flagpole. He hosts the meeting. Apparently everyone attending is obliged to stand up and raise a glass. Tell him what a big fucking deal he is. He likes that kind of thing.”
“Ian, if you had to identify a single individual in the Tsarist organization who is hell-bent on making my life hell these days, who would that person be?”
“Without any question, that would be Kutov himself. He was the late Tsar’s staunchest ally during the coup that put Putin in prison and Korsakov in power. He knows you killed his beloved Tsar. And he’s one of only two or three people in Moscow who know about your clandestine relationship with Putin. Drives him out of his bloody mind. That’s why you two remain at the top of his shit list. And it’s a very long list indeed.”
“And my son?”
“He knows it was Putin who saved your son and his mother from the execution Kutov himself had ordered at Lubyanka. To him, with all due respect, your son and his mother are simply unfinished business.”
“They’re going down, Ian. All of them. And you and I are going to make that happen.”
“I look forward to it with keen anticipation. The world will instantly be a better place. Let me know when you’re arriving and where. I’ll pick you up.”
“Putin’s well aware of what I’m doing and obviously supports it, given the dramatic events in Portofino. He’s sending one of his planes for me. Day after tomorrow. I’ll be landing at his small airfield near his private dacha outside St. Petersburg. You know where his dacha is?”
“Alex, please.”
“Sorry. I’ll tell him you’re driving me down so he won’t send a car. He told me we’d be doing some wild boar hunting using night-vision rifles. You up for that?”
“You’ve made my day. Seriously, I’ve been bored blind ever since Stokely Jones and Harry Brock left town. What a pair.”
“Done. See you soon. Cheers, Ian.”
H awke’s plane touched down on Russian soil right on schedule. Three in the afternoon, St. Petersburg time. As the sleek jet neared the end of the runway, he could see Concasseur standing beside a black Audi, waiting for him. Hawke was looking forward to working with his old comrade in arms again. He was as good a man in a fight as you could ask for. He also spoke fluent Russian, which would be important in executing the plan Hawke had been sketching out in his mind on the flight from London.
The two old friends embraced and clapped each other on the back. They’d not seen each other since Hawke had interviewed the man for the Moscow job, running Red Banner.
Hawke had no luggage to speak of, just weapons and extra mags of ammunition in the black nylon carryall he tossed into the Audi’s boot. He wasn’t planning to be here long. He shed his black leather jacket and tossed it in as well. It was warmer than he’d expected.
“How far to the dacha?” Hawke asked, once they were on the rough, two-laned road.
“A good half hour. Is that long enough to tell me your plan? If it’s not, the plan’s too bloody complicated to work.”
Hawke laughed. “Haven’t changed a bit, have you?”
“Have you?”
“No.”
“As the Yanks say, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
Hawke spent the drive time discussing a broad outline of his plan with Concasseur. The man was enthusiastic, to say the least, and contributed a number of nuanced changes that only strengthened Hawke’s idea. With a little help from Putin, they just might pull this off, Hawke told him.
“Something will go wrong,” Concasseur said. “It always does.”
“Of course it will. It’s what keeps it interesting. The thing that keeps us coming back for more. Am I right?”
“Always right. Sir.”
“I never figured you for a ‘yes man,’ Ian.”
“Damn right. I’m not stupid. Here we are. The first checkpoint. Let’s hope this guard has my name as well as yours.”
“He does, Ian. I told Putin you were coming. Ever met him?”
“Never. We don’t seem to travel in the same circles.”
“Piece of work,” Hawke said, gazing up at the tall evergreens that lined the drive leading to Putin’s dacha. “You’ll see.”
“You two are, what, friends? I can’t believe it.”
“Yeah. We met in prison. Shared a bottle of vodka in his cell. Bit weird, isn’t it?”
“Oh, you have no idea how weird it is, Alex.”
“He likes me for some reason. What can I say?”
“It’s insane is what it is, actually, mate. I seriously doubt that there’s anything more bizarre in the entire annals of espionage. And I include fiction.”
Forty-five
Saint Petersburg/Moscow
“Alex,” Putin said, embracing him heartily after he’d climbed out of the car. “It was a damn close thing in Portofino. Matter of seconds. I could feel the heat of the explosion through the soles of my shoes as we lifted off the deck. A minute later and…”
“Meet the man responsible for the timely warning, Ian Concasseur. He’s the hero, not me.”
“Concasseur, eh? Thank you, thank you,” Putin said in English, walking behind the rear of the Audi and pumping Ian’s hand. Ian responded in perfectly accented Russian and Putin, delighted, engaged him in a lively conversation on some unknown topic that showed no signs of stopping.
It gave Hawke a perfect opportunity to indulge his passion. The dacha’s gravel car park was full of fancy cars. In addition to the usual Maybachs, Mercedes AMG sedans, and shiny black Audis, there were scads of Ferraris, an Enzo, an Italia, and the new FF model, Bentleys aplenty, even a Bugatti Veyron in bright Russian red. It was the first one Hawke had seen up close. At $2,600,000, it was the world’s most expensive new car, and there weren’t that many of them around. Even Hawke, who had an extensive automobile collection, found that to be an exorbitant amount of money to spend getting from point A to B.
It had a Russian vanity plate, black letters on white, that read PM. Hawke knew instantly it had to be “Prime Minister” Putin’s car.
“You seem to be having a house party, Volodya,” Hawke said, as Putin and Concasseur rejoined him. Putin began leading them toward a path that led away from the main house and into the deep green forest.
“Yes, my annual wild boar hunt. I invited you to participate, remember?”
“Looking forward to it. As is Concasseur over there. It’s a night hunt, correct?”
“Yes. Night-vision scopes. Lots of vodka beforehand, so keep your wits about you. You kill one of my ministers or generals and we’ll have an international incident on our hands. Since you’re probably wondering, we’re walking down to my private office to talk. You’ll meet all the other guests at dinner, after we discuss our mutually advantageous plans. I won’t use your real names. And I’ll say you’re here on business. An offshore oil deal with BP. Okay?”
“Fine.”
It took about ten minutes to reach an old but very solid, two-story house built of stone with a slate roof. There were two plainclothes security men standing to either side of the door. Hawke was certain the woods were full of them. He was probably standing in the most secure place in all Russia at the moment. A good feeling for once.
Inside, the house resembled a nineteenth-century Russian hunting lodge. It may well have been one, Peter the Great’s, for all Hawke knew. It was certainly grand enough for a tsar. Dark paneling, great mounted animal heads, and huge oil paintings of sporting scenes from an earlier era hung from the walls. They must be pictures that once hung in the Hermitage, Hawke thought, knowing the prime minister’s predilection for “borrowing” from his
