A
small rectangular patch of blue had caught his eye. It lay on the sand, a few yards to his right. Raising his torso and supporting himself on his elbows, he eyed the offending item. Detritus washed in from the sea? No, clearly not. It seemed that while he’d slept, serene in his
sanctum sanctorum,
some invidious invader had arrived and deposited a blue towel on his shore.
The thing had been scrupulously arranged on the beach by the silent marauder, at right angles to the surf, with four pink conch shells at the corners to hold it in place. There was, too, in the middle of the dark blue towel, a fanciful K richly embroidered in gleaming gold thread. Above the initial was a symbol he thought he recognized, a two-headed eagle. A rich man’s beach rag.
Bloody hell. No sight of the owner. Where had he got to, this cheeky Mr. K? Off swimming, Hawke supposed. Why, of all places, should he drop anchor here? Surely, the sight of another man—a nude man, for God’s sake—sleeping peacefully here on the sand would be enough to encourage an intruder, this K whoever the hell he may be, to look elsewhere for solitude?
Apparently not.
At that moment, a woman appeared from the sea. Not just a woman but perhaps the most sublimely beautiful creature Hawke had ever seen. She emerged dripping wet. She was tall, with long straight legs, skin tanned a pale shade of café au lait. She was not quite naked. She wore a small patch of white material at the nexus of her thighs and, over her deeply full and perfect pink-tipped breasts, nothing at all.
She wore a pale blue dive mask pushed back above her high forehead, and damp gold tresses fell to her bronzed shoulders. He had never witnessed such raw animal beauty; her presence as she drew near seemed to give him vertigo.
She paused in mid-stride, staring down at him for a moment in frank appraisal. Her full red lips pursed in a smile he couldn’t quite read. Amusement at his predicament?
Hawke cast his eyes warily at the mangrove branch some ten yards away. His faded red swim trunks hung from a bare branch among the round, thick green leaves. Following his gaze, the woman smiled.
“I shouldn’t bother about the bathing suit,” she said, her wide-set green eyes dazzling in the sun.
“And why should I not?”
“That horse has already left the barn.”
Hawke looked at her for a long moment, suppressing a smile, before he spoke.
“What, if I may be so bold, the bloody hell are you doing on my beach?”
“
Your
beach?”
“Quite.”
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
She was carrying a clear plastic drawstring bag containing what looked to be small pink conch shells and other objects. Hawke also noticed a line looped around her waist, strung with a few small fish. His eyes had been far too busy with her extraordinary body to register the spear gun in her right hand.
“Look here,” Hawke said, “there are countless coves just like this one along this coast. Surely, you could have picked—”
“The shells here are unique,” she said, holding up the bag so it caught the sun. “Pink Chinese, they’re called.”
“No kidding,” Hawke said. “Do they come in red as well?”
“Red Chinese? Aren’t you the clever boy?” she said, laughing despite a failed attempt at a straight face.
For the first time, he heard the Slavic overtones in her otherwise perfect English. Russian? Yes, he thought, suddenly remembering the double-headed eagle above the monogram, the ancient symbol of Imperial Russia.
She continued to stare down at his naked body, and Hawke shifted uncomfortably under her unblinking gaze. The intensity of her stare was causing an all too familiar stir, both within and without. He thought of covering himself with his hands but realized that at this late juncture, he would only appear more ridiculous than he already did. Still, he wished she’d stop looking at him. He felt like a bloody specimen pinned to the board.
“You have an extraordinarily beautiful body,” she said, as if stating a scientific fact.
“Do I, indeed?”
“Light is attracted to it in interesting ways.”
“What on earth is that supposed to mean?” Hawke said, frowning. But she’d spun on her heel in the sand and turned away.
She strode lightly across the sand to the blue towel and folded herself onto it with an economy of motion that suggested a ballet dancer or acrobat. Crossing her long legs yoga-style before her, she opened the tote bag and withdrew a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. Then a slender gold lighter appeared in her hand. An old Dunhill, Hawke thought, adding
rich girl
to his meager knowledge base. She flicked it and lit up, expelling a thin stream of smoke.
“Delicious. Want one?” she asked, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.
He did, badly. “You must have missed the ‘No Smoking’ sign I’ve posted out there in the surf.”
No response to that. She plucked one of the violently pink shells from her bag, dropped it onto the sand beside her, and began sketching it in a small spiral notebook. She began whistling softly as she drew and soon seemed to have forgotten all about him.
