Phantom ah-7 Read online

  “You still have the same horses,” Hawke said, looking over at her lovely profile. “The noble white steeds.”

  “Yes. How kind of you to notice. Do you remember their names?”

  “I do. Storm, Lightning, and Smoke.”

  “My three gallant heroes.”

  “How lucky you are with heroes, Anastasia.”

  They were silent then. Hawke squeezed his sleeping son to his breast and held him tightly for the duration of the journey. The golden sleigh flew through the snowy hills and valleys like the wind. He put his head back and looked up through the trees at the blue sky, the crystalline air, the cottony white clouds drifting high above. He lulled himself into a kind of peace of mind, using these last few hours with his son and the woman he still loved to create a far, far different reality than the bleakness he was facing.

  H awke stood and studied the filigreed black hands of the tall station platform clock as they moved relentlessly toward twelve noon. In the distance, he could hear the approach of the onrushing train. Minutes later, he watched the sleek red-and-silver locomotive, a half mile away, come barreling down the steeply sloped incline, bulldozing a great white avalanche of snow before it.

  Anastasia, rocking Alexei in her arms, had been standing at Hawke’s side on the platform for an eternity. He had heard her weeping silently as the hands on the clock above her head continued their steady progress. Yet Hawke felt paralyzed, physically unable to speak or even make a move to comfort her; a hollow man, his unspoken words as dry and meaningless as wind in dry grass.

  An eternity later, he heard her say quietly, “This has been the saddest day of my life.”

  To which he solemnly replied, “Just this one?”

  At this, Anastasia stood frozen in place, a character finding herself in the final act of a tragic drama, unable to remember her lines or move about the stage, hitting her marks while delivering coherent dialogue.

  At last, as the long slash of the Red Arrow thundered into the tiny station, its noisy rumble shattering the unbearable impasse of their sadness, it was then that his arm found its way around Anastasia’s shoulders, gently pulling her toward him, his eyes offering hers what little comfort he had left in him to give.

  “Well,” Hawke said, “time to go.”

  He bent down to pick up his portmanteau and the red leather case. As he did he saw two men at the far end of the streamlined train step forward to board. They were dark men, dressed in dark suits, dark coats, dark hats. The doors hissed open and he watched them climb aboard, each carrying a thin dark case. Not large enough for clothing, he thought. Odd.

  “Time to go,” he said again, realizing how flat and trite his words were but unable to even begin to say what was in his heart.

  “Oh, Alex,” Anastasia said, turning her face up to him, the tears glistening on her rosy cheeks. “Won’t you at least kiss us each good-bye?”

  “Of course I will,” Hawke said.

  He put his hand on her shoulder and bent to put his lips to hers, ever so briefly, before turning to kiss his son, staring at him, his creamy pink cheeks, fresh from some past spring, and his enormous blue eyes, the very image of a beautiful child. He pressed his lips to Alexei’s warm cheek, prolonging the kiss as long as he could, imprinting it upon his memory.

  “Must you go?” she said, a gleaming tear making its way down her cheek.

  “Yes. There’s nothing left of us,” Hawke said, a profound sadness in his voice despite his attempt to be strong. Her reply was barely above a whisper.

  “All that’s left to us is love.”

  Hawke pulled away, unable to bear what he saw in her eyes. He kissed his son on the forehead.

  “Good-bye, Alexei. Good-bye, Anastasia. Keep safe, will you both? Stay well, Alexei. Grow up into a big strong boy so you can take care of your mother. Will you, son? Promise your father that, all right?”

  Hawke’s heart broke then, and he quickly turned away, the words of farewell in his throat straining with sadness. The conductor was sounding the final whistle, the last call. He tossed his old leather satchel and Peter’s sword aboard and then grabbed the rung and climbed up to the bottom step. He determined to remain there, and to do so as long as he could see the two of them.

  “Good-bye, my darling,” Anastasia said. “Take our love with you and keep it safe.”

  The train began to move, slowly at first, and Anastasia began moving with it, walking alongside at the same speed as the train, clutching her baby, seemingly unable to let Hawke go, let him fall away from her sight. He hung there on the lower steps, one hand clenched on the cold steel grip, as the train gathered speed.

