Sea Hawke, page 5
Hawke said, smiling, “Well, sir, I must say, it’s a relief to find us both on the same page here. I was expecting something else entirely in your reaction to my proposal.”
“Such as?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Outrage. A summary dismissal from the Service. Firing squad. Something along those lines occurred to me, to be honest.”
Sir David’s eyes softened, and he smiled with such rare warmth as to make Hawke’s eyes water . . .
“Alex, we’ve known each other a very long time. You well know that my dearly departed Grace and I never had the good fortune to have children of our own. And so, since first we met, it’s always been you I’ve imagined in that role. The man whom I’ve seen as a surrogate son since that long-ago first meeting at the little pub in Berkeley Square, when you were fresh out of Dartmouth Naval and the Royal Navy Air Corps and looking for a job. Something about the innocence in your eyes, and the kindly manner of your speech, and the Sheffield tempered steel courage I could sense in the stiffness of your spine. Got that from your father, of course. It was then, if I may be so bold, that I knew that, as long as I should live, in both heart and mind, you would forever be the son I never had . . .”
“Sir, I never knew. I never—” Hawke was nearly speechless. “The Infuriator,” that Algerian wine of C’s that, according to Porterfield’s account, had the capacity to send him into blind rage, and which normally rendered him unconscious, had now turned the old man into a jellylike substance.
“Sir, please, let’s order a pot of hot coffee. I didn’t sleep at all well last night, and I think that cocktail of mine has left me a bit tight, sorry to say. Must be age. Can’t hold my liquor anymore.” And, with that, Sir David had his head thrown back and was snoring loudly enough to be audible down in the traffic on St. James.
Hawke caught the eye of Porterfield, who was passing by, and directed his attention to Sir David, now happily ensconced in Dreamland.
Porterfield looked at the man, shaking his head.
“Not again. Second time this month, m’lord,” he said to Hawke. “Give me thirty seconds and I’ll put him right again, m’lord.”
Hawke ordered the coffee, black and hot—not to mention immediate.
“Right away, sir.”
“Thank you, Porterfield. You know, I was unaware of this current addiction. I believe, having witnessed the effects personally, that I’ll have a word with the food and beverage manager about the possibility of removing the Infuriator from the club wine list. Please inform him that I’ll stop by his office after we get Sir David safely into his car and have his driver take him to his country place straightaway.”
Porterfield raced off to the kitchen.
Hawke made sure his superior at Six got at least four cups of the steaming beverage down the hatch.
He blinked a few times, and then his eyes popped open wide and he looked around to see where he was.
“Oh! Good Lord! Must have nodded off. Now, where was I?”
“Something about Cuba, a third Castro brother, and Red Star, sir.”
“Yes, yes. But what about them?”
“Not sure, sir. You’ll recall that I had to make a dash to the loo right in the middle of our conversation.” He lied to spare the old fellow embarrassment.
“Yes, I remember. But now that I’ve had gallons of coffee, it’s beginning to come back a bit. I was telling you about my expectations for your upcoming voyage, I believe. Yes, that was it. Hit China first. And hit them hard. That’s what we need to do.”
“I expect you’re right about that, sir. But how do you envision we proceed? You said you wanted me to stop by Cuba, as well as a location somewhere up the Amazon and Antarctica.”
“Yes. First, we will provide you with a summary of our investigations into potential or existing Chinese criminal hot spots around the globe. Once you’ve called in successfully at my top three targets, you may do with it as you wish. Prioritize them by order of danger—or another way, as you see fit. But these are all myriad places, scattered across the oceans, that could stand on-site assessments by an officer such as yourself in the field. Your reports will be invaluable as we assemble the means to take down China’s plans to destroy her enemies worldwide without firing a shot.”
“China seems to feel invulnerable. I wonder . . . As Shakespeare said, ‘On what meat doth this our Caesar feed, that he is grown so great?’ Julius Caesar: Act 1, Scene 2.”
“Listen to me, Alex. I’m telling you that China will throw everything they have at you should they discover your true identity and your real mission against them. You and your men will be tested as never before—and, I pray, found not wanting for courage under fire or under sail.
