atop a newly resurgent Russia and a massive personal fortune. He divides his time between his office at the Kremlin and sailing the world aboard his new megayacht, Red Star, with his best friend, former Italian prime minister Berlusconi.”
“ Red Star belongs to Putin? I was under the impression she belonged to Khodorkovsky, the big oilman. That’s what all the glossy yachting magazines say.”
“It’s only what people think. An impression we wish to convey. She belongs to the prime minister, I assure you.”
“We spent some time together, you know, in that bloody prison, Energetika. Down in his cell. Drinking vodka and smoking cigarettes.”
“I do know about that. The prime minister has fond memories of you. He finds you good company. As a former intelligence officer himself, Putin has long admired your brilliant career at MI6 from afar, as I’m sure he told you. Since you’re here, I will tell you a little secret. He has mentioned to me on more than one occasion that he would very much like to have a very private conversation with you.”
“About what?”
“About your helping him build a new Russia.”
“Come over to your side? You must be joking! I’ve got enough problems taking care of my own side.”
“Alex, listen carefully to me. Times have changed dramatically. The Communist Party, at least in my country, thank God, is dead and buried. And our two nations face common enemies in this young century: a rising China, obviously, that insane asylum North Korea, and radical Islam all over the world. Russia has historically been geographically schizophrenic, torn between the East and the West. Putin, and those closest to him, possess a yearning to shift toward Europe and the West. They would never admit this publicly, of course, but it’s true. Their sensitivities gravitate toward Berlin and Paris, to the great capitals of the West, not to Communist dictatorships in Beijing or Pyongyang. And let’s not forget the Castro brothers in Havana or that thug Chavez in Venezuela.”
Hawke was silent. A door had opened. Wide. And he was not about to slam it in Kuragin’s, much less Putin’s, face. That was not how the intelligence game was played at this level. It was a very delicate tradecraft moment, one in which to keep one’s cards preternaturally close. Hawke looked at Kuragin, not saying a word.
“Well,” Kuragin said finally, eyeing Hawke. “Obviously, this is not something to be discussed now. Or, ever, if that is your wish. Our warm feelings for you will remain unchanged regardless. Let me give you this card. There’s no name on it, only a number. It is Putin’s private number. Not ten people in the world have access to it.”
“Thank you,” Hawke said, pocketing the card.
“On to other matters. Let’s begin with the true nature of your visit, shall we?”
It was the one moment Hawke had been dreading during the long journey across Siberia. The moment of truth.
“Well. Where does one begin?” He hesitated, then plunged ahead. “You see, Nikolai, I’ve come about Anastasia.”
“Anastasia. I see. Well, I-”
Hawke, in a turmoil of emotion, held up his hand. “Please, Nikolai. Don’t say anything. Just let me say what I have to say first. After that, you can either throw me a rope or throw me to the wolves. Is that all right?”
“As you wish, Alex.”
Hawke rose to his feet, pacing back and forth before the fire with his hands clasped behind his back.
“It was no secret in Moscow that I was deeply in love with her. And, I believed, she with me. What you may not know are the exact events surrounding her death in Sweden. I had followed Korsakov from Stockholm to his island summerhouse. His escape route, his airship, was tethered to the roof. He had Anastasia with him in the car, bound and drugged. He felt she’d betrayed him for me. I had no doubt the Tsar was going to kill her. I was gravely wounded trying to get inside that house. To save her from her father’s blind rage. I failed. Then, I watched helplessly as he had her loaded aboard the doomed airship on a stretcher. I’m positive it was her. And-then-I-dear God-I-”
He felt a hot clench in the muscles of his throat and was afraid he could not go on.
“Alex, please, you’re very upset. Let me try to-”
Hawke waved him away and took a moment to regain his composure. He returned to the chair opposite Kuragin and stared into his eyes for a long time before speaking.
“Nikolai, I heard a rumor. I’m sure it cannot possibly be true. But I have lived with the knowledge that I killed the woman I loved for a very long time now. It’s unbearable. I returned to Jasna Polana solely because I was told that Anastasia is still alive. I was told that she was held prisoner here. I’ve absolutely no reason to believe this is true. I still don’t believe it, as we sit here. But I simply could not go on living without knowing the truth. I’ve come to you to learn the truth. Please-please help me.”
“Anastasia is alive, Alex. She’s here. In this house. Now.”
Five
Hawke stared at Kuragin in disbelief for a brief moment, then, seeing the clear truth in his wise old eyes, put his face into his hands and leaned forward, giving full rein to his overwhelming emotions. The general stood up and placed his one good hand on Alex’s shoulder. “I’ll go and get the ‘prisoner’ now, Alex. I’m sure you two will want to be alone. I will send her to you here where you’ll be comfortable. Sit back now. Calm yourself. That decanter on my desk contains the purest Russian vodka dirty money can buy. I suggest you avail yourself of it.”
A gentle tapping at the door. So soft an anxious Hawke nearly missed the sound above the crackle and hiss of the great fire in the hearth. He practically leaped from the chair, set his small glass of vodka on Kuragin’s massive desk, and raced across the large room to the door. His hand was shaking badly as he reached for the doorknob. His heart had taken on a life of its own, beating like some jungle drum warning of imminent danger.
Little did he know.
He pulled the heavy wooden door open, slowly, terrified of what he might or might not see beyond it.
Anastasia.
He saw her upturned face, morning light spilling down from a high window, afire in her golden hair.
Her luminous green eyes shining with tears.
Her lower lip trembling.
Her tentative hand, reaching out, coming to a trembling rest against his wild heart, as she spoke his name, barely above a whisper.
“Alex.”
“It is you,” he said softly, almost breathless.
Hawke unfastened his eyes from hers with strained difficulty, as though they had become entangled. He felt if he lost contact with them he’d sink without a trace. He opened his arms and she fell into them, pressing her cheek against his chest, clinging tightly to him. He enfolded her, cradling her head, the two of them seemingly on a pitching deck, holding on to each other for dear life.
“It is me, Alex,” she said, her voice breaking, a single tear coursing down her cheek. Hawke looked down and gently brushed it away as he spoke softly to her.
“I thought-I thought I’d lost you… all this time, all these years, I’ve been broken inside… I’ve been so lost, so-”
She put a finger to his lips and said,
“I have to-sit down, I’m afraid. Where shall we-?” She looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time.
He took her hand and led her over to the yellow satin divan beneath the tall leaded-glass windows. She sat and arranged her emerald silk skirt around her, looking up at him, smiling through her tears. “Oh, Alex, my darling boy, I can’t believe I’m sitting here looking up at you. I gave you up so long ago. When I saw you lying there in the snow below my window. So still. All that bright red blood soaking into the snow. My father said, ‘There’s your hero. Do you still think he can save you? Do you, you lying bitch?’ And I didn’t, my love; I didn’t think I would ever see your face again. I was so sure you were dead. And now…”
Hawke had dropped to his knees at her feet, resting his head upon her lap, weeping, trying to hold on to