  She was running now, dangerously fast, trying hard to keep up and he feared she would fall, trip in the mushy snow, the baby in her arms and “Whatever happens,” she called out to him through her tears, “I’ll love you just as I do now until I die.”

  He started to warn her, but suddenly she was reaching out to him. Reaching out with both arms, running beside the train and at the very last possible moment she did it.

  She handed Alexei up to him.

  He gathered the child in with his one free arm and brought him quickly to the safety of his chest, staring down at her with disbelief.

  “Anastasia, what-what are you-”

  She cried out, straining to be heard above the gathering speed of the train, “He’s yours, my darling. He’s all I have to give.”

  Hawke, his eyes blurred with hot tears, had a last impression of that beautiful haunted face, the tortured eyes, the drawn mouth. He held his son tightly and watched Anastasia for as long as he could, standing there all alone on the deserted platform, a small solitary figure waving good-bye to the two of them forever.

  Seven

  The Red Arrow

  Babies cry. So do new fathers. Alexander Hawke sat on the deep, plush carpeted floor of the luxurious ivory and gilt two-room train compartment, rocking his child in his arms. Both of them were weeping copiously. One did so loudly, at times violently, screaming red-faced, demanding his mother. The other did so silently, his own red eyes periodically welling and spilling a potent mixture of indissoluble happiness and sadness.

  Some time after leaving the station, they could still be found sitting there when the luxury train’s concierge peeked in the door and said, “I beg your pardon. Tickets and papers, please?”

  Hawke looked up from the floor and smiled at the woman.

  “My own ticket is inside the pocket of that black leather jacket hanging over the armchair. This young fellow here doesn’t have one, I’m afraid.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Three. Today’s his birthday.”

  “A free ride for him, then, on his birthday,” she said kindly, removing the ticket envelope from Hawke’s jacket and inspecting the contents.

  Hawke put his lips beside his son’s ear and whispered.

  “See, Alexei? You were right! Three really is ‘ free.’ Magic. You’ve always got to be on the lookout for it.”

  The concierge was a woman of ample proportions in a tailored dark green uniform with red piping at the wrists and lapels. Her thick blond hair was gathered at the back of her head into what used to be called a “french twist.” She was quite pretty, spoke perfect English, and Hawke instinctively liked and trusted her. A mother, he was sure, for the boy brought those instincts instantly to the surface of her features.

  “You are Mr. Alexander Hawke, traveling on business to St. Petersburg? Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And this gentleman?”

  “This young gentleman is Alexei.”

  “Last name?”

  Hawke stared up at her for a moment, then down at Alexei, briefly startled by such a profoundly unexpected question, and then said, “Hawke. His name is Alexei Hawke.”

  “Your son, then. Well. He looks just like you. Look at those eyes.”

  “Yes, he is,” Hawke said, slightly dazed. “Yes, he is indeed my son.” Hearing himself utter thos
e words, Hawke was filled with a flood of warmth and joy that was nearly overwhelming.

  “Well, Mr. Hawke, you should give your son some milk. At least water. All those tears have dehydrated him.”

  “I have none of either to give, I’m afraid.”

  “No milk?”

  “You see, Alexei was-is-well, the thing is, he decided to join me at the last moment. He’s somewhat-spontaneous. Rambunctious boy. Never know what he’ll do next.”

  She reached down with open arms. “May I take him a moment? You’re not holding him at all properly. And he’s very tired. I think he’ll be more comfortable tucked into the berth in the second room. I’ll bring him a cup of warm milk. It will help him sleep. Does he have any toys?”

  “Toys? Oh. Only this sad little teddy bear I found in the pocket of his coat.” Hawke held it up, a poor ragged thing the color of oatmeal.

  “Lucky for him I keep a healthy supply of wooden soldiers and horses for just such emergencies.”

  “That would be very kind. I wonder about… feeding him. I’m not sure when he last ate, I’m afraid. And I’m not really sure what he-”

  “Well, I’ll bring hot porridge, too. He looks very hungry. The first seating in the first-class dining car is at five this evening. Shall I book a table for two?”

