Overkill Page 5

  “Tristan,” Hawke said, nearly overcome with emotion. He reached under the sheet, found the man’s hand, and squeezed it. “My god, it’s Tristan, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, m’lord,” he croaked.

  “C’mon, Tristan, you know we don’t use that title around here.” Hawke smiled at him. It was his lordship’s standing practice that he allowed no one save his aged valet, Pelham Grenville, to use his title, under any circumstance. He chalked it up to his firm belief, held since childhood, that he was far prouder of his pirate ancestry than of all of his aristocratic forebears.

  Tristan smiled through his pain.

  “Sorry, sir. I heard your voice. But I wasn’t sure. I can’t move, you see. My leg.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Fractured. Left one. Femur. Hurts like a bitch, sir, pardon my French.”

  “We should be on the ground soon. I’ll get you morphed up.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Tristan. Tell me. Is Alexei . . . is my son all right? He wasn’t badly hurt, was he?”

  “I’m so sorry, sir. You see, I was knocked unconscious when the bottom dropped out of the gondola. Landed on my head. When I finally regained consciousness, all of the children had already been . . . uh . . . evacuated. I never saw him subsequent to the moment the cable snapped, sir, I’m sorry. I’m quite sure he’s all right, and . . .”

  The man was plainly exhausted.

  “Get some rest, Tristan. We’ll land at the hospital soon. Just tell me one thing. Before the explosion, I mean when last you did see him, where was he located?”

  “He was with his friends, not three feet away from the rear entry door, m’lord. He would have been one of the very first out, sir, I promise you.”

  “Albeit, at the very bottom of the heap,” Hawke said quietly, his eyes drifting away.

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Thank you, Tristan. Get some rest. I’ll see you on the ground. Soon as I’ve collected Alexei, I’ll come straight round to see you. So. You’ve got your mobile? Call your family, tell them what happened. I’m sure this is all over the telly by now. Tell them you’re alive.”

  “I will, sir. Thank you very much indeed. You’ll call me when you see Alexei?”

  “I will indeed,” Hawke managed to get out.

  Chapter Eight

  Provence

  “You like it, this little dish?” a smiling Étienne said to Putin, ladling another spoonful of the pungent stew into his pewter bowl.

  The Frenchman filled both their goblets with good local claret and smiled. It promised to be an evening full of good talk, good wine, and good food. Étienne lived a solitary life, so nights like this were few and far between. He was relishing the company of the wayward policeman.

  Darkness had come to the valley. The wind was rising. Cold, it had a bite that pinched your fingers if you stood outside too long. The two men were seated at the small, rough-hewn wooden table, now pulled closer to the warmth of the fire.

  The little fellow had made a big fuss over his honored guest, setting the table with polished pewter tableware, cotton serviettes, and his best wine goblets. Even a loaf of warm bread fresh from the oven and a flickering candle for the table. The wind had picked up even more, whispering around the house and up under the eaves, where stark branches clawed at the windowpanes.

  It was distinctly cozy here in the warmth of this room, Putin thought, with a shiver of pleasure. He felt better here in this tiny cabin, more comfortable and happier than he’d felt for all his years of exorbitant luxury. The yachts; Hôtel du Cap; his many glorious palaces; the mammoth bed aboard his plane, where he’d dallied with Kat, which was now nothing but burned rubble.

  The modest attic bedroom above his head was all he wanted. More importantly, it was all he needed.

  A lot of it was Étienne. The jolly fellow’s good cheer, humor, and relaxed demeanor were a welcome contrast to the last few years trapped in the hell his enemies had made of the Kremlin. “Delicious stew,” Putin said, “What is it?”

  “Mutton,” the Frenchman said. “My sainted mother’s ancient recipe for mutton stew. Potatoes, parsnips, onions, garlic. Lots of tamarind. Good for you. Get your stamina back up.”

  “Another glass of that good red would be nice, too.”

  “I’m so glad you like it. I steal it from a vineyard a few miles from here.”

