh, yeah. I should have opened that. Sorry.”

“Stokely, honey, you don’t look so good. Is something wrong?”

“Yes, baby. Something is wrong.”

“How wrong?”

“Really wrong. Bad wrong.”

“You’re not going with me.”

“No, honey, I’m not. I can’t.”

She turned around and went back inside the bathroom and closed the door. Didn’t slam it. Just closed it. And locked it.

Stoke picked up his unpacked suitcase and rapped softly on the bathroom door.

“Fancha? I’m sorry, baby. Let me explain.”

No response. He pressed his forehead against the door and spoke softly.

“Baby? I’m so sorry. Let me just kiss you good-bye. Okay? Please.”

Nothing.

“It’s business, honey. National security. What am I supposed to do?”

He could hear her in there, sobbing.

He left the stateroom without another word, pulling the door closed behind him, seriously disgruntled.

War isn’t hell, he thought to himself, charging angrily down the corridor to the airship’s aft elevators.

Hell, no.

Sometimes it was much, much worse.

Korsakov’s winter palace was plainly visible now, countless lighted windows winking through the dark, snow-laden forests. The blisteringly fast troika flew across an arched wooden bridge spanning the frozen river. The sleigh went airborne for a long moment at the top, and Hawke found the speed, the fierce cold, the ringing sleigh bells, and the snow-spangled forests sparkling in the starlight exhilarating.

He glanced at Anastasia, sliding his cold hand under the fur throw and placing it on her warm thigh. She slid closer to him, never taking her eyes off the hindquarters of the three flying horses. She watched their every movement, like a pilot casting her eye over her instrument panel, and whispered corrections as they flew over the landscape at impossible speeds. Hawke was mesmerized by her art, her precise skills at something he’d never known existed.

“How much of this enchanted forest is Korsakov property?” Hawke asked. For the last half-hour or so, there had been endless miles of dry-stacked stone walls and small cottages in neatly fenced fields. Now a high yellow wall lined the left side of the snowy lane.

Asia laughed. “Alex, you were on Korsakov land two hours before your train arrived at Tvas station.”

“Ah. Sizable holdings.”

She cast a quick smile in reply and flicked the reins.

“Not really. We used to control all of Siberia-Storm! What’s gotten into you? Pay attention! Lightning, get along with you! Turn! Turn! We’re home at last!”

Nothing had prepared Hawke for the sheer grandeur of the Korsakov winter palace.

The troika suddenly careened off the snowbound country road and raced under a great arch of stone and wrought iron, the entrance a heavily filigreed black arch surmounted by golden two-headed eagles. The horses, now in sight of their stables, surged ahead beneath the snow-packed allée of trees leading to the palace.

The sense of power and opulence only grew as they got closer. It seemed too vast to be practicable as any kind of home. Hawke couldn’t even guess at how many rooms, but it dwarfed a European’s notion of parliaments and museums. And every window was ablaze with light.

“A party?” Hawke asked. “Just for me?”

“A dinner and concert,” Anastasia said. “Five hundred guests.”

“Only five hundred? Cozy.”

“Half of Moscow is here.”

“Really? Which half?”

“The half that counts. The half holding the reins of power. My father means something to this country, Alex. He stands for the New Russia. Strong, powerful, fearless. They revere him here, Alex. He’s like a-a god. Like a-”

“Tsar?”

“That’s not as far-fetched as you might think.”

Hawke looked at her a moment and decided to let that one pass. “Are you as hungry as I am? Near starvation?”

“We’re too late for the Christmas feast, but we can enjoy some of the concert, perhaps. And no, the party is definitely not for you. We’re celebrating Papa’s Nobel award and the coming debut of his new symphony.”

The sleigh careened into a large snowy courtyard, and Anastasia reigned in her three chargers. The trio swerved to a stop at the foot of a wide set of steps, the runners throwing up a great shower of glistening snow. A host of liveried footmen instantly surrounded them, helping both Anastasia and Hawke to step down from the ice-encrusted sleigh and whisking Hawke’s luggage away. Considering its contents, he would have preferred to carry it himself, but it was too late.

Hawke stood for a moment, stomping his boots on the hard-packed snow, trying to get some feeling back into his feet.

Anastasia stood stroking Storm’s mane as grooms covered the other two horses with blankets and led them away to the stables. She was quietly giving orders to a tall bearded fellow, obviously the man in charge. Once they were alone again, mounting the broad stone staircase to the main entrance, she whispered, “I instructed Anatoly to put you in the Delft Suite on the third floor. It adjoins my own rooms with a connecting door. I hope you don’t find that too forward of me.”