beautiful raven-haired Chinese secret police officer.
Her dream name was Jet something… Jet Li. Yes, and even in his hotel bed, rolling among the twisted sheets, he sensed something wrong. An aura of threat surrounded her… yes… and at the climactic moment of love, she raised a knife above her head and plunged it into his heart…
“Fifteen minutes to touchdown at Nice Airport, sir,” he heard the copilot of his G-5 announce over the intercom. He picked up the phone mounted inside his armrest and raised his seat back, blinking awake.
“Is there any hot coffee left, Charley, or did you two polish it off?” Hawke said, raising his window shade, letting light flood the darkened cabin.
“Still a few drops in the pot, sir; I’ll step out and bring you a mug from the galley.”
Hawke normally had an attendant on board, but she’d been vacationing in Ibiza with her new husband and he hadn’t wanted to bother her at the last minute, especially for such a short hop.
“You fly the plane; I think I can still manage to pour myself a cup of coffee, believe it or not. How’s the weather? It looks beautiful down there.”
Hawke was peering out the big oval window at the sun-sparkled blue Mediterranean ten thousand feet below his airplane. He found himself smiling. If he had to meet with Putin, he’d much rather it be here in paradise than in Moscow, where every other chap he met might want to kill him.
“Eighteen Celsius right now, sir, winds light, about five knots, ten percent chance of showers late this afternoon.”
“Bloody perfect. What mischief are you two up to this weekend, while I’m off saving the world from the Evil Empire?”
“Thought we’d get a hired car, sir, drive along the coast over to Monte Carlo. Not far, and neither I nor the skipper here have ever been.”
“Ah, the casinos. Hold on to your wallets.”
“We might have a go, sir. A few quid.”
“I’d like to be wheels-up by ten Sunday morning. Back to London, unless my host has other ideas.”
“No problem at all, sir. We’ll have her topped off and ready for you.”
A silver chopper was waiting on the tarmac fifty feet away, rotors turning. Judging by the large red star and the blue-and-white Russian flag on her fuselage, she was clearly waiting for him. As Hawke descended the Gulfstream’s staircase, taking deep breaths of the fresh salt air, two men in white strode across the tarmac to greet him. Men who walked with the rolling gait of seamen. Heavily muscled jack-tars who no doubt carried concealed weapons.
Both wore white gabardine trousers and skintight white T-shirts with a silhouette of a megayacht and the name Red Star emblazoned below it. One stepped forward and extended his hand. He had a wide white smile and blond hair, cut close.
“Commander Hawke,” he said. “Welcome. I am Yaniv Soha and this is my colleague Yuri. The prime minister extends his warmest greetings and says he is looking forward to having you as a guest aboard Red Star. We are here to provide you with diplomatic security. And anything else you require. Can we help you with your luggage?”
Hawke had only the old canvas seabag slung from his shoulder.
“I’m good, thank you.”
“Do you mind if I look inside the bag, sir? Standard precaution.”
“I’d be worried if you didn’t.” Hawke smiled, handing it to him. The man picked through the items slowly and carefully, examining each one more than thoroughly.
“Excellent,” he said, returning the bag. “Very well, if you’ll come this way, it’s a very short flight out to Red Star. She’s anchored just off the Hotel du Cap at Cap d’Antibes.”
The three men started for the Russian military helo, which was spooling up.
“I saw her on final approach. Magnificent. What’s her l.o.a.?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Length overall.”
“Ah. One hundred meters, sir. Three hundred feet.”
“Impressive.”
T he silver chopper hovered above the yacht’s helo pad, located near the stern. As Hawke emerged from the cockpit he saw Vladimir Putin striding toward him, an honest smile on his face and his hand extended. He was wearing a black bathing suit and a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was in very good shape, much better than the pale skeleton he’d been when the two of them had been inmates at Energetika Prison.
“Alex,” Putin said as they shook hands.
“Volodya,” Hawke said, smiling.
“My old cellmate, we meet again.”
“Under considerably better circumstances, I would say,”
“Your pilot waggled his wings as he flew over Red Star. Made me laugh. I admire your style.”
“I was asleep. My pilot’s the one with the style. What an incredible yacht. Yours?”
“I’d never admit it publicly, but yes. The sea has become my sanctuary. Come on, I’ll give you a short tour. Just enough time for a tour and a cocktail before lunch. We’re going ashore to the Hotel du Cap. I hope that’s suitable. If not, my chef can cook anything you like.”
“You just happened to have picked one of my favorite hotels on earth. Fifty quid for a Salade Nicoise with a teaspoon of tuna is pushing it a bit, but still.”
Putin laughed, clapping him on the back. “Follow me. We’ll start on the bridge. You’re difficult to impress, but I think you will be. You still have Blackhawke?”
Putin walked very quickly and Hawke matched his stride as they headed forward along the starboard deck.
“Yes, but I’m building a new one in Turkey. Sail, not power this time.”
“Tell me about her. I’m new to yachting and have become fascinated with them.”
“Well, she’s basically a twenty-first-century clipper ship. Three carbon fiber masts, each one about twenty stories tall. Extreme, I suppose.”
“The more extreme, the better. How long is she?”
“Three hundred twenty l.o.a., forty-two-foot beam, and she draws twenty feet. The naval architect, a Turk named Badi, told me that if she were anchored in New York harbor her mastheads would reach up to the level of the tablet carried in the arm of the Statue of Liberty.”
“Good God, Alex.”
“You only go around once in life, right? You know what all megayacht owners love saying to each other? ‘Mine’s bigger.’ ”
Putin laughed. “Good one. I’ll have to remember that.”
“My idea for the new one was to have all the attributes of a classic sailing ship, teak decks, varnished cap rail, et cetera, but with the overall appearance sleek, metallic, ultramodern. She looks a bit foreboding, to be honest. Darth Vader’s intergalactic yacht, the architect calls her.”
“I hope you’ll invite me aboard sometime. She sounds magnificent.”
“Done. I’m going to Istanbul for her sea trials in a month or so. I’ll let you know.”
They entered the bridge, and all the officers and crewmen snapped to attention.
“Captain Ramius,” Putin said to Red Star ’s skipper, “I’d like you to meet our guest, Alex Hawke. He’s just built a new yacht in Turkey. He’s been admiring our beautiful ship, but he has something he’d like to tell you, don’t you, Alex?”
Hawke grinned at the captain.
“Mine’s bigger.”
Eighteen
Putin’s security insisted the two men dine inside the hotel’s Eden Roc restaurant rather than at a table