  “Ah, stolen wine is always best, you know. Like stolen women?”

  Étienne laughed, filled his goblet, and said, “So, Volodya, I wonder—what does Volodya mean, anyway?”

  “It’s a nickname for Vladimir. Very common Russian name. A diminutive, you see, more friendly than the full name.”

  “Hmm. At any rate, Volodya, what I was wondering is what are your plans? Where are you headed next? Not that you’re not welcome here, of course. I’m just a little curious, you see.”

  Putin smiled. “Thank you. Well, south, I think. I don’t really know, Étienne. No place is safe anymore. Just keep moving until I find somewhere else to hide, I guess, is the only thing for me to do.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “So, why not stay here with me for a spell? You see that ladder pull? As I say, there’s a small attic bedroom up there. I made it for my daughter, Sophie, many years ago. The room has very cheery wallpaper with flowers and a small four-poster bed. And a small window that floods the room with morning sunlight. Sophie doesn’t come much anymore . . . she has a good job, and a lover, in Paris.”

  “Very kind of you, Étienne, but I couldn’t do that to you—take advantage of your generosity.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing to do with kindness, Volodya. And everything to do with loneliness. I would welcome your company, my friend. And, I could use your help with my logging. You look like a fellow who could swing an axe if you wanted to.”

  “Are you quite serious?”

  “I am. You’ll stay the night, of course. See how you like it here. We can just play it by ear, as the British say. Does that sound good?”

  “Only if you let me pay for my room and board.”

  “I can’t let you do that, Monsieur Volodya. You are an honored guest beneath this leaky roof.”

  “Well, as you wish. But when I depart, I want to make a small donation to the cause.”

  “We’ll see, we’ll see. Now, you’re tired. Let me get the ladder down . . . and please take that candle with you. It goes on the table by the bed.”

  “You really have no idea who I am, do you, Étienne?”

  “Of course. You are Volodya, a Russian policeman from Berlin who looks like he could use a shave and a haircut and some sleep in a real bed. Go on, up you go! There’s an extra blanket and more candles in the cupboard if you need it!”

  And so to bed.

  Putin lay for an hour, hands behind his head, staring up at the flickering candlelight on the ceiling, celebrating his good fortune. He had begun to think of himself as a Napoleonic figure, like the great hero forced into exile on the little Mediterranean isle of Elba. Well, a woodsman’s cabin would be his Elba. Etienne would be his Tallyrand.

  And Moscow would be his Paris.

  He smiled, rolled over, and blew out the candle.

  Here at last he could live for a brief time in peace and serenity. Here he would begin to plot his magnificent return to Moscow. First, he would build a secret army of loyalists. He could begin now to envision a future day, one just as joyous as Napoleon’s triumphant entry into Paris in 1815 had been. Once there, once he had regained the trust of his people, acquired legions of supporters and ranking military officers . . . and seized power once more.

  “I shall ascend to the throne,” he whispered to himself in the dim moonlight. “I shall ascend to the throne! As for those bastards who stole it from me, I shall do no less than reinstitute the guillotine in Red Square!” For the worst of them, nothing less than impalement.

  “Ha!”

  The fantasy of oligarchs’ hea
ds rolling into baskets was a good one to fall asleep with. But he had one more thing to do before he slept. He lay still for a moment, listening in the dark. He could hear the rhythmic snoring of his new friend below. He slipped from his bed, opened his backpack, and carefully removed the emergency satellite telephone, the smallest, but most sophisticated one there was, lightweight, yet encrypted and very powerful.

  As he tapped in the number, his hand began to tremble. The number belonged to the one man who now held his fate in his hands. He was literally the only man left on the planet who could possibly save him from disgrace and dishonor and death. Not only save him but help him return to power and glory. He had been Putin’s right hand a few years ago, a man he’d trusted with his life. But in the end, his own right hand had betrayed him.

