Tsar (38 page)

“Good question. How soon can you get out there?”

“To Salina?”

“Of course, Salina. You’re the only one on the planet who knows this guy on sight. Knows what he looks like, talks like. I need you out there now, Stoke. Is there a problem?”

“I’m onboard the
Pushkin,
about to take off. Check out this Tsar operation on the airship going to Stockholm. With Fancha. I told you about it. She wants me—”

“Stoke, listen carefully. Ever since the party, I’ve been looking hard at your boy Happy. He is a Russian-American. A made
mafiya
assassin from Brooklyn. His real name is Paddy Strelnikov. He’s undercover KGB, is what they’re saying at Langley. The bombing of Salina was intended to look like an Iranian operation. A group calling itself Arm of God. But it’s not Iranian, damn it, that doesn’t make any sense. The ayatollahs are scared shitless of the U.S. right now. So, maybe it really is a goddamn KGB operation. Fucking Russians, I wouldn’t put it past them these days. Anyway, look, I want you to get out there and find Happy’s fat ass or find out where he went. Find him, and bring him in. The Russians might be making some kind of move, Stoke, a big move. This might be part of it. That’s all I can tell you now, okay?”

“I’m on my way.”

“Get this guy, Stoke. He’s critical. One more thing. Before he blew up the town, he murdered the mayor and her family in their beds. Husband. Two little kids. Left a cell phone with a phony Arabic message on one of the corpses. That information has not been released to local law enforcement.”

“Christ,” Stoke said.

“You’re going?”

“I’m gone.”

The phone went dead in his hand just as Fancha opened the door to the head. She’d changed into a beautiful turquoise skirt and blouse. She’d never looked prettier. That smile, the one he loved, the one that meant she was happy. She spun around, and her skirt flared out like a ballerina’s.

“Hey, baby, why isn’t that champagne opened yet? This girl is thirsty.”

“Oh, yeah. I should have opened that. Sorry.”

“Stokely, honey, you don’t look so good. Is something wrong?”

“Yes, baby. Something is wrong.”

“How wrong?”

“Really wrong. Bad wrong.”

“You’re not going with me.”

“No, honey, I’m not. I can’t.”

She turned around and went back inside the bathroom and closed the door. Didn’t slam it. Just closed it. And locked it.

Stoke picked up his unpacked suitcase and rapped softly on the bathroom door.

“Fancha? I’m sorry, baby. Let me explain.”

No response. He pressed his forehead against the door and spoke softly.

“Baby? I’m so sorry. Let me just kiss you good-bye. Okay? Please.”

Nothing.

“It’s business, honey. National security. What am I supposed to do?”

He could hear her in there, sobbing.

He left the stateroom without another word, pulling the door closed behind him, seriously disgruntled.

War isn’t hell, he thought to himself, charging angrily down the corridor to the airship’s aft elevators.

Hell, no.

Sometimes it was much, much worse.

K
orsakov’s winter palace was plainly visible now, countless lighted windows winking through the dark, snow-laden forests. The blisteringly fast troika flew across an arched wooden bridge spanning the frozen river. The sleigh went airborne for a long moment at the top, and Hawke found the speed, the fierce cold, the ringing sleigh bells, and the snow-spangled forests sparkling in the starlight exhilarating.

He glanced at Anastasia, sliding his cold hand under the fur throw and placing it on her warm thigh. She slid closer to him, never taking her eyes off the hindquarters of the three flying horses. She watched their every movement, like a pilot casting her eye over her instrument panel, and whispered corrections as they flew over the landscape at impossible speeds. Hawke was mesmerized by her art, her precise skills at something he’d never known existed.

“How much of this enchanted forest is Korsakov property?” Hawke asked. For the last half-hour or so, there had been endless miles of dry-stacked stone walls and small cottages in neatly fenced fields. Now a high yellow wall lined the left side of the snowy lane.

Asia laughed. “Alex, you were on Korsakov land two hours before your train arrived at Tvas station.”

“Ah. Sizable holdings.”

She cast a quick smile in reply and flicked the reins.

“Not really. We used to control all of Siberia—Storm! What’s gotten into you? Pay attention! Lightning, get along with you! Turn! Turn! We’re home at last!”

Nothing had prepared Hawke for the sheer grandeur of the Korsakov winter palace.

The troika suddenly careened off the snowbound country road and raced under a great arch of stone and wrought iron, the entrance a heavily filigreed black arch surmounted by golden two-headed eagles. The horses, now in sight of their stables, surged ahead beneath the snow-packed
allée
of trees leading to the palace.

The sense of power and opulence only grew as they got closer. It seemed too vast to be practicable as any kind of home. Hawke couldn’t even guess at how many rooms, but it dwarfed a European’s notion of parliaments and museums. And every window was ablaze with light.

“A party?” Hawke asked. “Just for me?”

“A dinner and concert,” Anastasia said. “Five hundred guests.”

