“Sorry to be late, sir,” Hawke said, shaking C’s hand. “Spot of bother on the road.”
“Spot of bother?” Sir David said.
“Minor irritation.”
C’s idea of tropical attire threw Hawke a bit. It was difficult to take a man in such costume seriously. Hawke was accustomed to seeing Sir David in a crisp foulard tie and a three-piece worsted number in either navy or dark grey from Huntsman of Savile Row.
C said, “You remember our Miss Guinness, don’t you, Alex? Guinevere Guinness? You two were on special assignment together, as I recall. Florida, wasn’t it?”
“Of course. How could I not remember Pippa, sir? She’s unforgettable. How do you do, Miss Guinness? Lovely to see you again.”
Hawke had been intimately involved with the woman during a previous mission that had taken them both to Key West. She was an intelligence analyst at MI-6, assigned to Hawke at a Caribbean security conference. They’d had an ill-advised fling and had not parted on the best of terms. He waited for her response with some curiosity. He imagined she felt hard done by and wouldn’t blame her if she did.
“Hello, Alex,” Pippa Guinness said, smiling as if she were actually happy to see him. A strange girl, indeed. The first time he’d seen her, she’d been one of the Garden Girls, working for the prime minister at Number 10 Downing Street. The last time he’d laid eyes on her, she was storming down the gangplank of his yacht
Blackhawke
, in tears.
“Anything serious? On the road, I mean?” C said, interrupting the awkward silence that followed their exchange.
“Young thug on a motorbike followed me from the hospital. I had a chat with him and convinced him it was unwise to continue.”
“Followed you. I don’t like the sound of that.”
“I’ve got a name. I’ll look into it.”
“Do that. Let’s get started, shall we? Miss Guinness and I think we’ve found just the spot.”
“After you, sir.”
C led the tour. “The first two floors are devoted to the Maritime Museum. Wonderful displays, you should see sometime, Alex. Bermuda war history. We’ve taken over the entire top floor with permission of the Bermuda government.”
C led them down a corridor and up three flights of beautiful Bermuda cedar stairs. Having attained the top floor of the building, Hawke saw that the abundance of tall French doors, windows, and warm sunlight made it far more hospitable than the ground floors.
“Here we are,” C said, a broad smile on his face. “What do you think, Alex? The new headquarters for our secret nest of spies?”
“Lovely views,” Hawke said. It was true. The views were to the south, across the South Channel toward the entrance to Hamilton Harbor. Sailboats, fishing boats, and ferries plied their way over the smooth blue surface of the Great Sound.
“Yes. I thought our chaps could take this end of the hall. Griswold and Symington, the two young MI-6 fellows I mentioned bringing over, will have their offices down there near yours. And I thought we’d put the Yanks down there at that end.”
“The Yanks, sir?”
“Didn’t I mention that? This is to be a joint operation with our friends at Langley. We could hardly afford to go it alone on our budgets, and since we’ve clearly a common interest, Director Brick Kelly at the CIA has agreed to a goodly portion of the funding. He’s picking someone now, a top American field operative who would liaise with you on Red Banner. Kelly envisions a secret allied counterterrorist training camp here. He’s even trying to get the Pentagon to recommission the Dockyard’s old sub pens and base one of their Atlantic Fleet attack subs here. SSN 640, the former USS
Benjamin Franklin.
”
“I think it’s all brilliant, sir,” Pippa said, favoring C with her winning smile and then looking at Hawke. “Don’t you agree, Alex?”
“Are you planning to spend some time here on Bermuda, Miss Guinness?” Hawke said, his voice cracking slightly despite straining for nonchalance. Before she could open her lovely mouth, C spoke for her.
“I’ve asked Miss Guinness to be administrative head of Red Banner, Alex. Reporting to you, of course, should you decide to accept this assignment.”
“Ah. Yes. Quite.”
C looked at him and smiled. “What
have
you decided, Alex?”
Hawke looked at Pippa, smiling up at him with a combination of mirth and mischief in her beautiful eyes. He was trapped, and she knew it. Still, the job C offered was an important one. The more he’d considered C’s offer during a restless night, the more inclined he was to accept. Red Banner section would be a good way to serve his country perhaps more substantially than he had done previously. Perhaps even more rewarding than some of his last efforts on behalf of the service. He realized he’d already made up his mind. And it was too late to change it.
“Well, Alex?”