“But I also know your strengths and your sense of honor, duty, and country. And I know in my heart that, despite all odds, you will not only survive, but you will prevail. And you will smite our foes wherever you may find them, and you will show them that we shall never surrender to them, nor will we and our American allies ever even entertain the merest idea of defeat. They’ve awoken our secret weapon, my boy.”
“Moi?” Hawke said with his trademark grin, trying to lighten the old boy up a wee bit.
“Yes, dear boy, that would be you.”
CHAPTER 5
At Madame Orlov’s
Red Square, Moscow
Lenin’s Tomb is a vast monumental structure. It incorporates some elements from ancient mausoleums, such as the Step Pyramid, located northwest of the city of Memphis in Egypt, or the Tomb of Cyrus the Great and, to a lesser degree, the Temple of the Inscriptions. It is, in fact, an imposing piece of architecture and, in its own way, possessed of a certain degree of funereal beauty few crypts can rival.
Vladimir Lenin’s remarkably well-preserved body has been on display here for well-nigh one hundred years, ever since his death in 1924. One rather grande dame visiting from London in the late thirties leaned over and peered at him through the thick glass with her monocle, shook her head, and said to her friend, “Hmm! He is aging rather well, don’t you agree, Mavis, dear?”
“Well, my dear, let’s be honest. He was never a looker, you know,” her friend Mavis said dryly. “All he ever had going for him was that batshit crazy brain of his.”
“Mavis, please! Such language!”
“What, ‘batshit’? Don’t be a hypocrite. You say it all the damn time, don’t you? Shit. Shit, shit, shit!”
“Oh, hush up, will you? Do put a sock in it, Mavis.”
There is a narrow, twisting street, actually more of a crooked lane, on your left just a hundred yards beyond the tomb itself. Take it. At the end of the lane stands a large, imposing building, formerly a grand hotel, but in the twenty-first century it is now a VIP brothel called Madame Orlov’s. It was wildly popular from day one and patronized by high-ranking Kremlin officials, including President Putin, who can usually be found in the mahogany-paneled bar just off the lobby.
He is there today, having invited Colonel Igor Kolobanov, new head of the FSB (formerly the KGB and still called that by Putin himself and many, many Muscovites).
Natasha and the two men were seated on a tufted red leather banquette, sharing a tin of Imperial Russian Malossol caviar and a bottle of Beluga Gold Line vodka—Putin’s drug of choice, recently. The noble spirit had just been delivered, nesting in a crystal bucket full of crushed ice. And that first icy sip had brought a smile to the face of the most powerful man in Russia.
“Well, Igor, good of you to come,” Putin said, raising his glass. “I know how busy you are over there on Lubyanka Square. How is that new location working out for your team? Are you all settled in?”
The imposing building, which had been the former KGB headquarters, had stood vacant for years after the new, incredibly modern FSB HQ had been built and occupied across the river from the Kremlin. When Putin had first envisaged what he liked to think of as a shadow intel operation cloaked in secrecy, he had the notion to make the building Kolobanov’s KGB2 headquarters. Igor, who reported only to Putin, was perhaps the president’s closest confidante. In their private conversations, both men slyly referred to their shadow service as KGB2.
“Yes, Mr. President, all settled in,” Kolobanov replied. “And I can’t thank you enough for your making such a grand space available for us. The Lubyanka building has a great historical significance that we all respect, and for a group such as ours, top secret and off the radar, it couldn’t be better. We’ve reopened the museum on the ground floor, and some days in summer, we’re overrun with tourists. Our offices are all on the upper floors as in days of old. And, of course, we still keep the prison closed to the public.”
“A pleasure to see that lovely old ruin put back to good use, Colonel,” Putin said, leaning back and sipping his “little water,” as Russians call their precious vodka. “Any news on our new friends in the East? Are they willing to speak to me? I suddenly have a strong sense that our two celestial bodies are coming into alignment once more.”
