Hawke slipped the damn thing into his breast pocket, deep within the folds of his handkerchief. He was about to return to the far more serious topic they’d been discussing when Miss Spooner appeared in the doorway with little Alexei in her arms, who was gurgling in delight at the sight of his father.
“There’s our big boy,” Ambrose cried, turning in his chair to smile at him. “There’s our little Superman!”
Hawke leaped from his chair and ran to his son, taking him into his arms. Alexei laughed as his father threw him high into the air, caught him, and threw him again and again.
“What did you do this afternoon, young man?” Hawke asked, tickling him under the chin.
“We read a book,” Spooner said, “didn’t we, Alexei?”
“A book?” Hawke said. “Well, we certainly approve of books around here. Which one?”
“One of yours. He picked it out himself. We brought it along from Hawkesmoor. Goodnight Moon.”
“Ah, one of my favorites. Did you like it, too, Alexei?”
“We read it five times, sir. I’d say yes.”
“I liked it very much, Daddy,” Alexei said.
Hawke smiled and kissed his boy’s forehead, whispering to him, “I see the moon, the moon sees me. The moon sees the somebody I’d like to see. God bless the moon and God bless me. God bless the somebody I’d like to see!”
Alexei smiled with delight.
Spooner said, “Time to say good night, I’m afraid. He’s had his supper and his bath and now it’s his bedtime.”
“Good night, little hero,” Hawke said, kissing his cheek and handing him back to Spooner.
“Yes, good night indeed,” Ambrose called from his chair. “Sleep tight and don’t let the bedbugs bite!”
Alexei stared over Spooner’s shoulder, gazing at his father all the way down the long hallway to the foot of the staircase where he disappeared.
“Time for dinner, I should think,” Hawke said, turning to Ambrose and wiping something from the corner of his eye.
Bang on the hour of eight all the house clocks struck, chiming in unison. Moments later the dinner gong sounded, and a rich bass note reverberated throughout the house. The two old friends made their way down the hallway toward the white-and-gold-paneled dining room, a room imported lock, stock, and barrel from Madame de Pompadour’s dining room at Chateau d’Asnieres.
Sixteen
Lady Diana Mars, emerging into the hall from the drawing room, intercepted Hawke and Congreve making a beeline for the dining room. She was radiant. All emerald silk, bare white shoulders, and diamonds, her lustrous auburn hair swept up and held in place with jeweled combs. She was beautiful as always and Hawke told her so. He took her hand to kiss it, happy to see that the engagement ring Ambrose had given her was still in place. Hawke had a vested interest in that ring. He’d almost died diving a wreck off Bermuda trying to find it.
“Alex, you darling boy, listen,” she said. “Sir David arrived about ten minutes ago. He seems a bit… agitated. Clearly something on his mind. He’s out on the terrace now, smoking his cigar. He asked if he might have a quick word in private before we go into dinner. Do you mind awfully?”
“Would it matter?” Hawke smiled. “I’m still in his employ, last time I checked.”
“The old seafarer’s just out there, through the drawing room door. I’ll call off the turtle soup until you two guests of honor arrive at the table.”
Hawke strode through the room and pushed through the tall door out into the cool evening. Trulove had his back to him, standing stiffly at the low granite balustrade that overlooked the formal gardens and the Thames below, a ribbon of silver in the moonlight.
“Sir David,” Alex said quietly as he approached, not wanting to startle the man.
The director of MI6 turned and regarded him with a smile, not a warm smile exactly, but certainly friendly enough under the circumstances. Trulove, whom Hawke considered one of nature’s immutable forces, was a former Royal Navy admiral and a great hero of the Falklands War. He was a tall, well-built fellow, imposing with his close- cropped white hair and weather-beaten face. His intense blue eyes were clear, seeming to have escaped all the wind and salt and rain earned during decades on the bridges of various Royal Navy warships.
“Alex, good of you to come out here. I felt what I had to say was best said in private.”
“Indeed, sir. I-”
“I may owe you an apology. I was utterly beside myself when you went AWOL without a word to me. But… now that I have an inkling of your reasons, it’s becoming rather clear to me that you felt you had no choice but to act as you did.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Indeed, had you come to me with a request to venture alone into what was, to me, so obviously a KGB death trap, I would never have agreed to it. Never. It looked a suicide mission, frankly.”
“That was my thinking, sir. Were I in your position, I most certainly would not have allowed it either.”
“My God, Alex, what were you thinking? We both know these Russian bastards want your head for killing their beloved Tsar. And yet you decide to go waltzing into their top-secret training facility in the middle of Siberia? Based upon some Kremlin-generated rumor?”
“I had no choice, Sir David. It was worth my life to learn the truth, whether or not the Tsar’s daughter, Anastasia, and our child were still alive. And, if they were alive, and held captive there, I was determined to bring them out. Whatever it took. If not, well-”
“Yes. And whether it was raw courage or sheer foolhardiness, it’s not for me to judge. I’m just glad you made it out in one piece, Alex. The service would be greatly diminished without you. No one is irreplaceable, including me, but you… you come close.”
“I appreciate that, sir.”
“Lady Mars tells me you were able to bring your son out? Is that true?”
“Yes, sir. Alexei is sleeping upstairs as we speak.”
“How marvelous. Do you think I might catch a glimpse of him?”
“Well, we could peek in after dinner, I suppose. But if we wake him, Miss Spooner will have our heads.”
“I believe they’re waiting for us. Shall we go in to dinner?” C said.
“Delighted, sir. I was quite sure I was coming out here to have my head handed to me. Thank you for letting me retain the use of it.”
C laughed and put his arm around Hawke’s shoulder as they started for the door. Startled, Hawke realized it was the first time Trulove had ever done anything remotely like this unmistakable show of affection.
He’s actually glad to see me, Hawke thought, somewhat astounded.
T he dinner, Alex thought, had been splendid. The lamb was cooked to pink perfection, redolent of garlic and rosemary from the garden, and the wine, a 1959 Petrus, was beyond belief. Even C had been relaxed and cheerful during the meal. Now that he and Hawke understood each other once more, it was back to business as usual. Both men were glad they’d cleared the air.
Hawke was seated next to Diana, whom he adored. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why she and Ambrose had yet to wed. Clearly they were madly in love. But, as the old saying went, unless you’re under the tent, you have no earthly idea what’s really going on in a relationship.
The dinner dishes were cleared. The candles still flickered on the happy faces around the table and Cole Porter floated in from a turntable in the drawing room. Coffee was served. Ambrose fired up his pipe, Sir David his cigar, and Alex his electronic cigarette. As long as you didn’t inhale the bloody vapor, he discovered, you could manage it. Besides, he saw Ambrose smiling at him with approval.
Hawke saw C push back from the table, all the jollity flown from his face. Whatever was coming was deadly serious and, in all likelihood, it would be aimed directly at him.
“I’d like to raise a glass to our lovely and brilliant hostess for an absolutely smashing dinner party. Wonderful food, wonderful wine, and, of course, wonderful company.”
“Hear! Hear!” everyone said, raising their glasses toward the hostess.