“Only five hundred? Cozy.”

“Half of Moscow is here.”

“Really? Which half?”

“The half that counts. The half holding the reins of power. My father means something to this country, Alex. He stands for the New Russia. Strong, powerful, fearless. They revere him here, Alex. He’s like a—a god. Like a—”

“Tsar?”

“That’s not as far-fetched as you might think.”

Hawke looked at her a moment and decided to let that one pass. “Are you as hungry as I am? Near starvation?”

“We’re too late for the Christmas feast, but we can enjoy some of the concert, perhaps. And no, the party is definitely not for you. We’re celebrating Papa’s Nobel award and the coming debut of his new symphony.”

The sleigh careened into a large snowy courtyard, and Anastasia reigned in her three chargers. The trio swerved to a stop at the foot of a wide set of steps, the runners throwing up a great shower of glistening snow. A host of liveried footmen instantly surrounded them, helping both Anastasia and Hawke to step down from the ice-encrusted sleigh and whisking Hawke’s luggage away. Considering its contents, he would have preferred to carry it himself, but it was too late.

Hawke stood for a moment, stomping his boots on the hard-packed snow, trying to get some feeling back into his feet.

Anastasia stood stroking Storm’s mane as grooms covered the other two horses with blankets and led them away to the stables. She was quietly giving orders to a tall bearded fellow, obviously the man in charge. Once they were alone again, mounting the broad stone staircase to the main entrance, she whispered, “I instructed Anatoly to put you in the Delft Suite on the third floor. It adjoins my own rooms with a connecting door. I hope you don’t find that too forward of me.”

“Forward, certainly, but perhaps not too forward.”

She took his hand and hurried him up the steps. Crimson-uniformed servants with gold braid and bright brass buttons swung the double doors open wide. Hawke saw a massive illuminated Christmas tree standing at the center of the gilded and white-marbled entrance hall. The ceiling vaulted four stories above it, upheld by fluted columns the size of grain silos. Two curving marble staircases led to the second and third stories, where piano music tinkled, mixed with the muted laughter of hundreds of guests.

H
AWKE ENTERED HIS
own room and found it surprisingly and refreshingly small. The walls were entirely covered in blue and white Dutch tiles. Peter the Great, Hawke knew, had been a huge admirer of all things Dutch. Hawke’s room was, so Anastasia had informed him, the very room in which Tsar Peter slept whenever he was a guest of the Korsakovs. A cozy fire had been lit in the tiled Dutch oven in the corner. He removed his ice-coated black greatcoat and quickly shed all of his sour-smelling travel attire, washed himself with hot water from a bedside jug, and dressed.

He’d found a set of perfectly tailored evening clothes laid out on his four-poster bed, and to his amazement, the shirt, trousers, and waistcoat, everything, fit perfectly. Nestled at the foot of the bed was a pair of black velvet evening slippers with the Korsakov coat of arms embroidered in gold thread. Unsurprisingly, they fit.

He saw his Gladstone bag on a settee in a darkened corner. He crossed the room and checked to see that the combination locks were intact and that the bag containing his weapons had not been tampered with. It seemed that it had not; at least, the number combination he always left the two locks set at had not been altered: 222, February 22, his late parents’ anniversary date.

He was, he assumed, an honored guest of this great household. But then again, this was still Russia.

Suddenly bone tired, he kicked off the slippers and stretched out fully dressed on the vast down-filled bed. The flickering firelight cast cartoon shadows on the underside of the bed’s canopy. It had been a long, uncomfortable voyage from Bermuda, and he was overcome by an overpowering desire to sleep here, now, submerged in all this sumptuous featherbed comfort.

At some point, Anastasia rapped on his door loudly enough to wake him. She was wearing a deeply low-cut gown of midnight-blue silk, her hair in ribbons and her throat wreathed in sparkling diamonds. The deliciously warm scent of Dior wafting up from her pale white bosom was almost overpowering.

“I thought I’d lost you,” she said.

“Mmm,” he said, unable to think of a real word.

He thought perhaps he’d slept a few minutes. A glance at his watch showed he’d been out cold for more than an hour.

“Comfortable?” she asked, stepping inside and taking him into her arms.

“Mmm. Very.”

“White tie becomes you, Alexander. You should wear it more often.”

He kissed her upturned lips, surprised at their warmth and softness. He pulled her to him, crushing her half-exposed bosom against his chest, inhaling the sweetness of her hair, her skin.

“Comfortable except for the bed,” he said, whispering into her ear. “Mattress is a bit firm for my taste. I’d like to try yours.”

“Down, boy,” she said, feeling his erection hard against her thighs. “We have to put in an appearance. I want you to meet my father tonight. I think he’s expecting it. And my brothers are dying to meet you. Come along, now, Alex. Don’t tarry.”

