Ted Bell - Tsar

“Anything interesting come to mind?”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

The two men sat side by side in silence, puffing and sipping and thinking. It occurred to Hawke that he and Comrade Putin were getting just the slightest bit pissed. It was quite pleasant, actually.

Suddenly, Putin sat forward on the cot.

“I’m going to show you something I’ve never shown to another guest down here. Take it as a measure of my trust and respect.”

“What is it?”

“The other room.”

“The other room?”

“Watch and grow wise,” Putin said, and pulled a slender remote-control device from beneath his fried mattress. He pressed a button, and a razor-thin rectangle of light appeared in the wall opposite the bunk where the two men sat. There was a pneumatic hiss, and a large section of stone swung out from the wall, revealing a small, lighted room beyond.

“Wonders will never cease,” Hawke said, becoming convinced that they would not. He was still alive, for one thing. He was sitting in a dungeon sharing a bottle of vodka with the former prime minister of the Russian Federation. And the new princess of all Russia was pregnant with his child. Wondrous.

“What’s in there?” Hawke asked.

“My lead-lined room. Constructed in total secrecy and at vast expense with the help of my jailer. The man who brought you down here is on my payroll. Former KGB assassin who worked for me in East Germany. Looks like a common thug, dumb as a post, but he’s actually quite brilliant.”

“What’s in it, your secret lead vault?”

“Hmm. A real bed. Music and DVDs. My books and a few mementos. And a small refrigerator full of good vodka and a quantity of golden Sterlet caviar.”

“And your plan for my salvation is?”

“There’s also a satellite telephone. So I might maintain communication with my underground commanders, even now planning my triumphant return to power.”

“And might I use this telephone? Call in the cavalry?”

“You are such a clever fellow, Hawke. Yes, you may use it. It’s in the top drawer beside my bed. One call. You’d better make it a good one.”

Hawke got to his feet. “I might actually get out of here,” he said, smiling at Putin.

“Vastly preferable to a sharp stake up the sphincter, I assure you, Lord Hawke.”

THREE HOURS LATER, Hawke was shivering in the yard, crouched in a darkened alcove beneath one of the watchtowers, freezing his butt off. The sky above was shot pink with the approaching dawn. No sound could be heard from the poor devils in the orchard of death. Frozen stiff during the night, if they were lucky. He looked at his watch. He should have heard something twenty minutes ago. Where the hell was the cavalry?

He heard the approaching chopper before he saw it, the deep thrump-thrump-thrump announcing some helo’s imminent arrival. Harry? Let it be Harry. Please.

Guards emerged from stations on the wall, machine guns slung from their shoulders. One raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes, tracked the approaching chopper for a few moments, and then signaled okay to his comrades. They immediately retreated back inside the warmth of their tower stations. Okay? Why would they signal that? This was a bloody rescue attempt, wasn’t it?

No.

Damn it to hell!

The helicopter, Hawke saw as it flared up over the yard, did not look remotely like anything Harry Brock would be flying. No, it was a Russian Army Kamov Ka-50 Black Shark, bristling with antitank missiles and 30mm machine guns hung from small mid-mounted wings amidships. A damn Russian military chopper! Where the bloody hell was Harry?

When the pilot was six feet from touchdown, a typhoon of snow in his downdraft, someone flung open the starboard-side passenger door.

And inside, beckoning to him, was a wildly grinning Harry Brock.

Hawke stayed low and bolted through the shadows across the yard, head down, sprinting beneath the spinning rotors. A second door on the right side popped open, and Hawke dove inside, not even waiting for the jet-black combat chopper to land. He caught a glimpse of the guards on the walls, peering out the windows. One or two raced outside and along the parapet, shouting something inaudible, lost in the wind and roar of the chopper’s powerful engines spooling up.

The helo pilot immediately lifted off, banked hard, and roared out over the wind-whipped Gulf of Finland, heading toward mainland Europe.

“Harry, you crazy sonofabitch, how did you pull this one off? A Russian Army combat helicopter? These are pretty tough to come by for American civilians.”

“You think those guards back there would have let me land a Bell Jet Ranger with the stars and stripes on the tail?”

“No, but I mean, how the hell, Harry? Seriously.”

Brock hooked his thumb toward the rear of the chopper. “Ask her royal highness back there, boss. Daddy’s little princess gets what she wants.”

Anastasia, dressed in a fleece-lined Army jumpsuit, was waiting in the rear. Hawke scrambled aft and almost landed in her outstretched arms. She pulled him to her. He was shaking with the cold, and he embraced her, letting her warmth and fragrance begin to wash away the ugly images of the last twelve hours.

“My poor darling,” she said, holding him at arm’s length. “I was so terrified. I couldn’t reach Papa to tell him about your ridiculous arrest until a few hours ago. He was outraged. Whoever did this to you will be severely punished, Papa will see to it.”

Hawke was considering how best to respond to this bit of awkwardness when he heard Harry say, “I gotta ask one question. They allowed you an effing phone call from inside that burned-out freak-house?”

“Not really allowed. It’s a long story.”

Brock said, “Anastasia was with me when you called my cell phone. We were having a drink at the Metropol bar, figuring out who to invite to your funeral. Short list, you’ll be sad to learn.”

“Funeral postponed indefinitely,” Hawke said, reaching forward to squeeze Harry’s shoulder. “Thanks, old buddy, I definitely owe you one. Where are we headed?”

“No rest for the weary,” Harry said, turning around in his seat. “We’re going direct to Ramstein Air Base in Germany. Two FA-18 Super Hornets are gassing up right now to take us to Bermuda. We hook up with Stokely on the ground there.”

“Why on earth are we going to Bermuda?”

“Hostage-rescue mission, boss, all I can say. It’s too noisy to talk in here,” he said, casting a meaningful glance at the Russian Army pilot. “I’ll fill you in when we get on the ground at Ramstein.”

“And what about you, darling girl? Are you coming to Bermuda?” Hawke asked Anastasia, taking her hand and holding it to his cheek. The Gulf of Finland, garlanded with wind-blown whitecaps, was disappearing beneath the chopper at an amazing rate.

“No, darling, I can’t. I’m returning to Moscow. A gala reception for my father tonight at the Facets Palace inside the Kremlin, and then we board the airship in a day or two for the short flight to Stockholm. For the Nobel ceremony, you know?”

“I hear he’s the new Tsar,” Hawke said, with a heartiness that rang with terrible falsity in his ears. “You must be very proud.”

“It’s so wonderful, Alex. Not for him but for my country. Russia will be a great nation once more,” she said, beaming at him. “The first Tsar to receive a Nobel. I am so very proud of him. Promise me you’ll come that night, Alex! Come to Stockholm for the Nobel dinner? I’ll save a seat for you.”

“Of course I’ll come, Anastasia. If you want me there, I will be there.”

“Might be a lot of empty seats at that Nobel ceremony,” Harry Brock said, looking meaningfully at Hawke, but neither Alex nor Anastasia had any idea what he was talking about. Hawke let it go. Clearly, Harry had a great deal to tell him. He’d just have to wait and find out what when they landed at Ramstein.