  “Yes, thank you. That would be lovely. I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your name?”

  “Luciana.”

  “Italian?”

  “My mother. My father is from Kiev.”

  “I appreciate your help, Luciana. I’m rather-rather a new father.”

  She laughed. “Really? Why, Mr. Hawke, I should never have guessed.”

  A few hours later, Alex found himself sitting side by side with Alexei in the extravagantly decorated dining car. It was all gleaming ivory cream walls, curving up to form the ceiling, and furniture, every square inch trimmed in gold leaf, with upholstery of deepest claret red. The decor was exactly like his first-class compartments. The whole train was done up in this scheme, he imagined. The table linen was snow white, and the silver, though not sterling, was quite elegant, emblazoned with Russian double-headed eagles.

  Alexei, grasping his much-loved teddy bear, sat on his velvet-covered, raised baby chair. Save for his rapidly shifting eyes, he was perfectly still, his eyes wandering up and down the long rows of tables inhabited by strange people from this new world he’d never known existed; then he was turning briefly to the window and the blur of some dizzying world turned red and purple in the sunset. And then, he stared unblinking at this new man in his life. Absorbing, Alex could sense, absolutely everything.

  A fastidiously moustachioed waiter was suddenly hovering above the candlelit table, bowing and smiling solicitously at Hawke.

  “Monsieur?” he said, preposterously, in French.

  Alexei suddenly looked up at the waiter and said in a loud voice, “Watch out! I’m the birthday boy!”

  “Ah, mais oui,” he replied bowing his head slightly. “Bon anniversaire.”

  “Good evening,” Hawke said, looking up from his menu. “I’ll have a glass of Krug Grande Cuvee and the cold borscht to start. And the rack of lamb, please. Rare. And decant a bottle of the 1959 Petrus if you’d be so kind.”

  “Very well, monsieur. And for the young gentleman?”

  “Bananas? I have no idea. Do you have any suggestions?”

  “Well, I–I mean it’s difficult to-c’est tres difficile-”

  Hawke said, “Quite right. Difficult. Mashed potatoes? Of course. Alexei, do you like mashed potatoes? Everyone does.”

  “No potatoes! No!”

  “Peas?”

  “No peas! No! No!”

  “Carrots, then?”

  “No carrots!”

  “Perhaps the saute foie gras, monsieur?” the waiter said, inexplicably.

  Hawke returned the ornate menu and said, “Everything. He’ll have one of everything on the menu.”

  “ Everything, monsieur? But surely you don’t mean-”

  “Yes, yes. Just bring us one of everything on the menu. Let him lead us through the jungle. We’ll soon find out precisely what he likes and doesn’t like. It’s the only way we’ll get to the bottom of this, don’t you agree?”

  The waiter shrugged his shoulders in that very French way and said, “Mais ouis, monsieur. Mais certainement. Le roti d’agneau pour monsieur. One of everything on the menu for the young gentleman. Merci beaucoup.” He bowed and disappeared toward the rear of the car, shaking his head and probably murmuring ooh-la-la or oomph, or something of that ilk.

  Ten minutes later, a platoon of waiters in wine-red livery appeared, streaming down the aisle to arrive at Hawke’s table, all bearing large silver platters filled with every possible kind of food. This of course caused a great deal of amusement among the other diners, all of them turning in their seats and peering at the little boy, his uncomfortable father, and the enormous amount of food they had ordered.

  What Alexei liked to eat was immediately apparent. Hawke was busily preparing a large plate with a small sampling of all the dishes when Alexei made his decision. Ignoring Hawke’s offering entirely, Alexei stood in his high chair and reached for the ornate silver salver with a central crystal bowl containing a healthy dollop of Beluga caviar, surrounded by mounds of small warm buttered pancakes called blinis.

  Grabbing a fistful of blinis, he stuffed them into his mouth, polishing them all off in little more than a minute.

  Then he scooped up a small handful of caviar, tried it, gurgled with delight, and messily downed the remainder. “More! More!” he cried.

