Tsar

voyage from Bermuda, and he was overcome by an overpowering desire to sleep here, now, submerged in all this sumptuous featherbed comfort.

At some point, Anastasia rapped on his door loudly enough to wake him. She was wearing a deeply low-cut gown of midnight-blue silk, her hair in ribbons and her throat wreathed in sparkling diamonds. The deliciously warm scent of Dior wafting up from her pale white bosom was almost overpowering.

“I thought I’d lost you,” she said.

“Mmm,” he said, unable to think of a real word.

He thought perhaps he’d slept a few minutes. A glance at his watch showed he’d been out cold for more than an hour.

“Comfortable?” she asked, stepping inside and taking him into her arms.

“Mmm. Very.”

“White tie becomes you, Alexander. You should wear it more often.”

He kissed her upturned lips, surprised at their warmth and softness. He pulled her to him, crushing her half- exposed bosom against his chest, inhaling the sweetness of her hair, her skin.

“Comfortable except for the bed,” he said, whispering into her ear. “Mattress is a bit firm for my taste. I’d like to try yours.”

“Down, boy,” she said, feeling his erection hard against her thighs. “We have to put in an appearance. I want you to meet my father tonight. I think he’s expecting it. And my brothers are dying to meet you. Come along, now, Alex. Don’t tarry.”

He followed her down the grand gilded staircase and found himself moving in Anastasia’s wake from one glittering room and mirrored gallery to another. They were in search of her two younger brothers, Sergei and Maxim. The sounds of stringed and percussion instruments, clarinets, and French horns, Count Korsakov’s new symphony, could be heard throughout the rooms they passed through. The twins, she told Alex, were not fond of symphonic music. They liked hard Russian rock, a group called the Apples, on their iPods. Nashe, they called this music. It meant “ours.” Western rock was definitely over in the New Russia. Western everything was over.

“They could well be playing in here,” she said.

“Playing? How old are they?”

“Twelve. Twins, you see.”

“And their mother? Your mother?”

“She died in childbirth. The boys barely made it. We were lucky they survived.”

“I’m so sorry, Asia. I’d no idea.”

THEY ENTERED THE great Hall, where the ceremonial feast clearly had just taken place. Guests and servants had long since departed, but the enormous baroque room was still full of wonders. The barrel-vaulted hall was stunning in its abundance of mirrors and glittering gold. An unbounded sea of mirrors in gilded frames were reflected in other mirrors, creating a magical, endless space in which hundreds of wax candles still burning in the spaces between the windows and the mirrors gleamed.

“Perhaps they’ve escaped to the kitchens,” Anastasia said. “Wait here for a moment, and I’ll go and fetch them.”

Hawke paused at the table, picking up a spotless crystal goblet and deciding to fill it with blood-red wine from one of the many silver carafes. He sipped and found it delicious. So, too, was the leg of roast duck he removed from a half-eaten carcass and began to gnaw at ravenously.

The table, which stretched to shadowy infinity down the hall, had not been completely cleared. The white linen tablecloths were hung with ribbons of many colors and glorious rosettes. In the center of the table towered a massive construction resplendent with symbolic sculptures, monograms and crowns of various ancient courts of Europe.

The massive carved silver candelabras, which marched down the table into the shadows, were all still blazing with candles. Around the bases were woven Christmas holly and berries, artificial flowers made of red silk. Fresh flowers covered the branches of tiny potted trees or were woven into garlands that hung above miniature fountains, the waters still playing right there on the table.

Candlelight gleamed, reflected in the gold and silver tableware and on the great tureens, whose lids took the shapes of boars’ heads, stags, or pheasants. This magnificent table, Hawke decided, was itself a work of art. And perhaps a political statement as well. Such grandeur would surely reignite for Count Korsakov’s guests the dreams and glories of an ancient Russia that no longer existed but had once reigned triumphant.

This was the table, Hawke decided, not of a mere billionaire nor of a wizard, a genius of science, art, and music.

This was the table of a Tsar.

Did Count Korsakov dream of Tsardom? Is that what Anastasia had been trying to tell him in the sleigh? The restoration of the Tsars was not wildly implausible, Hawke knew. There was vast nostalgia in the country for the power and glory that the times of the Tsars represented.

The last of the Tsars, the Romanovs, were feeble, weak, and wholly incapable of ruling this huge country. But the Korsakovs, based on what he knew and had seen, were clearly powerful enough to do just about anything they damn well pleased.

C had been correct, he mused. He had needed to come here, needed to see all of this for himself. He could sense enormous changes coming in this country, a seismic shift in the balance of-

“Look out!” he heard Anastasia shout.

Something, some fat silver missile, was headed directly for his head.

He ducked and watched the thing go by. It was a flying model of an airship. About three feet long, it had Nazi swastikas emblazoned on the tail, and the red lights on the fuselage were blinking. You could even hear the faint whirr of its multiple propellers as it sailed away.

“What the hell?” Hawke said.

“It’s a race,” Anastasia said, suddenly at his side. “Watch out, Hawke, here comes the Hindenburg.”

Now a second radio-controlled miniature airship came weaving its way between two of the flaming candelabras, the ill-fated zeppelin in hot pursuit of ZR-1, the German airship that had caused such destruction in London.

“Sergei, Maxim, please land your craft and come down and introduce yourselves to Alexander Hawke. He’s our guest, so be polite.”

“Where the hell are they?” Hawke asked, peering into the gloom. He couldn’t see another soul in the cavernous candlelit room.

“Up there,” Anastasia said, pointing to a balcony high above them. It was clearly where the choir and the dinner musicians had entertained during dinner.

Two identical boys leaned over the railing and waved down at Hawke. They were both good-looking, and both had shoulder-length blond hair.

“How do you do, sir?” the twins said in unison and in very good English. “Sorry, we’re racing!” one added.

“Very well, indeed,” Hawke called up to them. “Don’t mind me. Keep racing. Who’s winning?”

“The Hindenburg,” one excited boy said. “She’s about to lap ZR-1! For the third time,” he added, laughing.

Hawke laughed, too, and said, “Come on, now, ZR-1, don’t humiliate yourself!”

Anastasia took his arm, saying, “I’ve located Father by telephone. He’s finished his concert, sadly, but is having brandy in his study. He’s most anxious to meet you.”

And off they went.

44

“Lord Alexander Hawke,” Count Ivan Korsakov said, striding across the Persian carpet, his