“I’m working on that, sir. My highest priority right now is Beijing. There have been preliminary exploratory conversations at the lower levels. Some were even productive. My guess is that, at some point in the near future, your new friends will be happy to come to the table. It has been made abundantly clear to them that it is a conversation which can only benefit both sides equally.”
“Yes, precisely,” Putin said, “A Grand Alliance of Russia and China to counterbalance the West is what I have in mind. I’m laying the groundwork for it even now. I even have a third party who has expressed a very strong interest in brokering the deal.”
“Who is it? I can’t imagine!”
“And you won’t believe me if I tell you, Comrade.”
“Try me, Excellency.”
Putin smiled across the table and motioned for the man to come closer so that he might whisper the answer in his ear.
“His name is Castro.”
“Castro? He’s been dead for years!”
“Not this Castro. He’s very much alive and kicking.”
“You cannot be serious! There’s a third Castro brother? Saints preserve us!”
CHAPTER 6
Putin smiled broadly and pulled back to regard his friend. He took great delight in being one of the very few on earth who knew the actual secret the left-wing Cubans were keeping to themselves for the time being.
“There’s a third Castro brother,” Putin said casually, as if saying it was the most normal thing in the world. “Someone whom the world knows nothing about.”
“No! I don’t believe it! Are you saying Fidel is still alive? Impossible.”
“Believe it. The youngest of the three children the Castros produced. Fearing her baby would be discovered and killed by Batista’s anti-Castro thugs, she smuggled him out of the country and raised him in total secrecy as to his name. He has now returned to Cuba to overthrow Washington’s puppets, the right-wing fascist government in Havana. He calls himself General Castro. It is a great secret. Never say his name again. I want you to go to Havana this very week. I will use our sources there to arrange for a secret meeting with General Castro to discuss our common enemy.”
“I am honored that you place such confidence in me.”
“Excellent! Keep up the pressure. If we succeed, the future is ours, Comrade Kolobanov.”
“To the future!” Kolobanov exclaimed whilst recklessly raising his full glass, causing countless heads to swivel and eyes to stare.
Putin kept his voice low but commanding. “Comrade, discretion, as they say, is the better part of valor. You must never breathe a word of any of this, not a word!”
“Yes, but of course not, so sorry, sir.”
“You said you had some interesting news about our friend at MI6. Is he well? Say no. I should hope not. Rumor has it that Hawke was murdered on the island of Bermuda.”
“I should say that he is definitely not dead, as I briefed you last month in your office when we had him followed upon his return from the havoc he wreaked upon our friends the Tang Brothers in the Bahamas. He’s been quite the busy boy lately. Not spending a great deal of time at the office, apparently.”
“Don’t tell me he’s taking early retirement. That would ruin all the fun.”
“No, not retiring. He’s built himself a very sizable new sailing yacht. She measures well over two hundred feet. A motor-sailer, actually, with an enclosed wheelhouse. As I say, she’s about seventy-five meters . . . perhaps more. According to our boys in Amsterdam, she’s heavily armored and packs a mean punch. Some weapon systems are run by AI, including a new laser-based missile defense system. And she’s rigged for ASW, anti-submarine warfare. She may look like a rich man’s toy . . . but she’s a warship of the first order. He’s somehow managed to re-create himself as a one-man navy.”
“Then he’s definitely up to no good. If I had to guess, I would say he means to cause more trouble for our new friends. They are most certainly not happy that he blew up their secret submarine pen in the Bahamas, as well as their massive heroin laboratories. Where is he going? Do we have any word on his plans for this voyage?”
“We do. One of our Dutch agents at the Russian consulate in Amsterdam is also a well-known naval architect and engineer. He has been working on Hawke’s massive boat at the DeGroot Yard since the day her keel was laid. He says it’s a circumnavigation, or even an epic sea voyage—more of an expedition than a pleasure cruise. All our man says is that Hawke is looking for something . . . ‘new,’ I suppose, is the word. He’s seeing himself as some new twenty-first-century explorer. The new Admiral Byrd, all sleds and dogs to the South Pole! Mush! You huskies! Or, Hush! You muskies! Or something along that order.”