Hawke, who felt that her skimpy white triangle of pelvic cloth gave her an unfair advantage, rolled over onto his stomach and rested his head on his forearm, facing the girl. In truth, he would have loved a cigarette. Anything to calm his now disturbed mental state. He found he could not take his eyes off her. She was leaning forward now, puffing away, elbows on her knees, her full, coral-tipped breasts jutting forward, rising and swaying slightly with each inhale and exhale of the cigarette.
Watching her body move to adjust the shell or flick an ash, he felt his heart miss a beat, then continue, trip-hammering inside his ribcage. It seemed to ratchet, and each thud only wound him tighter.
She smoked her cigarette, not bothering with him anymore, staring pensively out to sea every few moments, then plucking her pencil from the sand once more, resuming her sketch. Hawke, transfixed, was faintly aware that she seemed to be speaking again.
“I come here every day,” she said casually over her shoulder. “Usually very early morning for the light. Today I am late, because…well, never mind why. Just because. You?”
“I’m the afternoon shift.”
“Ah. Who are you?”
“An Englishman.”
“Obviously. Tourist?”
“Part-time resident.”
“Where do you live?”
“I’ve a small place. On the point by Hungry Bay.”
“Really? I didn’t think anything lived out there but those nasty spider monkeys twittering in the wild banana trees.”
“Just one small house still standing on the point. Teakettle Cottage. You know it?”
“The old mill. Yes. I thought that ruin blew away three hurricanes ago.”
“No, no. It survived,” Hawke said, feeling inexplicably defensive about his modest digs.
“Squatter’s rights, I suppose. You’re lucky the police don’t rout you out. Bums and hoboes aren’t good for Bermuda’s tourist image.”
Hawke let that one go. She was staring at him openly again, her eyes hungry and bright. He avoided those riveting emerald searchlights only by looking out to sea, scanning the horizon, looking for God knows what.
“You’ve got an awful lot of scars for a beach bum. What do you do?”
“Alligator wrestler? Wildcat wrangler?”
The girl, unsmiling, said, “If you’re so damned uncomfortable, just go and get your swim trunks. I assure you I won’t watch.”
“Most kind.” Hawke stayed put.
“What’s your name?” she suddenly demanded.
“Hawke.”
“Hawke. I like that name. Short and to the point.”
“What’s yours?”
“Korsakova.”
“Like the famous Russian composer Rimsky-Korsakov.”
“We’re better known for conquering Siberia.”
“What’s your first name?”
“Anastasia. But I am called Asia.”
“Asia. Very continental.”
“I’m sure that’s an amusing joke in your circles, Mr. Hawke.”
“We try.”
“Hmm. Well, here’s Hoodoo, my chauffeur. Right on time.”
She pulled a tiny white bikini top from her magic bag and slipped herself into it, one pale and quivering breast at a time. Hawke, unable to stop himself from missing a second of this wondrous performance, found his mouth had gone dry and his breathing was shallow and rapid. Her rosy nipples were hard under the thin fabric, more erotic now that they were hidden.
Hawke again felt the stirring below, suddenly acutely aware of his missing bathing trunks. He quickly turned his thoughts to a humiliating cricket match from long ago, Eton and Malvern at Lord’s, a match he’d lost spectacularly at age twelve. That painful memory had successfully obliterated ill-timed desire in the past, and he prayed it would not fail him now.
Seemingly unaware of his agonizing predicament, she quickly gathered her things and leaped to her feet as a small center-console Zodiac nosed into the cove. At the helm was an elegant black man, lean and fit, with snow-white hair. Hoodoo was dressed in crisp whites, a short-sleeved shirt, and Bermuda shorts with traditional knee socks. He smiled and waved at the beautiful blond girl as he ran the bow up onto the sand. There were two big outboards on the stern. Must be four strokes, Hawke thought. They were so quiet he hadn’t even heard the small boat’s approach.
Hoodoo hopped out of the inflatable and stood with the painter in his hand, waiting for his passenger. He looked, it occurred to Hawke, like a young Harry Belafonte whose hair had gone prematurely white.
Asia Korsakova paused, looked down at Hawke carefully, and said, “Good eyes, too. An amazing blue. Like frozen pools of Arctic rain.”
Hearing no response from him, she smiled and said, “Very nice to have met you, Mr. Hawke. Sorry to have disturbed you.”
“Yes. Lovely to meet you, too, Asia,” was all Hawke could muster as he turned and lifted himself to say good-bye.
“No, no, don’t get up, for God’s sake, don’t do that!” She laughed over her shoulder.
Hawke smiled and watched her take Hoodoo’s hand, step gracefully into the bobbing Zodiac, and perch on the wooden thwart seat at the stern. Hawke saw the name
Tsar
stenciled on the curve of the bow and assumed this was a tender to a much larger yacht.
