Tsar

Stubbs came to a stop where the sandy lane dead-ended at the dock. They’d reached the easternmost tip of St. George’s, taking Government Hill Road all the way to Cool Pond Road. It was nearly five o’clock, and the sun was still shimmering on Tobacco Bay. A few very large sport-fishing boats were moored on the bay, riding the gentle swells.

There was a freshly painted white post bearing a very discreet sign that read “Powder Hill-Private.” It stood just beside the floating platform that led out to the dock itself. The dock looked like any of the others jutting out into this small and tranquil bay. Most had small sailboats or runabouts moored alongside.

“Now what?” Hawke said, leaning forward to peer through the windshield.

“Looks like a phone box there, sir. Under the sign.”

“Right. Hang on, I’ll go see.”

Hawke got out of the car and instinctively looked around to see if he’d been followed. He’d asked Stubbs to keep an eye on the rearview mirror, but they’d seen nothing out of the ordinary on the journey from the West End. Still, it didn’t hurt to double-check. The narrow lane that wound down to the bay was empty. Golden-toothed Rastafarians on motorbikes were nowhere to be seen. He walked down the slight incline to the dock.

Mounted on the post was a phone inside a waterproof box. Fastened to the outside cover was a laminated sign: “Restricted Property! Invited Guests Only. Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted. Beware of Dogs. Armed Guards.”

Sounds chummy, Hawke thought to himself, and opened the box. Ah, well, as Pelham had so aptly put it, a hundred clams an hour was pretty good gravy.

Hawke lifted the receiver to his ear.

“Yes?” said a noncommittal Bermudian female voice on the other end.

“Yes. Alex Hawke here. I believe Miss Korsakova is expecting me.”

“Ah, Mr. Hawke,” said the voice, much friendlier now. “Miss Korsakova is definitely expecting you, sir. She’s at Half Moon House. I’ll send the launch over immediately. Should be there in less than ten minutes. A driver will meet you at this end.”

“Thanks,” Hawke said, and replaced the receiver. He walked back up the hill to where Stubbs waited with the car.

“They’re sending a boat. Thanks for your patience, Stubbs. You should go home, it’s been a long day. I’ll make arrangements to get picked up here after my appointment.”

“Yes, sir. It’s been my pleasure driving you, Mr. Hawke. If you need me again, here’s my card.”

Hawke pocketed the card. “Stubbs, what do you know about this Powder Hill? Anything useful?”

“Small private island, sir. Maybe twenty-five acres. Originally, it was an English fortress guarding the approach to the north coast. Then a failed banana plantation. It sat in ruins for years. They tried to make a tourist destination out of it back in the sixties, but it was too difficult to access. There’s a very strong riptide running between the island and the mainland. One day, the tourist boat capsized, and two honeymooners drowned, and that was the end of that.”

“Then what?”

“It just sat out there. In the early nineties, we heard there was some rich European buyer. All very hush-hush. Turned out he was Russian, one of those new billionaires getting their money offshore. He poured millions into the place, kept most of the fort and made a house out of it. Put in a landing strip, a hangar, and a big marina on the western side of the island where he moors his yacht. Also recently erected a big radio and TV tower. No one knows what that’s all about. Some say he’s in the media.”

“That yacht’s not called Tsar by any chance?” Hawke asked, remembering the name stenciled on the hull of the Zodiac that had come for Anastasia Korsakova.

“Tsar, that might be it. Have you seen her, sir?”

“Not yet, but I suppose I will. Here comes my ride. Thanks again, Stubbs. I’ll be seeing you.”

“Pleasure was all mine, Mr. Hawke,” Stubbs said. He waved good-bye, then turned around and headed back up the hill.

Hawke walked to the end of the dock, reaching it just as the gleaming white launch reversed its engines and came to a stop. He recognized Hoodoo at the helm. There was another chap, definitely not Bermudian, wearing crisp whites as well, who leaped ashore with lines and made them fast to the cleats. He kept an eye on Hawke the whole time, and it was hard not to notice the 9mm SIG Sauer MG-110 machine gun slung across his shoulder.

“Good evening, sir,” he said, straightening up. “Mr. Alex Hawke?”

“Indeed I am,” Hawke said, smiling at the young man, Russian by the sound of him.

“May I trouble you for some identification, sir?”

“You must be bloody joking. I’m an invited guest.”

“Sorry, sir. House rules. We’ve had some problems.”

“All right, then,” Hawke said, opening his wallet to reveal the Florida driver’s license he sometimes used. The address listed belonged to Tactics International. It was a company he partly owned in Miami, run by his good friend and comrade-in-arms Stokely Jones. “Happy?”

“Would you mind turning around and putting your hands above your head?”

“Of course not. Would you care to see my Highland Fling? It’s legendary.”

The man ignored this and went over every inch of Hawke’s body with a handheld metal detector.

“Nothing personal, sir. Sorry for the inconvenience. All right, if you’ll step aboard, we’ll shove off.”

“Hello, Hoodoo, I’m Alex Hawke,” he said, grabbing one of the gleaming brass handholds and offering his other hand to the helmsman.

“Sir. Nice to have you aboard. We’ve met before, you say?”

“Just in passing. You probably don’t recognize me with my clothes on.”

Hoodoo, puzzled, smiled and shoved the throttles forward. Stubbs had not overstated the ferocity of the riptide currents roaring through the channel. Powder Hill was a fortress with a very intimidating moat.

“We don’t get many visitors here,” Hoodoo said, smiling at him.

“I imagine not. Few people would have the temerity to drop in unexpectedly.”

Hoodoo’s smile was enigmatic as he put the wheel over and headed for what appeared to be a large boathouse on the distant shore.

Ten minutes of rough water later, they arrived at the Powder Hill dock. At the far end was a block house that was clearly a security office. On the narrow paved road above, there was a dark green Land Rover waiting, the Defender model, all kitted out in brush bars, searchlights, and a siren mounted on the bonnet. Two men sat up front, a driver in khakis and another fellow in mufti wearing a sweat-stained straw planter’s hat.

Hawke bid farewell to Hoodoo, stepped ashore, and made his way up to the waiting vehicle.

“Mr. Hawke,” the passenger said as Hawke climbed into the small rear seat, “Welcome to Powder Island. My name is Starbuck. I’m the general factotum around here, prune the bougainvillea, keep Miss Anastasia’s place looking good. Miss Anastasia asked me to fetch you and bring you round to her house.” He had a broad black face and a beaming white smile. Hawke liked him immediately.

“This is a working banana plantation, Starbuck?” Hawke asked. They’d been winding up a hill through a dense, well-kept grove.

“Very small operation, sir. But yes, we turn a tidy profit every year. This island is self-sufficient. We grow all of our own vegetables, catch our own fish.”

Hawke smiled. A few minutes later, they emerged from the gloom of the grove. They were atop a hill with great views in all directions. In the distance was St. George’s. To his right, Hawke could see the main house. It was an eighteenth-century British fort that had seen a lot of restoration. There were a few cars parked on the gravel. To the right was the marina, with a very large yacht, more than three hundred feet, moored at the outer wharf.

To his left, the road wound down to a small bay on the far side. There was a two-story house by the water, lovely colonial architecture, enshrouded in bougainvillea. That, he assumed, would be Anastasia Korsakova’s studio.

Between the two descending roads was a wide meadow of manicured grass. In the middle of that stood a steel tower about a hundred feet tall.

“Starbuck, tell me about the tower. For broadcasting?”

“No, sir, Mr. Hawke. That tower is a mooring station.”