“Scarp,” Putin repeated. He liked saying the word, liked the harsh sound of the single syllable.
“Funny, that,” Hawke said. “That’s the second time in three days that benighted rock has come up in conversation. Korsakov was going on about it, too, at his winter palace. Something about stalking on the island during the Cold War. I had no earthly idea what he was talking about. Sounded a bit daft on the subject.”
“Korsakov keeps a list. People he wants to kill. Naturally, I’m on it. That’s why I’m here. Doing the slow burn, they call it. But you, well, you’ve been on the list since the day you were born.”
“Have I, indeed? I understand you being on it. Politics. But what the hell’s he got against me?”
“In October 1962, your father killed the only man Ivan Korsakov ever loved. His older brother, Sergei.”
“My father killed a man on Scarp? Ridiculous. How? It’s not possible. My family has had a shooting lodge there for generations. I’ve been going myself for years. It’s a tiny island. Any kind of foul play or disappearance would have been reported. I’ve never heard a thing. My father, by the way, killed any number of people in the line of duty. But he was no murderer.”
“Who said anything about murder? Ivan’s brother was KGB, like all of us. During the height of the Cuban missile crisis, it was learned that your father figured in a British plan to infiltrate a secret Soviet facility up near the Arctic Circle. Operation Redstick. This was at a very critical moment in the standoff. Khrushchev couldn’t allow our operations to be penetrated. Colonel Sergei Korsakov was dispatched by KGB to Scarp to eliminate your father.”
“And?”
“Obviously, your father eliminated Colonel Korsakov.”
“And the body?”
“Your father buried him, I suppose. Kept his mouth shut about it. That’s what I’d have done.”
“And so I’m tossed into the dungeon, like some latter-day Count of Monte Cristo, thrown into the bloody Chateau d’If for a crime I did not commit?”
“Yes. A great irony, isn’t it, that it was the Tsar’s own daughter who discovered you on that deserted beach and delivered you up to her father’s sacrificial altar.”
“I suppose it is rather ironic. Revenge, is it, then?”
“Exactly. Revenge of the very best kind. Keenly anticipated and long awaited.”
“I’m surprised he hasn’t done away with me sooner.”
“Ah, but our Tsar likes to savor his revenge. Anticipate it. In any case, there were hundreds of political enemies who needed exterminating at the stake, all ahead of you on the list. You he sees as mere fun. He wants to toy with you, a cat-and-mouse game.”
“How much time for fun have I got left?”
“Until your execution? You’re scheduled for a dawn exit. If not this one, the next. But relax, Alex. I’d give you at least forty-eight hours. Our new Tsar is tied up with celebratory receptions and meetings in Moscow and then this Nobel ceremony in Stockholm. Then he’ll show up here in his great airship, and you will be shown to the stake, I’m afraid.”
Hawke shuddered.
He’d never been afraid of dying. In his dirty line of work, he’d always known a quick and brutal death might come his way at any time.
But not this way.
Not the bloody stake.
The orchard of death struck something akin to pure terror in his heart.
54
Hawke sipped his vodka and said, “How have you managed to avoid it so long? The stake, I mean.”
“Now you have asked a good question,” Putin said, putting a match to a fresh cigarette. “Despite Korsakov’s abiding desire to see me slowly turn to soot and ash in here, I’m protected, you see.”
“By whom?”
“Powerful people who think Ivan Korsakov is a madman who will see Russia a smoldering ruin after a ruinous world war with the West. I, of course, share that opinion.” He took a puff. “Insanity.”
“These people would like to see you return to power?”
“Obviously.”
“Why don’t they get you out of this bloody hole, then?”
“I wouldn’t live twelve hours on the outside. An army of Korsakov’s assassins lies beyond those black walls. The Third Department, he calls them. So long as the Tsar lives, the safest place on earth for me, oddly enough, is right here at hell’s gate. And so I’m content to bide my time, knowing it will come.”
“Bit difficult to bide one’s time contentedly when, like me, one only has forty-eight hours to live. Or less.”
“Yes. That’s why I sent for you tonight.”
“You mean it’s not dawn yet? I assumed the sun was up.”
“No.” Putin pushed a button, and his watch glowed. “It’s only two in the morning.”
“Why
“I wanted to meet you. You’re a legend.”
“A legend? Hardly.”
“When one’s life comes down to facts versus legend, go with legend every time, Alex, trust me. In any event, you have a first-rate reputation inside the KGB. You are an extraordinarily well-respected intelligence officer. I’ve followed your career closely for years. When I was head of KGB, I tried to recruit you over to our side. You will remember a certain statuesque blonde in a cafe in Budapest, what, six years ago now? You two adjourned to the Hotel Mercure in Buda for the evening. Room 777.”
“Katerina Obolensky. I will never forget her.”
“Of that I made certain. But alas, you had some stubborn sense of loyalty to your mother country. Later on, at the Kremlin, I continued to follow your exploits. Cuba, China, the Middle East, et cetera. One of the reasons I was so looking forward to this encounter. ‘Talk shop’ is the expression in English?”
“Yes. There were other reasons?”
“It is very much in my interest to help you escape from here. Now that we’ve spoken, I’m convinced my preconceived notions about you were correct. I think you’re one of the few men alive who stands even a ghost of a chance against Korsakov. And now that you know how and why you were consigned to a horrible death in this hellhole, you have a very good incentive to kill him before he kills you. Should we be able to get you out of here, of course.”
Hawke took a deep breath, trying to accept the very pleasing notion that an agonizing death was not inevitable and that somehow salvation might actually be possible.
“Let’s go down that road, shall we? I was wondering, you know, how the guards come and go. Clearly, they can’t all stay out here for extended periods, I mean, if they are to survive the radiation.”
“They rotate frequently, Alex. Four-hour shifts three times a week. Twelve hours a week isn’t lethal. Two ferries are running continuously back and forth to St. Petersburg. Like shuttles, I believe that is the English word. One ferry arrives as the other is departing.”
“That could work.”
“No. These boats are not under the control of my ‘friends’ here. Very tight inspections going and coming. You’d never make it.”
“I could go out in a laundry basket. It’s been done.”
“In films. Not here. No one has ever gotten out of here alive. Some have tried to swim it, believe it or not. Three attempts since I’ve been here. Eight miles to the mainland. They prefer hypothermia and drowning to prolonged radiation sickness. Or, certainly, the stake.”
“Good information.”
A lengthy silence ensued.
“Are you thinking?” Hawke asked Putin.
