Tsar (24 page)

C remained on the dock, looking back at the overgrown village, his hand on the butt of his pistol. Ambrose could easily imagine what he was thinking. Admiral Sir David Trulove, ex-Royal Navy, was not one known for slipping away from a fight. The idea of a shoot-out with these druggy bastards was not without a certain appeal. Still, he knew himself to be seriously outmanned and undergunned.

“Come on, Sir David, get below!” Ambrose whispered loudly. “And for God’s sake, don’t dive. It’s quite shallow!”

Trulove well knew they’d learn more from waiting and watching than from blasting away, so he sat down on the edge of the dock and withdrew his pistol from his waistband. Then, hoisting himself over the edge, he slipped easily into the water. Holding his gun aloft, he joined Ambrose under the dock.

“Shh!” he whispered. “They appear to be coming this way.”

The two men crouched under the sagging wooden trestles, the water lapping at their chins. Even at high tide, there was about a foot of air remaining under the dock, enough for them to stand on the bottom with their heads barely above water, breathing easily.

“Quiet,” C whispered. “Definitely coming this way.”

Ambrose was glad Sir David had his trusty Colt. He’d just glimpsed a man covered in blood emerge from the brush, staggering right toward the dock. The poor fellow had one hand clutched at his midsection, as if he were trying to hold his guts in place.

The man stumbled once, then lurched out onto the dock. The boards sagged and creaked under his weight. He was close enough now that the two men hiding beneath the dock could hear his low groans of pain.

Then, when he was directly overhead, he moaned loudly and collapsed to the dock, facedown.

Ambrose, looking up through the cracks at the dark form above, felt a warm spatter in his eye. He wiped it and saw his fingers come away dark and sticky in the dim light.

Blood. The man was hemorrhaging badly from the head and groaning with the pain of his wounds. The blood, a lot of it, was darkening the water around Congreve. Blood in the water was not a good thing.

Was that a fin? Yes! It was definitely a fin he saw slicing through the water near shore. Yes, not one but two! Three!

“What’s your name, old fellow?” C said, speaking as loudly as he dared. Between the cracks, they could see something of him. He had snow-white hair, matted with dark, gluey blood.

He murmured something unintelligible.

“Who shot you, old fellow?” C whispered.

“De guns, dat’s de ting,” the man croaked. “I tole dem de truth, but dey…”

Ambrose put a hand on Trulove’s shoulder. “No time for this, Sir David. We’ve got to get out of here now!” Ambrose whispered, the fear in his voice palpable.

“We can’t,” C hissed. “The bastards who shot this one are coming through the trees. Hear them? They’re likely armed to the teeth.”

“But the blood! You know what blood in the water does to sharks! We have to get away from—”

Congreve froze. Something had just bumped into his thigh, hard. He looked down and saw one long, dark, hideous shape gliding way. And many more circling in the shallows just beyond the sagging dock beneath which he and Trulove crouched.

“Sharks,” C said. “Good God, look at them all.”

“Sir David,” Ambrose said, his trembling voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t tell many people this. You need to know, under the present circumstances, that I am ablutophobic. Severe case. I’m afraid this won’t do at all.”

“Abluto what?”

“From the Latin
ablutio
, ‘washing,’ and the Greek
phobos
, ‘fear.’

Pathologically afraid of bathing. In the sea, of course. Swimming. I do bathe at home. Frequently.”

Trulove smiled and pried Congreve’s fingers off his forearm.

“As long as we remain still, they shouldn’t bother us,” he reassured the inspector.

“Of course, they
shouldn’t
!
Will
they, is the bloody question.”

The deadly creatures had arrived en masse, just as Congreve had feared they would do. He stared at the menacing black shapes moving silently and swiftly just below the surface, tips of their dorsal fins slicing the water. They weren’t ten feet away. The two men stared at each other; the dying man’s blood was spattering the tops of their heads and splattering the water all around them. Ambrose eyed the Colt Python that C was holding just above the water. Better to die by his own hand than be torn to bits by frenzied sharks? Perhaps, yes.

There were excited shouts of Jamaican patois from ashore now, as gunmen emerged from the deserted village and raced toward the dock and their victim.