  His name was Joseph Stalingrad. A historic figure he bore an uncanny resemblance to. But to millions of Russians, he was the infamous Uncle Joe, the president’s trusted hatchetman. And he now lived in, of all places, Hollywood, California.

  And, Putin had heard, despite Joe’s resemblance to an infamous mass murderer and his vertically challenged stature, the former actor had become something of a movie star.

  Chapter Nine

  Three years ago, Putin had been locked in a death struggle with a British spy named Alex Hawke—his sometime MI6 friend turned nemesis. Hawke was then trying to put an end to Putin’s land grab in the Baltics. Near the end, Putin had the upper hand. He had Hawke and the famous detective Congreve and their men trapped inside a secret KGB compound in Siberia.

  There was no way out.

  Putin’s men were moving in for the kill.

  And then this funny little man known as Uncle Joe, short, round, and terribly pockmarked, like his namesake, had switched his allegiance to a foreign flag. He had called in two Russian army helicopters. The choppers were there in moments to ferry not only Ambrose and Alex and their men, but Joe himself beyond the Russian borders and Putin’s reach to safety.

  Treason. Of the worst kind. But times changed.

  Putin could hear the call going through, then the memorably gruff and raspy voice of Uncle Joe on the other end of the line.

  “Hello?” the voice said.

  “Hello, Joe Stalingrad. This is the president,” Putin said, reverting to Russian.

  Silence.

  “Who?”

  “The president, Joe. Remember me?”

  “The president of what?”

  “For crissakes, the president of Russia. Joe, this is President Vladimir Putin and I need your help.”

  “You’re dead, Mr. President. Haven’t you heard?”

  “So they say. You were very disloyal, Joe. And rude. Do you remember? You left Russia without saying good-bye. You and that fucking turncoat Alex Hawke, of all people. The man who betrayed my friendship and turned on me in my hour of greatest need.”

  “Leader, I beg to differ. I must tell you something about this man Hawke. I came to know him. He is a great man, and one with a deep sense of honor and the desire to do what is right. He thinks very highly of you. He told me so, more than once. He still holds you in the highest esteem, to tell you the truth. He still remembers the night you saved his life. Saved him from a horrible execution in Energetika prison and—”

  “Then why did he turn on me? Betray our friendship? His son was born in Lubyanka prison, for god’s sake! Were it not for me, they would have smashed the infant’s head against the wall within seconds of his birth.”

  Joe said, “He is well aware of that and deeply grateful. But, in those hours when we were trapped within the KGB compound in Siberia, we spoke deep into the night about other things, the coming war with the West. It was Hawke’s sense, his absolute conviction, that you completely underestimated the Americans. Yes, their president was weak. But their military was not. He was certain that U.S. and UK allied forces would crush us in very short order. He actually saw himself as a loyal friend, coming to your aid.”

  “Did he, now?”

  “So when he asked to see you privately, it was in his heart to help you avoid catastrophe. Because of his friendship with you, to try to make you understand that you were about to make a tragic mistake. Literally putting yourself and all of Russia at existential risk. He knew he might not come back alive. But he kept saying, ‘Volodya and I are friends, Joe. Surely he will see that I’m only there to help him. Save him from disaster.’”

  Putin held his tongue, letting his brain process all that he was hearing. Then he said, “Look here. There may be some truth in what you say. He is one of the world’s great warriors. A man I still hold in high esteem. But you? You helped an enemy of the state escape. It’s called treason. Death sentence. I’ve had KGB watching your every move for the last few years. I read the surveillance reports. You’re living the high life in Hollywood, Joe, but I’ve got men out there who want to kill you for your treatment of their president. But so far I’ve stayed their hands. Why? Why would I do that, Joe?”

  “I don’t know. To be honest with you, I thought I’d surely be dead by now.”

  “After what you did to me, you should be rotting at the bottom of the Hole at Lubyanka. I’m only on this call because I have no other options. Make no mistake. I admire your gifts, and I despise your disloyalty. But desperate times call for desperate measures.”

  “Why me? Why now?”