“I don’t buy it, not a bit of it. It’s trouble Hawke’s looking for, Igor, trust me,” Putin said. “He’s spoiling for another fight, and not just one. If this new yacht of his is anything like Blackhawke or the previous two, you’re looking at a state-of-the-art battleship neatly disguised as a rich man’s toy.”
“Nature of the beast,” Kolobanov said, before draining the remains of his drink. “We’ve dealt with him before. Say the word, Mr. President. I’ve now got half of the lads who participated in the Chechen death squads under my command. And, believe me, sir, they, too, are spoiling for a fight.”
“I will certainly keep that in mind. They are well trained? Armed and dangerous? Ready to spill blood?”
“At a moment’s notice, Mr. President!”
“We shall say more about this. Keep me in the loop. What’s she called, this new toy of his? I want our naval commanders at sea to be able to recognize her and take whatever military action presents itself.”
“He’s not saying a word about the name. He tells everyone who’ll listen that they will find out her name when it’s painted on the transom when she’s launched and not before. Something to do with bad luck, I believe. Meanwhile, he’s begun to assemble his crew. A leader, Hawke himself; his new captain, a fellow named John ‘Jack’ Horner; and his new second-in-command, a chap by the name of Lieutenant Ballantrae—a Scot, obviously. And, finally, an ex–Navy SEAL, apparently. Gentleman by the name of Jones. Served in Afghanistan as the leader of SEAL Team Seven.”
“Ah. So Stokely Jones will be aboard. Formidable, actually. All right, then. Who else?”
“Well, he’s recruiting potential crew members now. So far, he’s got a captain to run the boat, a first officer, a ship’s navigator, of course, first engineer, second engineer, ship’s surgeon, a geologist, a meteorologist, cooks, carpenters, and a host of able seamen and deckhands.”
“What’s the code name of our man in Amsterdam? A Spaniard, as I recall.”
“Yes, sir, that’s correct. From Seville. He likes to be called El Toro, but his real name is Fideo Chico. Which means, oddly enough, ‘Little Spaghetti,’ ” Kolobanov said with an odd little giggle.
“Were it me, if my name was Little Spaghetti? I’d stick with El Toro!” Putin said.
“All right, listen to me now,” he continued. “I want you to arrange for our most trusted agent to fly to Amsterdam tonight to meet with this fellow Spaghetti. Let Fideo Chico know someone is coming from Moscow to see him. A courier with a message from President Putin. And make sure that this Señor Spaghetti gets signed on board as a crew member. No matter what it takes, I want you to ensure that he’s signed on as crew and equipped properly. By that I mean he gets a small but very powerful encrypted device to communicate with you here in Moscow, at KGB2, no matter where the route may take him.
“He will be instructed to contact you at least once every forty-eight hours. He will then give you the yacht’s current location and new destination and estimated time of arrival at each destination. Understood, my dear Igor?”
“Unequivocally, Mr. President. Is there a problem with this impending voyage?”
“I never cease to be surprised at your incredible gifts in understatement, Colonel. Are you quite sure you don’t have some British ancestor sitting atop your family tree?
“But to your question—yes, you might say there was a problem with this impending voyage. A very big fucking problem, in fact! Our paid friends at CIA say that his lordship once more is planning to stick that aristocratic nose of his into places where it doesn’t belong. You remember the notorious Tang Brothers, of course? The Evil Twins, I call them. One’s bad, the other’s worse.”
“Who could forget them?” Igor said with a smile at Putin’s little joke.
“Well, certainly not our friend Hawke. Apparently they got on his nerves when he discovered the Chinese had managed to build and conceal an underwater nuclear sub pen in the Bahamas, not a hundred miles from Miami. So he called in the US Navy carrier fleet, the aircraft carrier USS Theodore Roosevelt, and destroyed the sub base, two of the subs, and, to add insult to injury, much of the Tang Brothers’ Bahamian empire. And now he’s vowed to go to global war with the Tangs, as well as with those CCP members who do their bidding all over the world. They are convinced that China has become the whole world’s crouching tiger.”