Ambrose looked at C, both of them realizing that there really was nothing for it. Thoroughly trapped beneath the dock, they watched in horror as at least a half-dozen sharks began closing in, swiftly moving in ever-narrowing circles.

“Bugger all. I’d rather get shot by those bastards up there than eaten alive,” Ambrose hissed. He’d been absolutely terrified of sharks all his life. And now he was bloody
swimming
with them. He started to paddle away, but Trulove grabbed him and whispered fiercely in his ear.

“You
know
the bullets will kill you. With the sharks, we may have some ghost of a chance. Now, just remain perfectly still. I’ve got an idea.”

“What? Bang them on the nose? That’s a comfort.”

“Hush up, will you, the crazy buggers are coming out onto the dock!”

“
W
ho does this X-Men flying machine belong to, Stokely?” Fancha asked him nervously as they rode the moving stairs up toward the hovering airship. There was a gleaming stainless-steel escalator extending out of the stern to the roof of the
Miami Herald
building. Apparently, they were the last guests to arrive, since everybody else seemed to be already aboard.

“That’s what I’m planning to find out on this trip,” Stoke said. “TSAR is a major Russian technology and energy conglomerate that owns the world’s third-largest oil company and this Miramar movie studio out in Hollywood, but who owns TSAR? Nobody seems to know.”

Girl looked a little peaked. She hated flying in general, and she sure as hell wasn’t thrilled about leaving the ground in something out of a damn comic book. But she was determined to go. A week had passed since their meeting at Elmo’s with Putov and Nikita, the two movie producers. Fancha’s phone had been ringing off the hook with calls from the studio about a possible movie deal, an action picture called
Storm Front.

She’d agreed to a meeting with Miramar, and Nikita, a.k.a. Nick, had insisted they have it aboard the Russian spaceship. Some kind of flying press junket down to the Keys. They were going to love it, Nick said.

“C’mon, baby,” Stoke said as they stepped inside the ship. “Let’s go find Mr. Hollywood. See what he has to say for his bad self.”

“I guess,” she said, looking back as the stairs were retracted inside the fuselage.

“You do want this, don’t you, honey? Be a star, all that.”

“Baby, I want it so bad it hurts my heart.”

“Well, let’s go make it happen, girl. I wouldn’t take you up in this thing if I didn’t think it could fly.”

The main solarium of the ship was officially called the Icarus Lounge. It was big and luxurious and could easily accommodate the hundred or so guests who’d been invited on the short cruise down to the Keys. The arched ceiling at the nose was mostly glass and steel, and the room was filled with sunny morning light. Normally, it would be a great place to read or relax, have a cocktail in one of the red-velvet upholstered armchairs or chaises. Today, it had been set up for a press conference they’d obviously missed.

Fancha left Stokely’s side, wandered over to the nearest window, and looked down at blue Biscayne Bay. Up ahead, in the hazy distance, she could make out the outline of Key Largo.

Stoke noticed that there was an empty podium on the small stage. Next to it was a large model of another airship. It made the one they were flying in look like the entry-level model. It was sitting on a twelve-foot-long wooden table inside a glass case. It was all silver with gold trim. The word
Pushkin
stretched along its side.

Judging by the scale of the tiny model cars and little people on the ground holding the mooring lines, Stoke calculated the model airship to be at least five times bigger than
Tsar.
That would make
Pushkin
almost two thousand feet long. Behind the model, a flat-screen monitor was showing artists’ renderings of the airship’s luxurious interior. Staterooms, spas, movie theaters, the works.

“Sheldon, my man!” he heard somebody say, moving through the crowd with his hand in the air. Some little guy, Stoke couldn’t see his face for a second, but he knew who it had to be. His second-in-command, Luis Gonzales-Gonzales.

“Shark bait!” Stoke said. “You made it.”

“You think I’d miss this trip, Shel?” Sharkey said, holding out his fist for a pound. “This thing is freaking awesome, man.”

“You ready for this meeting, Shark? Fancha’s right over there if you want to wish her luck.”

“Luck is for losers, man. These guys won’t know who ate them for breakfast. Sharkman O. Selznick at your service,” the little Cuban said, tipping his hat.

Stoke laughed, assessing Shark’s get-up.

