Tsar

other guy, Nikita, “call me Nick,” last name unpronounceable, who spoke a lot of English. Grigori, bulked up and handsome, wearing a shiny black suit and a massive gold Rolex, just smiled and drank vodka rocks and smoked cigarettes. Nick, on the other hand, now, he was a total piece of work.

He was a crazy-looking little bird, two small eyes pinched closed together on either side of a beaky nose. He had a topknot of wild crackly yellow hair and a shiny green silk suit, which made him look a little bit like a parrot that had just been dragged backward through a hedge. His eyes were blazing behind little gold-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose.

They were both kind of pale, too, for Hollywood types, Stoke thought, but maybe pale was in these days. What did he know from Hollywood?

“Let me get this straight, Nick,” Stoke said. “A two-picture deal. Now, what does that mean, exactly?”

“It means money, Mr. Levy. May I call you Sheldon?”

“Why not, Nick?”

“Twice as much as a one-picture deal, Shel. Your girl Fancha is going to be a big star, let me tell you that right now. She’s definitely got the chops for it.”

Nick talked fast, as if he was trying to jam all the words he could into the shortest possible amount of time.

“Sounds good to me,” Sharkey said, all lit up. He loved this Hollywood crap, that much was obvious. “Are we talking net or gross points here?”

“Who is this guy again, Shel?” Nick asked Stoke, still smiling.

“Luis is my attorney,” Stoke said.

Nick nodded and said, “So, we should contact Mr. Gonzales-Gonzales directly regarding taking a meeting with Fancha?”

“Have I met you guys somewhere?” Stoke said, not able to shake the feeling that he had.

“It’s possible. But let’s talk about Fancha’s back end.”

“Talk about what?” Stoke said, not liking the sound of that.

“He means distribution of profits at the back end of the picture,” Sharkey said. “By the way, I just want to make sure we’re going to be above the line, right, guys?”

Nick smiled.

“Of course, Luis. Now, what Mr. Putov here would like to suggest is that we schedule a screen test at our offices here in Miami. We are about to go into preproduction on a project Mr. Putov, as executive producer, has just green-lighted, a picture called Storm Front. Romantic action adventure. Think Key Largo meets Perfect Storm, right? Bogie, Bacall, and a fuckin’ hurricane. The male lead has committed. I can’t give you his name, but think George Clooney. We’re looking for the female lead. Mr. Putov and I think your Fancha is perfect for the part.”

“Wait a minute,” Stoke said, smiling at Nick. “You guys are Russian. You were at that birthday party.”

“I beg your pardon, Shel?” Nick said.

“Yeah, that’s it. You remember. The big blast in Coconut Grove last Friday night. You gotta remember that party. I saw you getting out of a yellow Hummer right before the cake went off.”

“Ah, of course. Mr. Ramzan’s last birthday. Yes, I was there, now that I recall. He was an investor in Storm Front. A great tragedy. He will be badly missed.”

“Really? Well, how about that? I give you my card that night, Nick? I’m wondering how you know my name.”

“No, no. I saw you with Fancha and asked who you were. Yuri Yurin, one of the host’s personal security guys, he gave me your card.”

“Security guys that night out looking for work now, I imagine,” Stoke said. “Thing like that happens to your boss. That was one serious breach of security.”

“Whoo! You can say that again, boss!” Sharkey said.

Nikita and Putov just looked at him.

“Let’s get back to the back end, Nick,” Sharkey said, all business. “We’ll want full participation in the soundtrack album, of course.”

“Yeah,” Stoke said. “We’ll want that, all right. That and a whole lot more.”

“Tell you what,” Nick said. “I like you, Shel. I’ve got some skin in this deal myself, and I think we can do business. The owner of Miramar Pictures is going to be here in Miami in a day or two. I’d like you and Fancha to join us aboard his private aircraft for a luncheon cruise down to the Keys. Does that sound doable?”

“What about me?” Shark asked.

“Of course! We can’t do business without the attorney, can we?”

Nick’s cell phone rang, and he whisked it out of his inside pocket. It was one of those diamond-studded Vertu phones, natch. And Nick was one of those guys who wanted everyone in on his private conversations.

Nick said, “You’re talking to him. Hello? Maury? How are you, babe? Good, good. I’m in Miami, back in L.A. Monday. No, I can’t do lunch Tuesday, Tuesday is no good. When? How about never? Is never good for you, Maury?”

He smiled at them, slipped the phone back inside the pocket of his shiny green silk suit, and took a sip of his martini, like a bird dipping his large beak into a very small birdbath.

“Old friend?” Stoke said.

“Naah, just some putz from RKO. A nobody.”

When he smiled, he looked just like the damn cuckoo bird on a box of Cocoa Puffs.

23

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Arriving from Bermuda aboard the British military transport flight, Alex Hawke found his prearranged D.C. taxi waiting in the rain at Andrews Air Force Base. His first stop was the Chevy Chase Club, where he’d drop off his luggage. The venerable club was located in the heart of a Maryland suburb just outside the D.C. line. It was a fine old place, full of sporting art and graceful period furniture. Pulling up under the portico of the genteel main clubhouse always put him in mind of arriving at some sleepy Southern plantation.

Bradley House, a two-story stone residence reached by covered walkway, had become Hawke’s home away from home ever since he’d sold his house in Georgetown.

Hawke had told the cabby to wait under the portico while he went inside to leave his bag. Five minutes later, he returned and asked to be taken directly to Old Town Alexandria’s city marina on the Potomac.

Hawke paid the taxi driver and walked through light rain down to the docks. He quickly located Miss Christin, a typical tourist day cruiser, boxy and double-decked. Fifteen minutes before she sailed, most of the passengers, families and groups of noisy schoolchildren, seemed to be aboard. On this cold and rainy mid-December day, most had chosen to sit inside the enclosed lower deck.

Hawke boarded the vessel as instructed by C and climbed the aft stairs to the rain-swept upper deck. Not a soul up there. Despite the weather, he was looking forward to the downriver trip. He’d never seen much of the Virginia and Maryland countryside, really, and certainly not from the river. Nor had he ever visited General Washington’s home at Mount Vernon. He took a bench seat near the starboard rail and settled in for the peaceful river journey.

“If I was a bad guy, you’d be dead now, Cap.”

That Southern California drawl could belong to only one person: Harry Brock. Hawke hadn’t even heard his approach.

He turned and saw his old friend. Harry was wearing a trench coat with the collar up and a black watch cap pulled down low and wet with rain. Harry stuck his hand out, and Hawke shook it with real affection. A year or so earlier, Hawke had been imprisoned by Hezbollah forces down in the Amazon, and this man had risked his life to save his bacon.

“Agent Brock, reporting for duty, sir,” Harry said with a mock salute. Hawke was taken aback and took no pains