  So. Caviar. The apple had not fallen far from the tree.

  Hawke called to the waiter who had all the extraneous food removed and quickly summoned another waiter bearing more caviar and pancakes. It was at that moment that Hawke saw the two heavyset men who had climbed aboard the train at Tvas, the two men in the long black overcoats, enter the dining car at the far end.

  They made their way toward Hawke and took an empty table on the opposite side of the car about three tables away. Neither man made eye contact with Alex, but he knew that meant nothing. Once they were seated and had ordered a bottle of vodka, the one facing Hawke looked up, caught his eye, and smiled. Hawke, sipping a small flute of Krug champagne, raised his glass and smiled back. He also signaled for his check.

  As he was signing it, he noticed one of the men approach, clearly headed his way. The man stopped at their table, smiled at Hawke, and said in heavily accented English, “I am just admiring your handsome boy. Is he your son?”

  “No. I am his bodyguard,” Hawke said in a low voice. “You’ll excuse us. We’re leaving.”

  As Hawke gathered his son into his arms, the man leaned across the table and reached out to ruffle Alexei’s hair. His jacket fell open. The assassin had a Vostok Margolin. 22LR pistol with a built-in silencer holstered under his arm. The standard concealed weapon of the KGB officer. Hawke shot his right hand out and grasped the man’s thick wrist in midair before he could touch a hair on Alexei’s head. He then leaned forward and whispered fiercely into the man’s ear.

  “I said I’m his bodyguard. That includes his hair. Understand me?”

  Hawke applied increasingly severe pressure to the base of the man’s thumb until he grimaced in pain and nodded his head. The Russian rose to his full height, rubbed his wrist vigorously, smiled down at Hawke, and said, “It’s a long trip, you know, here to St. Petersburg. I’m sure we shall all meet again.” Then he turned on his heel and returned to his table.

  Hawke rose with Alexei in his arms and quickly but somewhat discreetly left the dining car. He needed to return the child safely to their locked compartment. Given the presence of two KGB assassins aboard the Red Arrow, it promised to be a very long night. Two killers on a train. Like an Agatha Christie novel, except you already knew who the true villains were.

  But who was the intended victim?

  Surely there were many inside Russia, the so-ca
lled Tsarists, who wanted Hawke dead.

  But both Anastasia and Kuragin had said there was a price on Alexei’s head. People in power who didn’t like the idea of a tsar’s descendant waiting in the wings to take the throne at some future moment.

  It hit him like a lightning strike to the heart.

  These two thugs weren’t aboard the Red Arrow to kill him.

  They meant to murder the heir to the crown. The child of the Tsarina.

  They meant to kill his son.

  Eight

  Hawke sat in the darkened compartment, smoking incessantly to stay alert. He’d bought a few packs of Sobranie Black Russians in the rail station at St. Petersburg. Despite the black wrapper with its fancy gold tip, they were foul, but effective. The rhythmic click-clack on the tracks threatened to hypnotize him, and he fought it with nicotine. He was seated on one of the small, upholstered chairs in the center of the compartment’s sitting room.

  In the adjoining room, mercifully, Alexei was sleeping peacefully on the lower berth, his teddy bear clutched tightly. Hawke had rocked him to sleep and kissed his warm cheek before tucking him in. He’d then propped a sturdy wooden chair against the bedroom door to the train’s corridor, feeling only slightly more secure. He’d left the sliding door between their two rooms open and could hear the reassuring sound of his son snoring softly. It was a sound like no other he’d ever heard.

  The only light in Hawke’s tiny room came from a dim violet-blue nightlight, a spiritlike apparition near the floor that gave the small sitting room a rather eerie, stage-set feeling. Like a bad horror film, Hawke thought, some kind of Hammer Films vampire movie.

  In his right hand, Hawke held his SIG. 45 pistol, a hollow-point round already in the chamber. He’d positioned his chair to one side and in the shadows, so as to be out of the line of fire of someone forcefully entering the room. But he would have a clear shot at anyone coming through that door without an invitation.