“I’d be honored, sir. I’m very flattered that you and the firm put such faith and trust in my abilities.”
“Splendid!” C said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “A good decision, Alex. Well, it’s nearly lunchtime. I think a bit of celebration is in order, don’t you both agree? There’s a lovely pub out here, just opposite the Maritime Museum. Called the Frog and Onion. Shall we all stroll over and have a tot of rum?”
“Oh, let’s do!” Pippa said, gazing not at C but at Hawke.
“Of course we should,” Hawke said with as much joviality as he could muster, wondering what in God’s name he had just gotten himself into.
He would learn soon enough.
P
addy felt a slight heaviness in his heels and knew that the airship must be climbing. He glanced out the nearest window and saw that they were angling upward, the sunlit towers of the Manhattan skyline pivoting away as they left the midtown mooring behind and headed out toward Long Island. So, he’d missed the whole departure thing, too, throwing off the lines and the TV crews and media people on the platform waving good-bye, et cetera.
Hell, he was news. For the first time in his whole freaking life, he was
news.
And he’d missed it.
He was also completely lost. He’d begun the tour along with his new best pal, Dr. Shumayev, and a bunch of journalists, everybody oohing and aahing over the luxurious interior appointments aboard the corporate flagship. He’d been at the back of the group and had stopped to admire a beautiful model of the
Hindenburg
, about six feet long, inside a glass case. This was on the B Deck, in the Atlantis reception lounge, where blonde babes in blue uniforms served coffee and Danish before the grand tour began.
Anyway, when he looked up, the group had left him alone, and he’d decided to just wander around on his own, see what he could see. It was cooler, actually, than tromping around like a bunch of ducks, listening to the ship’s purser (what the hell was a purser, anyway?) explaining everything in a whole lot more detail than he really needed. Looking at one of the passenger suites, the purser had informed them that all linen aboard was Egyptian cotton with a thread count of more than 1,200!
Really, 1,200? Sign me the hell up!
So he set off on his own, heading aft along a wide corridor lined to his right with almost floor-to-ceiling windows. It was called the Promenade. Every five feet was a comfy-looking leather chaise facing the outward-slanting windows, little round tables in between. Light was pouring in, and a couple of windows were slid open a foot or so, and there was a nice chilly breeze blowing through. The views of Long Island Sound were spectacular.
Nice place to hang for a couple of hours or the rest of your life. Paddy could imagine it when there were passengers aboard. The ship was already sold out for its maiden crossing to England, the purser had informed them.
Maiden voyage? As in, all virgins? Hey, I’m in.
He could see all the swells sitting here, sipping their tea and reading novels or whatever they did. Nice way to travel across the Atlantic, he thought, skimming along a few hundred feet above the waves at 150 miles an hour, listening to the latest beach book on your iPod.
Yeah, one day, he just might have to spring for a trip on this beauty.
He came to the end of the Promenade. A glass door slid open, and he was in some kind of reading and writing room. There were comfy armchairs scattered around and also little desks with old-fashioned blotters and inkwells and stationery with a big red T engraved at the top.
Tsar.
Great name for a great ship, he had to admit.
Next was a kind of foyer with a staircase and another hall branching off that must have connected to the other side of the ship. He peeked inside a leather-padded door marked “Odeon.” It was a little jewel box of a movie theater with red velvet seats and two golden dolphins over the screen. He kept going straight and found the gym, typical exercise bikes and treadmills and shiny weight machines all along the windows. Personally, he didn’t see the kind of people who would book a flight on this thing being all that interested in sweat. More interested in the wine-and-cheese buffet, he’d bet.
And finally, as far back as you could go, there was a shiny silver elevator door with bronze dolphins carved into it. What the hell, he’d already seen what was up front. He pushed the button, and the doors slid open. There were a total of five decks, two below him and two above him. He pushed the top button.
Going up, ladies’ lingerie.
“Private,” the big guy in the black suit said when the doors slid open. “Didn’t anybody tell you? No press allowed.” He was holding a small Glock submachine gun loosely at his side. He had a single gold stripe on each sleeve of his jacket. Private army. Ex-Russian special forces, had to be.
“Sorry. I’m freaking lost here.”
Paddy reached for the button, and the doors had started to close when the muscle man stuck his foot out and automatically opened them again.
“Hold on a second,” the guy said. “You’re not Paddy Strelnikov?”
“Dimitri Popov?”
