“Sorry. I should have said postponing the inevitable.”
Hawke immediately clambered to his feet. “I’ve definitely decided to accept your offer.”
“Here, I’ll move over. Plenty of room.”
“Where are we?” Hawke asked his fellow prisoner, taking a seat next to the man on the lead-shielded cot.
“A small island off St. Petersburg. Energetika was originally a fortress built by Peter the Great to guard the approach to Kronstadt Naval Yard.”
“Might I have a cigarette?” Hawke asked, getting as comfortable as he could, his back against the cold stone wall, his shackled legs dangling over the edge of the thin mattress.
“Hmm, of course. How rude of me. I should have offered you one.”
The man leaned forward with the pack, the cigarette still in his mouth, and in the red glow, Hawke finally realized whom he was speaking to.
“Thanks,” Hawke said, raising his manacled wrists and pulling a smoke from the pack. He stuck it between his lips, opened the matchbook, and lit up, puffing hungrily.
“Not at all,” Vladimir Putin replied. “I’ve got an endless supply. That jailer’s on my payroll. As are a majority of the guards. Vodka?”
“Good God, yes.”
The former president of the Russian Federation produced two small tin cups and a bottle of Stolichnaya. He filled both cups to the brim and passed one to Hawke. He took a small, burning sip despite his urge to down it all at once. Nothing had ever tasted so good, so pure, so absolutely necessary before. Nothing.
Hawke said, “I’d heard you were in residence here. Never expected to pay you a visit, of course. I’m Alex Hawke, by the way.”
“Oh, I know who you are, Lord Hawke, believe me. I’ve been expecting you.”
“Call me Alex, won’t you?”
“Doesn’t care for titles,” Vladimir Putin said, and extended his hand. “I recall that now, from your file. Alex, I am called Volodya.” Hawke shook it with both of his. The man’s grip was firm and dry and somehow reassuring.
“You’ve been here for some time, yet you’ve still got your hair and teeth, Volodya,” Hawke said. “Unlike most of the poor wretches I saw wandering around up in the yard.”
“My lead-lined mattress, you see. Miserably uncomfortable, but it serves its purpose. And I’ve got lead liners in my shoes as well. I can’t stay here forever, but I’m all right for the time being.”
“If you call this all right.”
“Better than the forest of limbless trees up in the yard, believe me. I’m sure you saw it? Our orchard of death.”
“The orchard of death. Good God, impaling. Who’s responsible for that barbarism?”
“Your new friend, of course. Count Korsakov. Or Tsar Ivan, I should say. An old-fashioned Russian, he quite enjoys the spectacle of impaling. I’m sure he plans to attend your introduction to the stake, whenever that should happen.”
“They really made him Tsar?”
“Hmm. It’s been his plan all along. Now that he’s eliminated every obstacle and hint of opposition, it’s reality.”
“He put you here?”
“He did. Or rather, he had Kuragin do it. Korsakov prefers to stay in the background while others achieve his ends. Fancies himself the wizard behind the curtain. Never dirtied his hands once in all the years I’ve known him.”
“What was your crime? The world never knew why you disappeared. Even Auntie Beeb was stumped on that one.”
“Auntie Beeb?”
“Sorry. Slang for the BBC.”
“Success was my greatest failing in Korsakov’s eyes. I brought Russia back from the brink of absolute chaos. And naturally, he loathed the fact that I was a democrat.”
“You? A democrat? That’s hardly our perception of you, sir.”
“You in the West never understood me. I was in the process of building democracy, but doing it at my own speed. At a pace suitable to a country with a centuries-old tradition of autocracy. You saw what happened when we rushed headlong into democracy. Utter disaster and chaos. The greatest political disaster of the twentieth century. Anyway, that’s ancient history. The simple truth is, I was far too popular and thus too powerful for a man who dreamed only of autocracy, of Tsardom.”
“Sounds like he’s come out swinging now.”
“He has, certainly. He’ll rule the world, you know. It’s only a matter of time.”
“We’ve heard that before. I believe Stalin and Lenin had similar notions. The great workers’ revolution it was called back then.”
“Korsakov is different. He’s a legitimate genius. Nobody can stop him now. Even the Americans blasting satellites out of the sky with all their secret Star Wars weaponry can’t touch him. More vodka?”
“Yes, please. Perfect. Thank you.”
“I’ve got to say, under the circumstances, you’re the cheery one, aren’t you, Lord Hawke? Sorry. I mean Alex.”
“Cheerfulness in the face of adversity. You’ve heard that one, I’m sure.”
“No.”
“Comes from our Royal Marines ethos. The four elements of the commando spirit: courage, determination, unselfishness, and my all-time favorite, cheerfulness in the face of adversity. My father taught me all four when I was six years old. I’ve tried to take them to heart all my life.”
“Your father was an admirable man,” Putin said, raising his cup.
Hawke clinked it with his own and said, “Well. A bit of dirty weather ahead, that’s all. Nothing for it but to batten down various hatches, right? We all cross the bar sooner or later.”
“There’s an oil lamp hanging above my head, Alex. If you’ll return my matches, I’ll provide a bit of light for you.”
Hawke handed him the matches, and Putin lit the wick, throwing shadowy silhouettes of the two men against the farther wall. Putin looked at him carefully in the flickering lamplight, as if he were coming to some kind of decision.
“Do you know why you’re here, Alex? Here at Energetika, I mean.”
“No idea. I’m a simple English businessman on a business trip. Like everyone else in prison, I’m completely innocent of any and all crimes.”
“He put you in this poisonous hole, you know.”
“He?”
“Korsakov, of course. Have you met him?”
“I have. Very charming but with the eyes of a fanatic.”
“He wants you dead.”
“Why? What have I ever done to him? I’m madly in love with his daughter, for God’s sake. I plan to marry her.”
“And she’s in love with you, I’m told. Part of the problem.”
“What problem?”
“You are a highly unsuitable match for Anastasia, princess of Russia. Your background is wholly unacceptable.”
“Unacceptable? I’m descended from some rather scandalous pirates, I’ll grant you, but that shouldn’t be held against me. On what grounds?”
“Your father, to begin with.”
Hawke almost choked on his vodka. “My father? He died when I was a boy of seven. After a long and distinguished naval career, I might add. What on earth has he to do with any of this?”
“I can answer in one word,” Putin said as he emptied his cup. “Scarp.”
“Scarp,” Hawke said, and leaned back against the wall, savoring his cigarette and his vodka.
