Phantom: An Alex Hawke Novel (32 page)

Forty-five

Saint Petersburg/Moscow

“A
lex,” Putin said, embracing him heartily after he’d climbed out of the car. “It was a damn close thing in Portofino. Matter of seconds. I could feel the heat of the explosion through the soles of my shoes as we lifted off the deck. A minute later and . . .”

“Meet the man responsible for the timely warning, Ian Concasseur. He’s the hero, not me.”

“Concasseur, eh? Thank you, thank you,” Putin said in English, walking behind the rear of the Audi and pumping Ian’s hand. Ian responded in perfectly accented Russian and Putin, delighted, engaged him in a lively conversation on some unknown topic that showed no signs of stopping.

It gave Hawke a perfect opportunity to indulge his passion. The dacha’s gravel car park was full of fancy cars. In addition to the usual Maybachs, Mercedes AMG sedans, and shiny black Audis, there were scads of Ferraris, an Enzo, an Italia, and the new FF model, Bentleys aplenty, even a Bugatti Veyron in bright Russian red. It was the first one Hawke had seen up close. At $2,600,000, it was the world’s most expensive new car, and there weren’t that many of them around. Even Hawke, who had an extensive automobile collection, found that to be an exorbitant amount of money to spend getting from point A to B.

It had a Russian vanity plate, black letters on white, that read
PM
. Hawke knew instantly it had to be “Prime Minister” Putin’s car.

“You seem to be having a house party, Volodya,” Hawke said, as Putin and Concasseur rejoined him. Putin began leading them toward a path that led away from the main house and into the deep green forest.

“Yes, my annual wild boar hunt. I invited you to participate, remember?”

“Looking forward to it. As is Concasseur over there. It’s a night hunt, correct?”

“Yes. Night-vision scopes. Lots of vodka beforehand, so keep your wits about you. You kill one of my ministers or generals and we’ll have an international incident on our hands. Since you’re probably wondering, we’re walking down to my private office to talk. You’ll meet all the other guests at dinner, after we discuss our mutually advantageous plans. I won’t use your real names. And I’ll say you’re here on business. An offshore oil deal with BP. Okay?”

“Fine.”

It took about ten minutes to reach an old but very solid, two-story house built of stone with a slate roof. There were two plainclothes security men standing to either side of the door. Hawke was certain the woods were full of them. He was probably standing in the most secure place in all Russia at the moment. A good feeling for once.

Inside, the house resembled a nineteenth-century Russian hunting lodge. It may well have been one, Peter the Great’s, for all Hawke knew. It was certainly grand enough for a tsar. Dark paneling, great mounted animal heads, and huge oil paintings of sporting scenes from an earlier era hung from the walls.
They must be pictures that once hung in the Hermitage,
Hawke thought, knowing the prime minister’s predilection for “borrowing” from his country’s most famous museum.

Hawke tried to imagine an American president strolling into the Metropolitan Museum in New York and saying to one of the docents, “Wrap that one up and have it sent to the White House, will you please?” Never happen. But then, this was Russia, after all.

A swarthy manservant in a green felt jacket with bone buttons entered the great room and asked the prime minister if he or his guests would like something to drink or eat. Putin responded without querying the guests: vodka and caviar. At one end of the room was a large bay window that went up two stories and was filled with beautiful afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees. There were four large leather chairs, very deep, arranged in a circle around a table that had once been a millstone.

Putin took his favorite seat, propped his boots on the table, and said, “Sit, sit.”

After the frigid vodka and caviar had been served, he sat back in his chair and looked at Hawke with a wolfish grin.

“So, Mr. Hawke, last week you saved my life. Now you come to Russia to exterminate my worst enemies. Are you sure you don’t want something from me?”

Hawke and Concasseur both laughed.

“Only the red Bugatti,” Hawke said.

“It’s yours,” Putin said, digging into the pocket of his faded jeans. He pulled out a key on a red leather fob and tossed it across the table. “Take it, my friend. I’m serious. I don’t even use it that much. Just to go from here to the airstrip and back.”

