Ted Bell - Tsar

“What the hell?” Hawke said.

“It’s a race,” Anastasia said, suddenly at his side. “Watch out, Hawke, here comes the Hindenburg. ”

Now a second radio-controlled miniature airship came weaving its way between two of the flaming candelabras, the ill-fated zeppelin in hot pursuit of ZR-1, the German airship that had caused such destruction in London.

“Sergei, Maxim, please land your craft and come down and introduce yourselves to Alexander Hawke. He’s our guest, so be polite.”

“Where the hell are they?” Hawke asked, peering into the gloom. He couldn’t see another soul in the cavernous candlelit room.

“Up there,” Anastasia said, pointing to a balcony high above them. It was clearly where the choir and the dinner musicians had entertained during dinner.

Two identical boys leaned over the railing and waved down at Hawke. They were both good-looking, and both had shoulder-length blond hair.

“How do you do, sir?” the twins said in unison and in very good English. “Sorry, we’re racing!” one added.

“Very well, indeed,” Hawke called up to them. “Don’t mind me. Keep racing. Who’s winning?”

“The Hindenburg, ” one excited boy said. “She’s about to lap ZR-1! For the third time,” he added, laughing.

Hawke laughed, too, and said, “Come on, now, ZR-1, don’t humiliate yourself!”

Anastasia took his arm, saying, “I’ve located Father by telephone. He’s finished his concert, sadly, but is having brandy in his study. He’s most anxious to meet you.”

And off they went.

“Lord Alexander Hawke,” Count Ivan Korsakov said, striding across the Persian carpet, his smile as warm and radiant as the fire in the hearth. “I can’t tell you how delighted I am to meet you. My daughter has told me so much about you, I feel we’ve known each other for years.”

“Count Korsakov,” Hawke said, shaking the man’s hand. “The reverse is also true, sir. I’m honored. Most kind of you to invite me.”

“Has Anastasia shown you around? The two-ruble tour?”

“I haven’t had time, Papa,” she said, moving to her father and putting her arm around his waist. “We’re so sorry to have missed your concert.”

He glanced lovingly at her, and Hawke had a split second to appraise the man. Impossibly good-looking, mid-fifties, the light in his pale blue eyes otherworldly. In this man, the blood of the Golden Horde, the Tatar and the Boyar had mixed to good effect. He was broad-shouldered, tall, and lean, with shoulder-length snow-white hair. He was elegantly dressed for the evening in a nineteenth-century suit of dark blue velvet, with breeches and white stockings. His command of English was flawless, the Russian accent lightly applied.

“Were you brilliant at the keyboard, Papa? Incandescent?”

Korsakov kissed Anastasia’s brow. “I may have missed one or two complete passages, I suppose, but the audience feigned appreciation throughout. Brevity being the soul of after-dinner concertos, eh, Lord Hawke?”

“Alex will do, please, sir, if you don’t mind. I don’t use the title.”

“Those who stand on ceremony seldom deserve the platform.”

“Well said, Count Korsakov,” Hawke said, with a slight nod of the head.

“All right, Alex, what can I get you to drink?”

“Rum would be lovely. Gosling’s if you have it.”

“Gosling’s, of course. Spoken like a true Bermudian.”

He went to the drinks table, poured Hawke a beaker of black rum, and filled his own snifter with brandy from a heavy crystal decanter. “And you, my dear girl?” he asked his daughter.

“Just water, please. I’m not staying. I’ll let you two rivals for my affection battle it out in private. And may the best man win.” Hawke tried to smile at his lover’s father but could not catch his eye.

Hawke had spied a large painting over the mantel and wandered over to inspect it. It was similar to the one in Bermuda, same subject, but the setting was a fox hunt. Count Korsakov sat astride a splendid mount, dressed in a pink jacket, surrounded by his baying hounds. He squinted at the signature in the lower right corner and saw Anastasia’s distinctive swirling initials.

He thought of his own portrait, now apparently complete, which he’d not been allowed to set eyes on. No mystery there, he thought. He’d not be astride a great steed or dressed for the hunt or battle or anything else, for that matter. Bloody hell, what had he got himself into?

She came gliding up behind him, whispering, “Don’t stay up past my bedtime,” into his ear before turning to her father and saying, “Papa, I will see you at our usual breakfast. Perhaps we’ll go riding afterward and let Mr. Hawke sleep. He’s been on a tiresome journey, poor man.”

“Lovely. Sleep well, dear.”

She blew him a kiss, then pulled the ornate doors closed behind her.

Korsakov had taken one of the two leather armchairs on either side of the cavernous fireplace, and Hawke took the other, stretching his feet out toward the crackling logs.

The count raised his glass and said, “For your health, sir!”

“And yours, sir.”

They sipped in silence for a moment, and then Korsakov said, “I owe you an apology, Alex.”

“Really? What on earth for?”

“When I first learned you were seeing my daughter on Bermuda, I was deeply concerned. I’m very protective of her. She’s been badly hurt in the past, and I won’t let that happen again. I’m afraid I had you followed.”

“The Disciples of Judah are in your employ?” Hawke said mildly.

“For many years, yes. When I first came to Bermuda, many of the Jamaican immigrants worked on my banana plantation. Hardworking, loyal, very religious. Especially old Sam Coale, who was my tally man for decades. He, his children, and a few others eventually joined my private security force. Of late, they have become problematic. There were rumors of drug dealing, arrests, other scandalous misdeeds. You are no doubt aware of the sad fate of Hoodoo, a trusted employee and friend of long standing.”

“I am.”

“I’ve had Sam Coale and his two sons arrested for his murder and incarcerated in Casemates Prison. My friends in the local constabulary are building a strong case against them. The other inhabitants of Nonsuch Island, primarily rabble, have all been evicted. I consider the case closed. But again, I apologize for any inconvenience I may have caused you in the past.”

“Inconvenience? Only if one counts kidnapping, torture, and the destruction of a beautiful old yawl belonging to a friend of mine an inconvenience.”

Dark anger flared in the count’s eyes, but he said only a quiet “I’m so sorry. I was foolish to trust these men.”

“I see.”

Hawke regarded the man in a silence that lengthened to the point of discomfort. He was thinking of bringing up the issue of the Russian arms Hoodoo had stowed aboard the launch. After a moment’s consideration, he said, “You say Anastasia has been badly hurt. I want you to know that I care very deeply for your daughter and would never allow any harm to come to her.”

“I believe you,” Count Korsakov said, his hard, bright eyes never leaving Hawke’s.

“Would you mind telling me what happened? To Anastasia? How was she hurt?”

“She’s strong-willed, as you’ve no doubt noticed. Sometimes, frequently, her heart leads her head. She married a man wholly unsuited for her. I was vehemently opposed. I even threatened to disinherit her. But of course, that old ploy never works when they think they’re in love.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“At any rate, she had a short, unhappy marriage that ended in tragedy, all as I had predicted.”