“Good-bye,” Hawke called out as the small boat swung round, turned toward the open sea, and accelerated out of the cove.
Whether she’d heard him or not, he wasn’t sure. But Anastasia Korsakova did not turn back to look at him, nor did she acknowledge his farewell. Having deeply resented her intrusion, was he now so sorry to see her go? He’d always been amazed at the way the face of a beautiful woman fits into a man’s mind and stays there, though he could never tell you why.
His eyes followed the little white Zodiac until even its wake had disappeared beyond the rocks.
He stood up, brushed the sand from his naked body, and fetched his faded swimsuit. After donning it, he walked quickly into the clear blue water until it was knee high and then dove, his arms pulling powerfully for the first line of coral reefs and, beyond that, his little home on the hill above the sea.
Mark Twain had said it best about Bermuda, Hawke thought as he swam.
Near the end of his life, Twain had written from Bermuda to an elderly friend, “You go to heaven if you want to, I’d druther stay here.”
Maybe this wasn’t heaven, but by God, it was close.
T
he Russian president’s helicopter flared up for a landing on the roof of the brand new GRU complex. GRU (the acronym is for the Main Intelligence Directorate, or Glavonoye Razvedyvatelnoye Upravlenie) was a source of some amusement to President Vladimir Rostov. The frequency with which each new regime changed the names and acronyms of various institutions was a holdover from the old Chekist days: secrets within secrets.
Every breathing soul in Moscow knew this building for exactly what it was: KGB headquarters.
Vladimir Vladimirovich Rostov was a lean, spare man, a head or more taller than most Russians, with a dour demeanor and a long, pointed nose like that of a Shakespearean clown. He walked with an odd stoop, like some faux act of courtesy, simultaneously genteel and insinuating, a walk much parodied behind his back in the hallways of the Kremlin.
His moniker, the Grey Cardinal, spoke volumes.
At this moment, gazing down at the gleaming grey streets of Moscow from the sleet-streaked window of his helicopter, he looked grey and tired. He was within a nose of entering his eighth decade. Although it would be political suicide to admit it, he was feeling every year in his bones as he arrived back in the capital at the end of a long journey. He was returning from naval maneuvers on the Barents Sea.
The endless flight to Moscow, aboard a Tu-160 strategic bomber, had been cold, rough, and uncomfortable. Still, he was happy, all things considered. He’d managed to enjoy two exhilarating days at sea observing military exercises. Russia’s reborn Northern Navy had been surprisingly successful in the long-awaited war games. Indeed, the Russian Navy, he would soon report to the GRU, was nearly back to full strength after a decade-long hiatus.
From the bridge of the
Peter the Great
, a nuclear cruiser, the president had stood in freezing rain observing night launches of his newest Sukhoi fighters, taking off from the nearby aircraft carrier. Then, at dawn the next morning, had come the true reason for his visit. A new intercontinental ballistic missile was to be launched from the
Ekaterinburg
, Russia’s latest nuclear submarine.
The missile, a sea-based version of the Topol-M called Bulava, was Russia’s most powerful offensive weapon to date, at least three years ahead of anything in the American arsenal. It carried ten independently targeted nuclear warheads and had a range of 8,000 kilometers.
The Bulava launch, to the great relief of all present, had been spectacularly successful. It was believed the Russians now had a weapon fully capable of penetrating America’s missile defense systems.
At dinner in the fleet admiral’s cabin aboard his flagship that evening, the Bulava Program officers had described how the initial velocity of the new missile would, in fact, make all of America’s missile defense systems obsolete. This was a quantum leap forward, and this was the news President Rostov would be carrying home happily to Moscow.
All had gone exceedingly well, Rostov thought, settling back against the helicopter’s comfortable rear seat cushion. His report at that morning’s top-secret meeting with Count Ivan Korsakov and members of “the Twelve” would be positive, full of good news. This was a good thing, Rostov knew. Count Korsakov was the most powerful man in the Kremlin, and he had little tolerance for bad news. Rostov had learned early in their relationship that for the count, order was the ultimate priority.
On that most memorable day, pulling him aside in a darkened Kremlin hallway, Korsakov had whispered into his ear that Putin would soon be gone far, far away. And that then he, Vladimir Rostov, would become the second-most-powerful man in all Russia.
“Second-most?” the Grey Cardinal had said with his trademark shy grin.
“Yes. You will be president. But we all know who really rules Russia, don’t we, Volodya?” Count Korsakov had laughed, placing a paternal hand on his shoulder.
“Of course, Excellency.”