“Such as?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Outrage. A summary dismissal from the Service. Firing squad. Something along those lines occurred to me, to be honest.”
Sir David’s eyes softened, and he smiled with such rare warmth as to make Hawke’s eyes water . . .
“Alex, we’ve known each other a very long time. You well know that my dearly departed Grace and I never had the good fortune to have children of our own. And so, since first we met, it’s always been you I’ve imagined in that role. The man whom I’ve seen as a surrogate son since that long-ago first meeting at the little pub in Berkeley Square, when you were fresh out of Dartmouth Naval and the Royal Navy Air Corps and looking for a job. Something about the innocence in your eyes, and the kindly manner of your speech, and the Sheffield tempered steel courage I could sense in the stiffness of your spine. Got that from your father, of course. It was then, if I may be so bold, that I knew that, as long as I should live, in both heart and mind, you would forever be the son I never had . . .”
“Sir, I never knew. I never—” Hawke was nearly speechless. “The Infuriator,” that Algerian wine of C’s that, according to Porterfield’s account, had the capacity to send him into blind rage, and which normally rendered him unconscious, had now turned the old man into a jellylike substance.
“Sir, please, let’s order a pot of hot coffee. I didn’t sleep at all well last night, and I think that cocktail of mine has left me a bit tight, sorry to say. Must be age. Can’t hold my liquor anymore.” And, with that, Sir David had his head thrown back and was snoring loudly enough to be audible down in the traffic on St. James.
Hawke caught the eye of Porterfield, who was passing by, and directed his attention to Sir David, now happily ensconced in Dreamland.
Porterfield looked at the man, shaking his head.
“Not again. Second time this month, m’lord,” he said to Hawke. “Give me thirty seconds and I’ll put him right again, m’lord.”
Hawke ordered the coffee, black and hot—not to mention immediate.
“Right away, sir.”
“Thank you, Porterfield. You know, I was unaware of this current addiction. I believe, having witnessed the effects personally, that I’ll have a word with the food and beverage manager about the possibility of removing the Infuriator from the club wine list. Please inform him that I’ll stop by his office after we get Sir David safely into his car and have his driver take him to his country place straightaway.”
Porterfield raced off to the kitchen.
Hawke made sure his superior at Six got at least four cups of the steaming beverage down the hatch.
He blinked a few times, and then his eyes popped open wide and he looked around to see where he was.
“Oh! Good Lord! Must have nodded off. Now, where was I?”
“Something about Cuba, a third Castro brother, and Red Star, sir.”
“Yes, yes. But what about them?”
“Not sure, sir. You’ll recall that I had to make a dash to the loo right in the middle of our conversation.” He lied to spare the old fellow embarrassment.
“Yes, I remember. But now that I’ve had gallons of coffee, it’s beginning to come back a bit. I was telling you about my expectations for your upcoming voyage, I believe. Yes, that was it. Hit China first. And hit them hard. That’s what we need to do.”
“I expect you’re right about that, sir. But how do you envision we proceed? You said you wanted me to stop by Cuba, as well as a location somewhere up the Amazon and Antarctica.”
“Yes. First, we will provide you with a summary of our investigations into potential or existing Chinese criminal hot spots around the globe. Once you’ve called in successfully at my top three targets, you may do with it as you wish. Prioritize them by order of danger—or another way, as you see fit. But these are all myriad places, scattered across the oceans, that could stand on-site assessments by an officer such as yourself in the field. Your reports will be invaluable as we assemble the means to take down China’s plans to destroy her enemies worldwide without firing a shot.”
“China seems to feel invulnerable. I wonder . . . As Shakespeare said, ‘On what meat doth this our Caesar feed, that he is grown so great?’ Julius Caesar: Act 1, Scene 2.”
“Listen to me, Alex. I’m telling you that China will throw everything they have at you should they discover your true identity and your real mission against them. You and your men will be tested as never before—and, I pray, found not wanting for courage under fire or under sail.