  “Because, Joe, we understand each other. We worked very closely together for a long time. Your Kremlin office was next door to mine. God only knows how many plots against my life you thwarted. You’re a master of logistics. You finish my sentences, you’re a natural politician. You know how I think and anticipate how I like things done. And you get those things done. Never a hiccup. Are you perfect? No. I’ve kept you alive because I always knew there might come a time when I’d need you. That time is right now.”

  “I understand, sir. Thank you, thank you. Thank you so much for your confidence. Trust me now and I swear I’ll never let you down again. Tell me how I can help.”

  “All right, listen. I assume you have a bank in Los Angeles.”

  “I do. Wells Fargo.”

  “Give me your wiring instructions.”

  “Gladly,” Uncle Joe said, and gave him the account routing numbers.

  “In the next few days, you’ll be receiving a wire transfer from a bank in Switzerland. Five hundred thousand dollars will hit your account. This will cover expenses, as well as the first part of your operation.”

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  “First move, you book a first-class flight from LAX to Zurich. Once there, you will check into the Baur au Lac Hotel. I have very few people I trust anymore, but the owner there is an old friend and he will discreetly help you with whatever you need. I will call him and tell him about you. He’ll provide you with a suite on the lake and a car and driver during your stay. Am I clear so far?”

  “Perfectly, Mr. President.”

  “Your new base will be Zurich. To that end, I have acquired a residential property for you. An island villa called Seegarten. Right on Lake Zurich. There is staff on duty. There is a large dock with many boats, and lovely gardens. Believe me, were it not for the fact that you’ll be sharing the villa with a very important visitor, I would not be so extravagant.”

  “A visitor? May I ask whom? Female, one hopes.”

  “No. You will learn later. The entire property is surrounded by a high stone wall. This is to protect our visitor from prying eyes. The property will be patrolled day and night by dogs and armed guards.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you, Joe? Perhaps. At any rate, there is another man I trust in Zurich. I’m sure you recall my old friend, Dr. Steinhauser? He’s called the Sorcerer. We dealt with him during our efforts to remove some of the gold from Queen Elizabeth’s Swiss bank accounts, remember?”

  “Oh, yes, guy’s a world-class financial genius. He and I got along.”

  “Just so. You need to go see him. He doesn’t know it yet,
but I’m going to be acquiring his home in the Alps. He tells me he’s tired of the splendid isolation and wants to live out his days in a villa in the South of France. As soon as he vacates, I shall move in. As will you yourself and the important visitor. Understood?”

  “This house is in Zurich?”

  “It’s a mountain house. Literally, built inside a mountain in secret by Albert Speer and the Nazis. It was to be Hitler’s Swiss residence after he’d conquered all of Europe. I’ll make arrangements for you to call on Dr. Steinhauser in person to discuss the purchase. Bit tricky getting inside, as the main entrance to his home is a broad shelf at fifteen thousand feet on the side of a mountain. There is another, more secret entrance, but it may be closed now. Tell my old friend that I’ve decided I definitely want the property. But you will tell him also that I will go no higher than five hundred million U.S. dollars.”

  “Half a billion? For a house? Boss, you’ve got to be kidding me. Even for you, that’s—”

  “Joe, listen. I told you it was a mountain house. And that’s what it is. This house is located at twenty-one thousand feet above sea level, and is usually covered with ice and snow most of the year. Do you understand me?”

  “His house is a mountain, is what you’re telling me. He lives inside a goddamn mountain?”

  “Precisely. And not just any mountain, either. It’s fucking Fortress Switzerland. The mountain is called White Death, because of all the men who’ve died there during ascents. And that is where I shall reign supreme in total secrecy: White Death will be my new address.

  The president paused and then continued.

  “Sorcerer’s Mountain shall be the new mini-Kremlin. A bastion, one in which I shall devise my strategy for a glorious return to power in Russia. Where you and I and my new generals and admirals will lay the groundwork for our epic heroic return to Moscow. And reassert Mother Russia’s rightful place on the world’s stage.