“You look good, little brother. I like this style on you, son. It says, ‘Gone Hollywood but got off the bus in Vegas to do some shopping first.’”

Luis was rocking what Stoke called his Frank Sinatra look, his straw hat cocked over one eye the way Frank used to do, with a pink blazer, white trousers, and his trademark white suede loafers. Kind of the ring-a-ding-ding outfit you might see on a Sinatra album cover from the fifties, with a TWA Super Constellation parked on the tarmac in the background.

Fancha saw Luis and came over to give him a peck on the cheek.

He said, “Do you guys believe this freaking batship? I’ve been all over this thing, man. Stem to stern, up and down. It’s just unbelievable.”

Stoke said, “You see our new pals from La-La Land?”

“Yeah. Nick is here, anyway. No sign of Putov. Nick was looking for you during the presentation. Dying to get with Fancha. He’s got a little meeting room all set up for us in a private lounge all the way in the back on the promenade deck. He said we should meet him there about fifteen minutes after we shove off. They’ve got lunch coming in.”

“Good, good,” Stoke said, looking at the model in the glass case. “Hey, Shark, what’s up with this model airship?
Pushkin?
Man, that big zeppelin is sick. Is it for real? I mean, they built it?”

“Damn right, it’s real. It’s being launched this week! Five times the size of this one. At least. Yeah, you missed the whole presentation, man. They had that guy from
American Idol
, Ryan Seacrest, up on the stage as emcee. It’s their new passenger liner. Biggest airship ever built, more than nineteen hundred feet long. Going to be the new standard in transoceanic travel, the Seacrest guy said. New York to London, Paris, whatever. Carries seven hundred passengers. Five restaurants. Staterooms, suites, the whole deal. Very deluxe, seriously.”

Suddenly, Fancha lurched and grabbed for Stoke’s arm, a look of terror on her face. “Baby, is that an earthquake?” Stoke felt light in his shoes, as if his heels were going to come right up out of his loafers. But it wasn’t any earthquake. He pulled her to him and gave her a hug.

“No, baby, we wouldn’t feel any earthquakes up here. Look out the window. We’re just lifting off, separating from the tower. Take it easy. Let’s go over to the window, and maybe we can see your house down there, huh? Relax, baby, stay cool.”

S
TOKE SIPPED HIS
Diet Coke, listening to Nick schmooze Fancha. When they’d arrived at the meeting, Nick had said hello to Luis, nodded in Stoke’s general direction, and then proceeded to ignore the two men for fifteen minutes or so. But he was all over Fancha, practically spoon-feeding her caviar and refilling her glass with champagne. That was lunch. Caviar and Cristal, a lot of both.

Nobody had any bubbly except Fancha. Luis, who was at the far end of the table taking notes on the meeting, was drinking Perrier. Stoke had told Sharkey that for this meeting, he should let Stoke do all the talking.

But it seemed as if Nick was doing all the talking.

He said he’d seen the local dramatic production Fancha had done for Univision. She had everything, all the tools in the actor’s box. She could play sophisticated comedy, low comedy, straight drama, she could sing every possible kind of song, and she looked enchanting, the kind of face and body the camera would love. And
Storm Front
was sure to be a hit, with him, Nick, producing and Ed Zwick directing. It was going to be a period picture, set in the 1930s, about a handsome rumrunner who falls for this babe singing in some joint in Key West during the worst hurricane on record. Romantic but with a lot of action. All of this in his Hollywood schmooze voice with the Russian accent on top.

He told Fancha she was going straight to the top; with her looks and her angel’s voice, nothing could stop her. He said he was just glad he happened to be at the birthday party that night and heard her sing, because he wouldn’t trust her Hollywood career to anyone but Miramar. He, Nick Duntov, would personally focus his full laser-beam attention on her alone, turn over all of his other clients to other producers at the firm.

“Nick, tell me something,” Stoke said when it seemed as if he’d wrapped up the big schmooze. “How did you happen to be at the birthday party that night?”

“What?”

“No big deal, I’m just curious. Wasn’t exactly a Hollywood crowd over there in the Grove, right? Just a bunch of mobbed-up Russians, from what I could tell. Gangsters and Chechen gang bangers.”

“Mr. Levy, I don’t want to be rude. But what the fuck would you know about Hollywood? Sun Coast Artist Management isn’t exactly a player in that league.”