He knew the guy, all right. Gone to high school with him in Brighton Beach. Then his family had moved him back to the Soviet Union. Last time he’d seen Dimitri, it was on TV. Barbara Walters was interviewing him in Athens after he’d won the gold in Olympic wrestling for the Russian Federation.
“All-Beef Paddy!” Popov said, “Yeah, how you doin’, player? Come out here, talk to me. It was you went out and blew up that prison in the boondocks, right? That was some sick shit, huh? Sixty jerkoff cons on Death Row catching the train on the same night? I loved that! And you know what? I wasn’t the only one to think so. You got friends in high places, my man.”
“Yeah, well.”
“Listen, I’m not supposed to do this, but you want a quick look-see around? This is some serious shit up here.”
“What about your elevator?”
“I’ll lock it. Got a remote right here. There. Game’s locked, throw away the key, remember?” He dropped the remote back into his pocket.
“What’s up here?”
“The man, baby. This whole deck is his private world.”
“Ivan?”
“Count Ivan Korsakov, baby. Who else?”
“He’s a count?”
“Fuck no. He’s a god. Come on, there’s a bar down this way. I’m on duty, but I can get you a Bloody Bull. You look like you could use a little eye opener.”
“Jet lag.”
“You know what cures that? Pussy. We got that up here, too. In spades.”
P
ADDY DRAINED THE
last of his second Bloody Bull and put the glass down on the mahogany bar. The bartender, a Ukrainian girl named Anna who was a dead ringer for Scarlett Johansson, whisked his glass away and said, “One more?”
Paddy shook his head and turned to Dimitri. “So, let me get this straight. You’re saying you think I could get a job working for the man? I mean, directly?”
“Man, I know you could. I’m telling you, he just lost his closest security guy in that latest assassination attempt three months ago in Moscow. Driving out of Red Square. This guy was more than muscle, he was the man’s last surviving brother. In real life, his real brother, is what I’m saying. Lifelong best asshole buddies. The brother took a stomach full of lead for the man. Now he’s got nobody.”
“What about me?”
“What about you?”
“I’m nobody. Backstreet borscht with a gun.”
“Fuck that! Man, he
knows
you. He knows exactly who you are. That prison thing? Shit, I was in the screening room watching CNN with him the night you showed the world the true meaning of Death Row, man. You should have seen him light up. I’d be surprised if he doesn’t carry your laminated picture around in his fuckin’ wallet. And sinking that Japanese trawler up in Alaska? C’mon, Beef. You think he doesn’t know who’s out there getting his personal shit done for him every day? He knows
everything,
man.”
“Taking care of business,” Paddy said, twisting his ring around so he could see the lightning bolt. “TCB.”
“Straight up. Yeah. And you know what else, I personally think you should have a little talk with him.”
“What?”
“Talk to him. See if he likes you. Why the fuck not?”
“He’s here?”
“Of course he’s here. You think he checked into the Plaza? This is where he lives half the time. Look, I’m going to call him, all right? Tell him you’re aboard, that we’re old friends and shit. You down with that?”
“Dimitri, hold on a second. What about you? Why don’t you take the job?”
“Are you kidding me? I live in a flying pussy palace, Beef! I ain’t going anywhere. Ever. Don’t move, I’ll be right back.”
“You going to call him?”
“Hell, yeah, I am.”
He left. Paddy said to Anna, “I gotta tell you, the views from this thing are unbelievable.” He was staring down at forests of swaying treetops just below. The Pine Barrens, he thought, and that must be the Peconic River over there. Yeah, that’s what it was, all right. They were about sixty miles from the city. A leisurely voyage, and so damn
quiet!
“I’ve got the best office in the world,” Anna said with a shy smile.
“You sure do. Tell me something, Anna, at what altitude does the
Tsar
sail?”
“Oh, right now, I’d say we’re cruising at about six hundred fifty feet. That’s our normal altitude when the winds allow. The captain likes to fly so the passengers have a view.”
“We’ll keep to that all the way out to Montauk?”
“If the winds hold. Normally, we would climb higher if the currents were more favorable aloft. But we’re not trying to get anywhere in a hurry today.”
“How high can you go?”
“Maybe four thousand feet.”
“Anybody ever tell you what a pretty smile you have?”
“Occasionally,” she said, laughing.
“You live on this thing?”
“Of course. It’s my castle in the sky.”