“But I also know your strengths and your sense of honor, duty, and country. And I know in my heart that, despite all odds, you will not only survive, but you will prevail. And you will smite our foes wherever you may find them, and you will show them that we shall never surrender to them, nor will we and our American allies ever even entertain the merest idea of defeat. They’ve awoken our secret weapon, my boy.”
“Moi?” Hawke said with his trademark grin, trying to lighten the old boy up a wee bit.
“Yes, dear boy, that would be you.”
CHAPTER 5
At Madame Orlov’s
Red Square, Moscow
Lenin’s Tomb is a vast monumental structure. It incorporates some elements from ancient mausoleums, such as the Step Pyramid, located northwest of the city of Memphis in Egypt, or the Tomb of Cyrus the Great and, to a lesser degree, the Temple of the Inscriptions. It is, in fact, an imposing piece of architecture and, in its own way, possessed of a certain degree of funereal beauty few crypts can rival.
Vladimir Lenin’s remarkably well-preserved body has been on display here for well-nigh one hundred years, ever since his death in 1924. One rather grande dame visiting from London in the late thirties leaned over and peered at him through the thick glass with her monocle, shook her head, and said to her friend, “Hmm! He is aging rather well, don’t you agree, Mavis, dear?”
“Well, my dear, let’s be honest. He was never a looker, you know,” her friend Mavis said dryly. “All he ever had going for him was that batshit crazy brain of his.”
“Mavis, please! Such language!”
“What, ‘batshit’? Don’t be a hypocrite. You say it all the damn time, don’t you? Shit. Shit, shit, shit!”
“Oh, hush up, will you? Do put a sock in it, Mavis.”
There is a narrow, twisting street, actually more of a crooked lane, on your left just a hundred yards beyond the tomb itself. Take it. At the end of the lane stands a large, imposing building, formerly a grand hotel, but in the twenty-first century it is now a VIP brothel called Madame Orlov’s. It was wildly popular from day one and patronized by high-ranking Kremlin officials, including President Putin, who can usually be found in the mahogany-paneled bar just off the lobby.
He is there today, having invited Colonel Igor Kolobanov, new head of the FSB (formerly the KGB and still called that by Putin himself and many, many Muscovites).
Natasha and the two men were seated on a tufted red leather banquette, sharing a tin of Imperial Russian Malossol caviar and a bottle of Beluga Gold Line vodka—Putin’s drug of choice, recently. The noble spirit had just been delivered, nesting in a crystal bucket full of crushed ice. And that first icy sip had brought a smile to the face of the most powerful man in Russia.
“Well, Igor, good of you to come,” Putin said, raising his glass. “I know how busy you are over there on Lubyanka Square. How is that new location working out for your team? Are you all settled in?”
The imposing building, which had been the former KGB headquarters, had stood vacant for years after the new, incredibly modern FSB HQ had been built and occupied across the river from the Kremlin. When Putin had first envisaged what he liked to think of as a shadow intel operation cloaked in secrecy, he had the notion to make the building Kolobanov’s KGB2 headquarters. Igor, who reported only to Putin, was perhaps the president’s closest confidante. In their private conversations, both men slyly referred to their shadow service as KGB2.
“Yes, Mr. President, all settled in,” Kolobanov replied. “And I can’t thank you enough for your making such a grand space available for us. The Lubyanka building has a great historical significance that we all respect, and for a group such as ours, top secret and off the radar, it couldn’t be better. We’ve reopened the museum on the ground floor, and some days in summer, we’re overrun with tourists. Our offices are all on the upper floors as in days of old. And, of course, we still keep the prison closed to the public.”
“A pleasure to see that lovely old ruin put back to good use, Colonel,” Putin said, leaning back and sipping his “little water,” as Russians call their precious vodka. “Any news on our new friends in the East? Are they willing to speak to me? I suddenly have a strong sense that our two celestial bodies are coming into alignment once more.”