Hawke picked up the key, examined Ettore Bugatti’s black initials on the red cloisonné emblem, and tossed it back to Putin. The Russian PM snatched it deftly out of the air like the highly trained athlete he was. Returning the key to his pocket he said, “So you two gentlemen have a plan? I am most anxious to hear it. I want to be rid of these Tsarist horseflies once and for all.”

Hawke spoke first.

“Volodya, as you well know I’m in the midst of a violent blood feud with these damn Tsarists. They are responsible for imprisoning, torturing, and threatening to murder the mother of my son. They have made two failed attempts to assassinate my son. I’m sure there will be more. They want me dead and they want you dead. All this by way of saying it’s time for the mailed glove to come off and reveal the mailed fist inside. I want to take these bastards out. Not one at a time. All at once.”

Concasseur said, “Prime Minister, there’s to be a dinner next week at the Tsarist mansion. Their annual celebration, according to my sources. At least three hundred attendees from all over the world.”

“The host, of course, will be the chief Tsarist himself, General Kutov,” Hawke added. “That utterly charming man to whom we both owe our meeting in Energetika Prison, Volodya.”

“There are words for this pig Kutov that only Concasseur here would know the meaning of, Alex. I won’t waste my breath. So you have some way of taking out Kutov?”

“We have a way of taking them
all
out, Volodya.”

“No? The whole damn lot?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me and then I will pour more vodka.”

Hawke, with the help of Concasseur, outlined their plan in great detail.

When they finished, Putin was stone-faced.

After a few very, very long moments, he burst forth into loud and sustained laughter, his eyes watering, totally helpless with mirth. Hawke got up and poured him a glass of water from the carafe.

When Putin finally got himself under control, he said, “It’s brilliant. What do you need from me?”

Hawke handed him the list of necessities he’d made on the plane.

“This is going to work,” he finally said, scanning the list. “What could possibly go wrong?”

“Everything,” Concasseur said, raising his glass. “But Hawke and I will muddle through somehow. We always do.”

T
he Tsarist Society’s club in the heart of Moscow was all aglow, lights blazing from every window of the imposing mansion. There was a line of limos stretching from the covered entrance all the way around the corner and into Pushkin Square. Instead of a naked fat man hanging from the flagpole, tonight there was a great red banner with a golden two-headed eagle emblazoned upon it. Hawke and Concasseur would not be using the main entrance. They entered through the kitchen, a beehive populated by buzzing white bees.

It was a madhouse.

“Organized chaos,” Ian whispered to Hawke, who thought Concasseur looked completely ridiculous in his tall
toque blanche
and spotless white chef’s uniform with two rows of brass buttons gleaming on his chest. He also wore a full reddish-blond beard to complete the disguise. “Over there, that’s the head chef and his sous-chef. Follow me. I’ll do all the talking.”

“I certainly hope so. I’m just a mute
saucier,
remember?”

There were five other men with them, all splendidly decked out in haute cuisine kitchen apparel. It was hard to believe they were members of Putin’s handpicked security force at the Kremlin. Each of them was carrying a large aluminum box, the bulky container caterers use to bring precooked food to an affair.

“Dimitry,” Ian said to the head chef in Russian, “it’s me, Nikolai.”

The big bearded man, who was drenched with sweat and tossing an amazing number of blinis into the air with a huge frying pan, looked over at Ian, frowned, and said, “Who?”

“Nikolai. The pastry chef from Parisian Caterers. We worked that gala at the Bolshoi opening night, remember?”

“No. But I’m a chef, I don’t have time to remember people. Where is Ivan Ivanovich? I asked Parisian expressly for him tonight.”

“Quite sick, I’m afraid. Food poisoning, ironically enough. Parisian sent me instead. This is Vlad, my
saucier,
and those guys over there washing up are mine, too.”

“Fine, fine. I have to get back to work. You’re dessert, right?”

“Right. Dessert.”

“Remind me what you’re serving?”

“A bombe.”

“Bombe?”

“Bombe au chocolat. Spherical, like a bomb. My signature dish.”

“Good. We haven’t done that in a while.”

“So it will be a big surprise for everyone.”

“Well, get to work. And don’t fuck anything up.”

Ian and Hawke headed back to the rear of the kitchen where their team was preparing the dish.