Korsakov—the Dark Rider, as he was known—secretly ruled Russia with an iron fist. But since he had no official title or position inside the Kremlin, only a handful of people at the highest echelons knew that Korsakov was the real power behind the throne.
As the president’s army MI8 helo touched down on the rain-swept rooftop, he saw his defense minister, Sergei Ivanov, striding out to meet him. A light December rain was turning to snow, and the rotor’s downdraft was whipping the man’s greatcoat about his slender frame. Nevertheless, Ivanov wore a huge smile. But it was pride in his new HQ, not the sight of the presidential chopper, that gladdened his heart.
Sergei’s headquarters, built at a cost of some 9.5 billion rubles, was the new home of the Russian Main Intelligence Directorate, the GRU. In an exuberant burst of construction, it had been built in just three and a half years, a miracle by Moscow standards. Thus, the minister’s smile was justifiable.
The two men shook hands and hurried through the rain to the glassed-in arrival portico.
“Sorry I’m late,” Rostov said to his old KGB comrade.
“Not at all, Mr. President,” Sergei said. “Still time for us to have a quick look around the facility before the Korsakov meeting. I promise not to bore you.”
Overlooking the old Khodynka airfield on the Khoroshevskiy Highway, the GRU’s new headquarters stood on the site of an old KGB building long laughingly referred to as “the aquarium.” It had been an eyesore, a decrepit reminder of the old Russia. This glass and steel structure was huge, some 670,000 square feet, containing the latest in everything. Defense Minister Sergei Ivanov had seen to that. This was, after all, the New Russia!
Inside the building were a plethora of high-cost secrets and state-of-the-art communications technology. Nevertheless, a large portion of the funds budgeted had been expended toward the construction of the wall that surrounded the building. On their way down to the Situation Room, Sergei assured the president that his new wall could withstand the assault of any tank on earth.
“I’ll have to ask our tank commanders about that,” Rostov said. Long experience had made him skeptical of Russian military claims.
But during the brief tour, Rostov found himself deeply impressed with the new Situation Center. As was his habit, he chose not to show it.
He casually asked one of the nearby officers, a young colonel, exactly what situations the Situation Center had been designed for.
“Why, practically any situation at all, Mr. President,” the man replied, beaming proudly.
“So, did you follow the American Senate hearings on arms appropriations on C-SPAN last night?” Rostov asked, matching the underling’s toothy smile tooth for tooth. “That was a situation worth following!”
“Well, not a lot, sir,” the man said, fumbling for words. “Some situations are—”
A general stepped forward to cover the younger man’s embarrassment. “That’s more the job of the SVR, Mr. President.”
SVR was the External Intelligence Service. Of course, Rostov knew it well. When Rostov had been head of the KGB, he had been personally responsible for that service’s complete overhaul.
“Really?” Rostov said, eyeing the general with some amusement, “The SVR’s job, is it? Isn’t that fascinating? One learns something every day.”
Embarrassed eyes were averted as Rostov smiled his shy, enigmatic smile, nodded briefly to everyone in the room, and took his leave. Korsakov was waiting upstairs.
“The man’s a fool,” Sergei Ivanov said in the elevator. “My apologies, sir.”
“That ridiculous little general? Yes. Somebody’s son or nephew, isn’t he?”
“He is. Putin’s nephew.”
“Get rid of him, Sergei. Energetika.”
Energetika was a maximum-security prison on a desolate island off the Kronstadt naval base at St. Petersburg. The facility was unique in the history of Russian prisons. It had been deliberately built atop a massive radioactive-waste site. Prisoners who entered those walls had a death sentence on their heads whether they knew it or not.
Rostov’s predecessor, the steely-eyed prime minister who’d overstayed his welcome, was a guest there even now. Rostov wondered briefly if his old comrade Putin had any hair left at all now.
The elevator came to a stop, and they stepped off.
“We’ve come a long way, Sergei Ivanovich. Eight years ago, we had more important things to do, even in the military sphere, than build fancy administrative buildings. But the GRU is the eyes and ears of the Russian Army, the entire Russian state to a significant degree. Its workers deserve such modern conditions.”
It was true. After the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, Soviet intelligence services had embarked on a decade of serious decline. The much-feared KGB, where Rostov had spent his former life, had been an institution in free fall. A great many Soviet spies had defected and sold their secrets to Western intelligence agencies. Communism was dead. MI-6, the formidable British intelligence service, had simply declared its mission accomplished, packed up, and headed home.
Better dead than red, the Brits and Americans used to say.
That era was clearly over.
The Dark Rider, Count Ivan Korsakov, had appeared to save Mother Russia.
With Rostov at his side, Korsakov would now restore Russia to her rightful place in the world.
On top.