“I’m working on that, sir. My highest priority right now is Beijing. There have been preliminary exploratory conversations at the lower levels. Some were even productive. My guess is that, at some point in the near future, your new friends will be happy to come to the table. It has been made abundantly clear to them that it is a conversation which can only benefit both sides equally.”
“Yes, precisely,” Putin said, “A Grand Alliance of Russia and China to counterbalance the West is what I have in mind. I’m laying the groundwork for it even now. I even have a third party who has expressed a very strong interest in brokering the deal.”
“Who is it? I can’t imagine!”
“And you won’t believe me if I tell you, Comrade.”
“Try me, Excellency.”
Putin smiled across the table and motioned for the man to come closer so that he might whisper the answer in his ear.
“His name is Castro.”
“Castro? He’s been dead for years!”
“Not this Castro. He’s very much alive and kicking.”
“You cannot be serious! There’s a third Castro brother? Saints preserve us!”
CHAPTER 6
Putin smiled broadly and pulled back to regard his friend. He took great delight in being one of the very few on earth who knew the actual secret the left-wing Cubans were keeping to themselves for the time being.
“There’s a third Castro brother,” Putin said casually, as if saying it was the most normal thing in the world. “Someone whom the world knows nothing about.”
“No! I don’t believe it! Are you saying Fidel is still alive? Impossible.”
“Believe it. The youngest of the three children the Castros produced. Fearing her baby would be discovered and killed by Batista’s anti-Castro thugs, she smuggled him out of the country and raised him in total secrecy as to his name. He has now returned to Cuba to overthrow Washington’s puppets, the right-wing fascist government in Havana. He calls himself General Castro. It is a great secret. Never say his name again. I want you to go to Havana this very week. I will use our sources there to arrange for a secret meeting with General Castro to discuss our common enemy.”
“I am honored that you place such confidence in me.”
“Excellent! Keep up the pressure. If we succeed, the future is ours, Comrade Kolobanov.”
“To the future!” Kolobanov exclaimed whilst recklessly raising his full glass, causing countless heads to swivel and eyes to stare.
Putin kept his voice low but commanding. “Comrade, discretion, as they say, is the better part of valor. You must never breathe a word of any of this, not a word!”
“Yes, but of course not, so sorry, sir.”
“You said you had some interesting news about our friend at MI6. Is he well? Say no. I should hope not. Rumor has it that Hawke was murdered on the island of Bermuda.”
“I should say that he is definitely not dead, as I briefed you last month in your office when we had him followed upon his return from the havoc he wreaked upon our friends the Tang Brothers in the Bahamas. He’s been quite the busy boy lately. Not spending a great deal of time at the office, apparently.”
“Don’t tell me he’s taking early retirement. That would ruin all the fun.”
“No, not retiring. He’s built himself a very sizable new sailing yacht. She measures well over two hundred feet. A motor-sailer, actually, with an enclosed wheelhouse. As I say, she’s about seventy-five meters . . . perhaps more. According to our boys in Amsterdam, she’s heavily armored and packs a mean punch. Some weapon systems are run by AI, including a new laser-based missile defense system. And she’s rigged for ASW, anti-submarine warfare. She may look like a rich man’s toy . . . but she’s a warship of the first order. He’s somehow managed to re-create himself as a one-man navy.”
“Then he’s definitely up to no good. If I had to guess, I would say he means to cause more trouble for our new friends. They are most certainly not happy that he blew up their secret submarine pen in the Bahamas, as well as their massive heroin laboratories. Where is he going? Do we have any word on his plans for this voyage?”
“We do. One of our Dutch agents at the Russian consulate in Amsterdam is also a well-known naval architect and engineer. He has been working on Hawke’s massive boat at the DeGroot Yard since the day her keel was laid. He says it’s a circumnavigation, or even an epic sea voyage—more of an expedition than a pleasure cruise. All our man says is that Hawke is looking for something . . . ‘new,’ I suppose, is the word. He’s seeing himself as some new twenty-first-century explorer. The new Admiral Byrd, all sleds and dogs to the South Pole! Mush! You huskies! Or, Hush! You muskies! Or something along that order.”