“I liked that ‘bombe’ idea,” Hawke said in a low voice. “Did you make that up on the spot?”

“Indeed. I was rather pleased with it, too.”

A
n hour later it was almost time for the dessert to be served. Ian had the team lined up with the other waiters, all ready to enter the grand ballroom where the dinner was being held. It was as raucous an affair as Hawke had ever witnessed, fueled by high-octane Russian vodka consumed in heroic proportions.

Hawke, excused by Ian from any culinary duties, had found a narrow back staircase that led to an orchestra balcony overlooking the huge wedding cake of a room. He had removed his toque blanche and peered cautiously over the balustrade, not that anyone would take any notice of him, hidden high above as he was by cumulonimbus clouds of cigar smoke. There were thirty round tables of ten men, the “gentlemen” seated under massive crystal chandeliers, sparkling diamond-like above.

A semicircular stage with a podium had been set up at the far end of the room. A small orchestra was playing rousing renditions of works by Tchaikovsky or Rachmaninoff, Hawke had no idea which. The few club members who could still propel themselves under their own steam were making their way to the rostrum to shower slurry encomiums upon General Kutov. The old bastard sat at the table nearest the stage, red-faced and popping the buttons on his ceremonial KGB uniform, throwing back gold-rimmed beakers of Russian jet fuel as if there were no tomorrow.

Under the circumstances, Hawke thought with a rueful smile, perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea.

The waiters were just clearing General Kutov’s table to make way for dessert. Hawke knew it was time to hurry back to the kitchen. He was going to be joining the chorus line of thirty waiters who would be carrying the great silver salvers high above their heads, delivering one of Concasseur’s signature bombes to every single table in the house.

The idea was that the waiter would place the dessert tray in the center of each table, covered by the domed silver cover. At the appointed moment, they would all reach forward simultaneously and lift the lids, revealing the surprise to the
ooh
s and
aah
s of the assembled. Hawke arrived back in the kitchen just as the head chef swung the doors open and the line of waiters began to move, each with the broad silver platter held high above his head.

Hawke, last in line, grabbed his covered platter and marched out with the rest.

Many guests were facedown in the soup or literally falling out of their chairs as the waiters moved among the tables, carefully placing the salvers in the center of each one. They then stood back waiting for the signal from Concasseur.

“Now!” Ian said in a loud Russian voice.

Each waiter bent forward and lifted the domed lids at the exact same moment. The reaction was as Ian had expected, a cheer of delight from the members.

The bombe was fashioned in the shape a large, bright red, five-pointed star, easily big enough to feed ten hungry men. In the center was a foot-high candle, covered in gold glitter. Kutov, whose table Hawke had been designated, clapped loudly, and soon everyone joined him in the applause.

Hawke, along with his fellow waiters, pulled a butane lighter in the shape of a large match from inside his white jacket. Flicking the switch, he produced a flame from the red tip.

“Now!” Concasseur’s loud voice boomed again, and the synchronized waiters held their flames to the sparkling gold candles. To the delight of all, the fuses started spitting sparks as they burned. Hawke leaned down and whispered “Spasibo” in Kutov’s ear. “Thank you.” Then the waiters all retreated from the tables, all thirty forming up along the wall and marching back toward the kitchen in an orderly fashion.

Hawke found Concasseur and slipped in behind him.

“So far, so good,” he whispered.

“Keep moving,” Ian said. “Have we got our five guys?”

“They’re all in front of us.”

“Good. The fuses are burning much faster than they’re supposed to.”

“Good God, have we got time?”

“Barely. Speed it up.”

Once they were back inside the kitchen, Hawke and Concasseur quickly collected Putin’s five men and they hurried out through the rear exit. The catering truck was parked in the alley behind the club, and Putin’s men all piled into the rear while Hawke and Concasseur leaped into the cab, Hawke behind the wheel. The truck started instantly by some miracle. Hawke engaged first gear and popped the clutch, speeding down the long alleyway that opened into Pushkin Square at the other end.

He hadn’t driven fifty yards when the massive explosion behind him rocked the old truck violently and sent brick and stone tumbling into the alley just behind them. A giant cloud of dust was visible in the rearview mirror, rolling toward them.