Ted Bell - Tsar

“How did it end?”

“The man was killed. In a hunting accident.”

“How awful.”

“Yes. I actually saw it happen. We were in Scotland, shooting pheasant and partridge. I have a small shooting estate there, midway up the Spey Valley at the junction with the River Avon. Ballindalloch Castle? Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

“No, sorry.”

“No matter. At any rate, Anastasia’s husband was accidentally shot by one of my other guests. Shot to the head, died in the field before help could be summoned.”

“Horrible. Still, accidents happen, do they not?” Hawke forced a smile, not at all sure this had been an accident.

“Yes. But come, let’s talk of more pleasant things, shall we? These are precious holidays, meant to be festive. I understand you’ve started a new company on Bermuda. Blue Water Logistics, I think it’s called?”

“Indeed. I’m most excited about it. I’ve two young colleagues in the venture, Benjamin Griswold and Fife Symington. We’ve great aspirations, at any rate.”

“But your primary interests remain in London. Your family interests?”

“Yes. A large, diversified holding company. I’m trying to ease my way out of those responsibilities and have hired some splendid managers to remove most of the day-to-day burden. Blue Water allows me to live as I please on Bermuda with a new business challenge to occupy my mind.”

“You’re ex-military, are you not?”

“You seem to know quite a bit about me.”

“Does that surprise you? Given the circumstances?”

“Not really, no.”

“You were a Royal Navy man. A pilot? Held the rank of commander, I believe.”

“Yes. I flew Harriers. Saw some action in the first Gulf War.”

“And now?”

“Now?”

“You’ve severed your military connections?”

“Yes.”

That little three-letter affirmative hung in the air for a seeming eternity. Hawke and Korsakov seemed content to stare into the fire in silence, sipping their drinks, thinking their separate thoughts. Suddenly, Korsakov slapped his right knee and spoke up.

“I may drop by Blue Water one day, when I return to Bermuda. If that suits you.”

“I’d be delighted.”

“You know about these computers of mine? The Zeta machines? Popularly known as Wizards these days?”

“I daresay the whole world knows of them. You’re rather the Henry Ford of the computer era, you know.”

“Well, you flatter me, of course. But TSAR, my company, does ship millions of these things all over the world from our factories here and in China. Perhaps the Zeta might be of interest to your new logistics firm?”

“It certainly would.”

“I wonder. Have you any written material on your new enterprise? Any brochures or things like that I could peruse?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I’ll give them to you first thing in the morning.”

“Excellent. And now, I must confess, I’m a bit tired. It’s been a rather long evening. You could do with a bit of rest yourself after your travels.”

Count Korsakov got to his feet and raised his arms over his head, unable to stifle a surprisingly noisy yawn.

“I could sleep for a week,” Hawke said, rising as well, though in truth, his one-hour nap had completely refreshed him. Naps were the secret of life, as his hero Churchill had discovered during the war.

The count put his arm around Alex’s shoulder, and together they moved toward the door.

“One curious thing, Alex,” he said, pausing in midstride. “Speaking of shooting in Scotland. You’re a sportsman, obviously. I wonder. Do you ever visit the island of Scarp? Up in the Hebrides?”

“I do. I’ve an ancestral hunting lodge there. I do a bit of stalking now and then. Why do you ask?”

“My older brother Sergei, you see, was a great one for stalking. Tragically, he disappeared while on such a hunt. On Scarp, as a matter of fact.”

“On Scarp? Surely you must be mistaken. It is a very small island, mostly uninhabited. Only a few crofters and farmers. I’m sure I would have heard of his disappearance.”

“Oh, no, this was years ago, Alex. Back in the drear dark days of the Cold War.”

“How did he come to choose Scarp, of all places? Most forbidding place on earth.”

“Sergei was a Soviet intelligence officer, on leave from the military, and had sailed his small sloop to the island for a day’s stalking. We never saw him again.”

“Really? What year was this?”

“Oh, I hardly remember. Let’s see, October 1962 or thereabouts. We were impossibly close, my brother and I, and I miss him dreadfully. We were both away at a school in Switzerland, you see, just the two of us. Le Rosey, perhaps you’ve heard of it. The dormitory caught fire one night when I was about seven years old, Sergei was eleven. The old wooden building burned to the ground. Only the two of us boys survived. Sergei was badly burned saving my life. I owed him everything, and his loss haunts me to this day.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“Your father was a British naval intelligence officer, I believe, wasn’t he?”

“He was.”

“Probably did some stalking himself, I’d imagine, used the family lodge on Scarp from time to time?”

“He may well have. He was a great one for the outdoors. I was only seven when he died. I don’t recall hearing much about Scarp. There was a great stag he mentioned once or twice, a big red stag. That’s about all I remember.”

“Not called Redstick, was he? This red stag?”

“No. Monarch of Shalloch, he was called, I’m sure.”

“Hmm. Fascinating. Extraordinary to think that their paths might well have crossed at some point, isn’t it? Two Cold Warriors?”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Well, off you go, then. Sleep well.”

He pulled open the tall walnut doors. There was a man waiting in the hallway, looking as if someone should put him to bed. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked a bit unsteady on his pins. Frowning, he looked Hawke up and down and said, in furry English, “You’re the Englishman.”

“One of them, at any rate, sir. There are millions of us, you know.”

“Hmpf,” the man muttered, unamused.

“Vladimir, my very good friend,” Korsakov said with a forced smile. “Come in and have a drink.”

“Aha! There you are,” the man said angrily to Korsakov. “I’ve been looking all over for you. I’ll have a word, if you don’t fucking mind.”

“What did you say to me?” the count said, the words seeming to come from another being.

Hawke looked at Korsakov, astounded at the raw animalism in the man’s face. For the tiniest instant, his hard blue eyes flashed with the glint of incalculable malice. He’d caught only the briefest glimpse of what lay hidden beneath the polished veneer, the genteel mask of the philosopher king. But he had seen a monster, sacred and profane, a strange, arrogant, terrifying glimpse of evil at full throttle. Hawke believed that had he made a sudden, threatening move at that moment, Korsakov, like a dog, would have bared his teeth in a furious snarl.

When he looked again, the count was once more the picture of beneficent charm, so convincing that Alex wondered if he only imagined what he’d seen.

“Yes, yes, of course,” the count said, “First, please say hello to Alex Hawke, Vladimir. Alex, this is my old comrade, Vladimir Rostov.”

“Good evening,” the Russian said, badly slurring his words and not offering his hand.

“Good evening,” Hawke said, standing aside so that the man might enter Korsakov’s study. He recognized him now, the current president of the Russian Federation.

Once President Rostov was safely inside, the count quickly closed the door, and Alex was left standing alone in the great vaulted hallway. There was a good deal of shouting in Russian, and he desperately wished Ambrose were at his side translating. He heard the word Amerikanski a number of times, from both men, and so at least the subject matter of their violent disagreement was known.