“I don’t buy it, not a bit of it. It’s trouble Hawke’s looking for, Igor, trust me,” Putin said. “He’s spoiling for another fight, and not just one. If this new yacht of his is anything like Blackhawke or the previous two, you’re looking at a state-of-the-art battleship neatly disguised as a rich man’s toy.”
“Nature of the beast,” Kolobanov said, before draining the remains of his drink. “We’ve dealt with him before. Say the word, Mr. President. I’ve now got half of the lads who participated in the Chechen death squads under my command. And, believe me, sir, they, too, are spoiling for a fight.”
“I will certainly keep that in mind. They are well trained? Armed and dangerous? Ready to spill blood?”
“At a moment’s notice, Mr. President!”
“We shall say more about this. Keep me in the loop. What’s she called, this new toy of his? I want our naval commanders at sea to be able to recognize her and take whatever military action presents itself.”
“He’s not saying a word about the name. He tells everyone who’ll listen that they will find out her name when it’s painted on the transom when she’s launched and not before. Something to do with bad luck, I believe. Meanwhile, he’s begun to assemble his crew. A leader, Hawke himself; his new captain, a fellow named John ‘Jack’ Horner; and his new second-in-command, a chap by the name of Lieutenant Ballantrae—a Scot, obviously. And, finally, an ex–Navy SEAL, apparently. Gentleman by the name of Jones. Served in Afghanistan as the leader of SEAL Team Seven.”
“Ah. So Stokely Jones will be aboard. Formidable, actually. All right, then. Who else?”
“Well, he’s recruiting potential crew members now. So far, he’s got a captain to run the boat, a first officer, a ship’s navigator, of course, first engineer, second engineer, ship’s surgeon, a geologist, a meteorologist, cooks, carpenters, and a host of able seamen and deckhands.”
“What’s the code name of our man in Amsterdam? A Spaniard, as I recall.”
“Yes, sir, that’s correct. From Seville. He likes to be called El Toro, but his real name is Fideo Chico. Which means, oddly enough, ‘Little Spaghetti,’ ” Kolobanov said with an odd little giggle.
“Were it me, if my name was Little Spaghetti? I’d stick with El Toro!” Putin said.
“All right, listen to me now,” he continued. “I want you to arrange for our most trusted agent to fly to Amsterdam tonight to meet with this fellow Spaghetti. Let Fideo Chico know someone is coming from Moscow to see him. A courier with a message from President Putin. And make sure that this Señor Spaghetti gets signed on board as a crew member. No matter what it takes, I want you to ensure that he’s signed on as crew and equipped properly. By that I mean he gets a small but very powerful encrypted device to communicate with you here in Moscow, at KGB2, no matter where the route may take him.
“He will be instructed to contact you at least once every forty-eight hours. He will then give you the yacht’s current location and new destination and estimated time of arrival at each destination. Understood, my dear Igor?”
“Unequivocally, Mr. President. Is there a problem with this impending voyage?”
“I never cease to be surprised at your incredible gifts in understatement, Colonel. Are you quite sure you don’t have some British ancestor sitting atop your family tree?
“But to your question—yes, you might say there was a problem with this impending voyage. A very big fucking problem, in fact! Our paid friends at CIA say that his lordship once more is planning to stick that aristocratic nose of his into places where it doesn’t belong. You remember the notorious Tang Brothers, of course? The Evil Twins, I call them. One’s bad, the other’s worse.”
“Who could forget them?” Igor said with a smile at Putin’s little joke.
“Well, certainly not our friend Hawke. Apparently they got on his nerves when he discovered the Chinese had managed to build and conceal an underwater nuclear sub pen in the Bahamas, not a hundred miles from Miami. So he called in the US Navy carrier fleet, the aircraft carrier USS Theodore Roosevelt, and destroyed the sub base, two of the subs, and, to add insult to injury, much of the Tang Brothers’ Bahamian empire. And now he’s vowed to go to global war with the Tangs, as well as with those CCP members who do their bidding all over the world. They are convinced that China has become the whole world’s crouching tiger.”