“Did he just use the F word, Shel?” Sharkey said, looking up.

“I believe he did drop an F bomb.” Fancha giggled.

Stoke said, “No, it isn’t. I’m just a naturally curious individual. I’m just looking out for my girl.”

“So am I. Look, we both have Fancha’s best interests at heart, Mr. Levy. So, why don’t we all try to get along, huh? Good idea? I have something here that will make you both happy.”

He pulled an envelope out of his inside pocket, opened it, and slid a yellow check across the table. It was made out to Suncoast, payable to Fancha. It took a sec for the amount to register. It was made out for a quarter of a million dollars.

“What’s this for?” Stoke said, looking at the name of the bank and the payee. It was a Swiss bank, small, private.

“Consider it a demonstration of my total belief in Fancha’s career, Mr. Levy. I have booked a one-night engagement for her. That’s her fee.”

“One night? A quarter of a million dollars?” Stoke said. “Come on.”

“Sheldon Levy, behave yourself,” Fancha said. “Let’s hear what the man has to say.”

“Fancha, thank you. Let me tell you about this one very special and historic night. Are you both with me?”

“Hit it,” Stoke said, leaning back in his chair. He glanced at Sharkey and rolled his eyes.

Nick paused a moment before he spoke, looking for some drama.

“Fancha, you missed this morning’s presentation, but I assume you saw the model of the TSAR company’s new passenger liner in the forward lounge? The
Pushkin?
”

“Yes, I did. Beautiful.”

“I’ve been aboard her. Let me tell you, the
Pushkin
is the most luxurious passenger ship ever to sail the skies. Named in honor of the famed Russian poet. She will make her maiden voyage on December 15. She will sail from Miami on a transatlantic flight, arriving at Stockholm on December 17 in time for the Nobel Prize award ceremony that evening at the Stockholm Stadshuset. It may interest you both to know that the owner of this vessel himself is to be awarded a Nobel Prize for his work in astrophysics.”

“She’s going to sing at the Nobel Prize ceremony?” Stoke asked.

“No. She’s going to sing onboard the
Pushkin
on her first night. There will be a gala dinner that night honoring the owner and all of the other Nobel laureates and nominees who will be joining us for the inaugural crossing. Many distinguished guests will be aboard, including the presidents of the United States and Russia and the premier of China. Not to mention their royal highnesses the king and queen of Sweden.”

“I’m going to sing for the president?” Fancha said.

“Yes, Fancha, you are. You’re going to sing for the world before we’re done. Does that sound interesting to you?”

Fancha looked at Stokely. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars? Baby, I’d do this gig for free!”

Nick smiled and pulled another envelope out of his pocket.

“What’s next?” Stoke said.

“Yeah, what’s next?” Sharkey echoed, getting into it.

“I have here a letter of intent saying that Fancha agrees to enter contract negotiations to star as the female lead in the upcoming Miramar production
Storm Front
, directed by Ed Zwick and also starring Denzel Washington and Brad Pitt. Executive produced by yours truly, Nikita Duntov. Accompanying the letter is a certified check from Miramar Pictures for two million dollars.”

“Oh, baby,” Fancha said, grabbing Stoke’s hand. “Is this for real?”

“I don’t know, Boo,” Stoke said, looking hard at Nikita Duntov. “Is it real, Nick?”

“Take it to the bank and find out, Mr. Levy.”

“You want to do this, baby?” Stoke said, looking at Fancha. She looked as if she was about to come out of her shoes.

“Do I want to do this, baby?” she said. “I’ve been wanting to do this since I was five years old!”

She jumped to her feet, grabbed Stoke’s head, and crushed it to her bosom. Her cheeks were wet with tears.

“It’s happening, just like I always imagined it. It’s real, baby, can’t you feel it? It’s
real!
”

Stokely gently wiped away her tears, then held up his hand in front of Nikita’s face.

“What’s that wet stuff on my hand, Nick?”

“Teardrops?”

“Correct. Real tears, Nick. Remember the lady’s tears, what they look like. Remember what’s real and what isn’t. Because if you forget, Nick, forget what’s real, something bad is going to happen.”

“Tears dry, Mr. Levy.”