He followed her down the grand gilded staircase and found himself moving in Anastasia’s wake from one glittering room and mirrored gallery to another. They were in search of her two younger brothers, Sergei and Maxim. The sounds of stringed and percussion instruments, clarinets, and French horns, Count Korsakov’s new symphony, could be heard throughout the rooms they passed through. The twins, she told Alex, were not fond of symphonic music. They liked hard Russian rock, a group called the Apples, on their iPods.
Nashe,
they called this music. It meant “ours.” Western rock was definitely over in the New Russia. Western everything was over.

“They could well be playing in here,” she said.

“Playing? How old are they?”

“Twelve. Twins, you see.”

“And their mother? Your mother?”

“She died in childbirth. The boys barely made it. We were lucky they survived.”

“I’m so sorry, Asia. I’d no idea.”

T
HEY ENTERED THE
great Hall, where the ceremonial feast clearly had just taken place. Guests and servants had long since departed, but the enormous baroque room was still full of wonders. The barrel-vaulted hall was stunning in its abundance of mirrors and glittering gold. An unbounded sea of mirrors in gilded frames were reflected in other mirrors, creating a magical, endless space in which hundreds of wax candles still burning in the spaces between the windows and the mirrors gleamed.

“Perhaps they’ve escaped to the kitchens,” Anastasia said. “Wait here for a moment, and I’ll go and fetch them.”

Hawke paused at the table, picking up a spotless crystal goblet and deciding to fill it with blood-red wine from one of the many silver carafes. He sipped and found it delicious. So, too, was the leg of roast duck he removed from a half-eaten carcass and began to gnaw at ravenously.

The table, which stretched to shadowy infinity down the hall, had not been completely cleared. The white linen tablecloths were hung with ribbons of many colors and glorious rosettes. In the center of the table towered a massive construction resplendent with symbolic sculptures, monograms and crowns of various ancient courts of Europe.

The massive carved silver candelabras, which marched down the table into the shadows, were all still blazing with candles. Around the bases were woven Christmas holly and berries, artificial flowers made of red silk. Fresh flowers covered the branches of tiny potted trees or were woven into garlands that hung above miniature fountains, the waters still playing right there on the table.

Candlelight gleamed, reflected in the gold and silver tableware and on the great tureens, whose lids took the shapes of boars’ heads, stags, or pheasants. This magnificent table, Hawke decided, was itself a work of art. And perhaps a political statement as well. Such grandeur would surely reignite for Count Korsakov’s guests the dreams and glories of an ancient Russia that no longer existed but had once reigned triumphant.

This was the table, Hawke decided, not of a mere billionaire nor of a wizard, a genius of science, art, and music.

This was the table of a Tsar.

Did Count Korsakov dream of Tsardom? Is that what Anastasia had been trying to tell him in the sleigh? The restoration of the Tsars was not wildly implausible, Hawke knew. There was vast nostalgia in the country for the power and glory that the times of the Tsars represented.

The last of the Tsars, the Romanovs, were feeble, weak, and wholly incapable of ruling this huge country. But the Korsakovs, based on what he knew and had seen, were clearly powerful enough to do just about anything they damn well pleased.

C had been correct, he mused. He had needed to come here, needed to see all of this for himself. He could sense enormous changes coming in this country, a seismic shift in the balance of—

“Look out!” he heard Anastasia shout.

Something, some fat silver missile, was headed directly for his head.

He ducked and watched the thing go by. It was a flying model of an airship. About three feet long, it had Nazi swastikas emblazoned on the tail, and the red lights on the fuselage were blinking. You could even hear the faint whirr of its multiple propellers as it sailed away.

“What the hell?” Hawke said.

“It’s a race,” Anastasia said, suddenly at his side. “Watch out, Hawke, here comes the
Hindenburg.
”

Now a second radio-controlled miniature airship came weaving its way between two of the flaming candelabras, the ill-fated zeppelin in hot pursuit of ZR-1, the German airship that had caused such destruction in London.

“Sergei, Maxim, please land your craft and come down and introduce yourselves to Alexander Hawke. He’s our guest, so be polite.”

“Where the hell are they?” Hawke asked, peering into the gloom. He couldn’t see another soul in the cavernous candlelit room.

“Up there,” Anastasia said, pointing to a balcony high above them. It was clearly where the choir and the dinner musicians had entertained during dinner.

Two identical boys leaned over the railing and waved down at Hawke. They were both good-looking, and both had shoulder-length blond hair.

“How do you do, sir?” the twins said in unison and in very good English. “Sorry, we’re racing!” one added.

“Very well, indeed,” Hawke called up to them. “Don’t mind me. Keep racing. Who’s winning?”

“The
Hindenburg,
” one excited boy said. “She’s about to lap ZR-1! For the third time,” he added, laughing.

Hawke laughed, too, and said, “Come on, now, ZR-1, don’t humiliate yourself!”

Anastasia took his arm, saying, “I’ve located Father by telephone. He’s finished his concert, sadly, but is having brandy in his study. He’s most anxious to meet you.”