“But now the party’s over, isn’t it, Sir David?” Diana said with a laugh. “We now turn to the affairs of men.”
“Good God, I hope not,” Congreve said, unable to contain himself. Hawke and Diana laughed out loud. C didn’t even crack a smile.
“I want to talk about this recent unprovoked attack by the Nevskiy, a Russian submarine, on an American cruise ship. I received a call from Brick Kelly, the CIA director, a few hours ago. Apparently two torpedoes were fired. The ship went down in less than an hour. At least seven hundred innocent people lost their lives. It would have been worse had not an American sub been in the immediate vicinity, surfacing to pluck many survivors out of the water. Alex, your man in Miami, he was aboard that ship. He actually saw the torpedoes approaching?”
“That’s correct, sir. Stokely Jones and his new bride were beginning their honeymoon. He happened to be on deck when they were launched, saw their wakes, and warned the captain.”
“And SSN 75, the U.S. nuclear submarine Texas, was shadowing Nevskiy just prior to the attack. The American commanding officer avers that he has sonar confirmation of the Russian sub’s screw signature, the sound of her outer torpedo doors opening, tubes flooding, and two torpedoes launched. This evidence is incontrovertible. The Russians sank that cruise ship, period.”
Congreve said, “What do they have to say about it? Knowing the Kremlin, they deny it, of course.”
“Except for the presence of the Texas, yes, they would, certainly. Putin called the White House immediately. Deepest regrets. Insisted the Kremlin had no prior knowledge of this attack. The sub is returning to her home port at Sevastopol. The captain will be arrested and interrogated by the KGB. So the question is this: Was this a skipper gone rogue? Was this an accident? Or was this a deliberate attack on America by the Russians for reasons as yet unknown? Answers are vitally important because the West finds itself in the midst of a dangerous diplomatic firestorm.”
“What was President McCloskey’s response?” Congreve asked C.
“He told Putin that, based on the U.S. sub’s report, he was immediately taking all American air, sea, and land forces to DEFCON 3. Depending on what explanations he hears back from the Kremlin within the next forty-eight hours, he will go to the next highest state of readiness, DEFCON 2. That’s one level shy of all-out war.”
“The Russians can come up with a lot of excuses in forty-eight hours. We need proof of what really happened on that sub,” Hawke said.
“Absolutely,” C said. “Right now, U.S. Navy divers are sifting through the debris field on the ocean floor. They will examine every last scrap of those two torpedoes looking for evidence of either a misfire or a deliberate launch. Not much to go on but at the moment it’s all we’ve got.”
“Next steps?” Hawke said, already having a pretty good idea where all this was heading.
“The CIA and the NSA are all over this, naturally. But they’re stretched pretty thin at the moment and they’ve asked for our help. Kelly specifically mentioned you, Alex. And your Russian counterintelligence operation based in Bermuda, Red Banner. Since you are already working in tandem with the CIA, it’s a good fit for something like this.”
“It’s exactly why it was created, as you well know, Sir David.”
“So, Hawke, old fellow. Will you be staying for dessert?” Trulove asked, smiling at him.
“I appreciate the offer, sir, but I think not. If you all will excuse me, I’ll take my leave. It seems I suddenly have a rather pressing engagement.”
“Good man,” C said as Hawke stood and kissed Diana on the cheek. “You’ll keep in touch with me this time, won’t you?”
Hawke smiled and said, “Hourly updates, sir.”
“Not that in touch. I’ve other matters on my platter. Good hunting, Alex. I trust you’ll get to the bottom of this in short order.”
Hawke put a hand on Congreve’s shoulder. “Ambrose, I wonder if I might impose on Diana’s hospitality. Is it possible that my son and Miss Spooner might remain here at Brixden House until this current assignment is completed?”
“Absolutely, darling,” Diana said to him. “Don’t be silly. We’d adore to have Alexei with us.”
Hawke paused, thinking. “One other thing you should all be aware of. Alexei, being the grandson of the late Tsar, has been the subject of death threats from certain elements in Moscow. Gaggle of thugs calling themselves the Tsarists. There was an incident on the Red Arrow train en route to St. Petersburg. Ambrose, would you ask your colleagues at Scotland Yard to send a few chaps out here to keep an eye on things?”
“I’ll put a call in immediately,” Congreve said.
“Thank you. I’ll run upstairs and kiss him good-bye and then I’ll be off. Sir David, would you like to accompany me? I promised you a peek at him.”
“I was going to insist on it.”
“One final thing. Just thought of it in fact. Ambrose, if anything … bad… should happen to me, I wonder if you would do me the very great honor of being Alexei’s godfather. He has no one else, you see, and-”
“The honor is all mine, Alex. Thank you for your faith in me. I’m deeply moved.”
And with that Hawke and Sir David Trulove quickly left the room and headed for the upper reaches of the house. Two men off to save the world once more, Ambrose thought, watching them striding up the staircase, realizing he might never see either of them again.
He puffed away at his pipe, wondering whether the world would ever again sail with such serenity through space as it seemed to do a hundred years ago.
C ongreve walked Hawke out to his car, the familiar Bentley Continental he called the “Locomotive,” parked in the forecourt.
“How can I help you, Alex, get to the bottom of this Russian thing?”
“Good of you to ask and I may indeed call upon that oversized brain of yours before this is all over. But, for now, I already have a plan as to how to get to the bottom of it.”
“How, may I ask?”
“By going straight to the top.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“I mean I’m going to pay a little visit to my dear friend and former cellmate, Prime Minister Vladimir Putin.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Deadly serious.”
“And just how do you plan to manage it?”
“Simple, actually. I’m going to ring him up tonight. I have his private number in my wallet.”
“You ought to be careful, dear boy. To sup with that Russian you’ll need a very long spoon.”
“Did I ever tell you he and I got thoroughly pissed? A bottle of vodka in his cell in that awful radioactive prison, Energetika?”
“I don’t believe you did.”
“Hmm. It’s true. We got rather chummy.”
“I must say, Alex, that, after all these years, you still have the power to shock and amaze me.”
Hawke climbed behind the wheel and the Bentley’s monstrous engine exploded to life.
He smiled at Congreve.
“Good. May it always be thus, as your idol Mr. Sherlock Holmes might say.”
With that, Alex Hawke and his great grey Locomotive roared out of Brixden House’s graveled forecourt and disappeared down the winding drive into a warm summer’s night, pearlescent moonlight and shadows of indigo blue showing the way.
Seventeen
Cap d’Antibes, France
Hawke slept peacefully for most of the short flight from Gatwick south of London to the south of France. He was dreaming fitfully of the last time he’d visited the glittering Cote d’Azur. There was a woman in his dream, a
