“Eighteen Celsius right now, sir, winds light, about five knots, ten percent chance of showers late this afternoon.”
“Bloody perfect. What mischief are you two up to this weekend, while I’m off saving the world from the Evil Empire?”
“Thought we’d get a hired car, sir, drive along the coast over to Monte Carlo. Not far, and neither I nor the skipper here have ever been.”
“Ah, the casinos. Hold on to your wallets.”
“We might have a go, sir. A few quid.”
“I’d like to be wheels-up by ten Sunday morning. Back to London, unless my host has other ideas.”
“No problem at all, sir. We’ll have her topped off and ready for you.”
A silver chopper was waiting on the tarmac fifty feet away, rotors turning. Judging by the large red star and the blue-and-white Russian flag on her fuselage, she was clearly waiting for him. As Hawke descended the Gulfstream’s staircase, taking deep breaths of the fresh salt air, two men in white strode across the tarmac to greet him. Men who walked with the rolling gait of seamen. Heavily muscled jack-tars who no doubt carried concealed weapons.
Both wore white gabardine trousers and skintight white T-shirts with a silhouette of a megayacht and the name Red Star emblazoned below it. One stepped forward and extended his hand. He had a wide white smile and blond hair, cut close.
“Commander Hawke,” he said. “Welcome. I am Yaniv Soha and this is my colleague Yuri. The prime minister extends his warmest greetings and says he is looking forward to having you as a guest aboard Red Star. We are here to provide you with diplomatic security. And anything else you require. Can we help you with your luggage?”
Hawke had only the old canvas seabag slung from his shoulder.
“I’m good, thank you.”
“Do you mind if I look inside the bag, sir? Standard precaution.”
“I’d be worried if you didn’t.” Hawke smiled, handing it to him. The man picked through the items slowly and carefully, examining each one more than thoroughly.
“Excellent,” he said, returning the bag. “Very well, if you’ll come this way, it’s a very short flight out to Red Star. She’s anchored just off the Hotel du Cap at Cap d’Antibes.”
The three men started for the Russian military helo, which was spooling up.
“I saw her on final approach. Magnificent. What’s her l.o.a.?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Length overall.”
“Ah. One hundred meters, sir. Three hundred feet.”
“Impressive.”
T he silver chopper hovered above the yacht’s helo pad, located near the stern. As Hawke emerged from the cockpit he saw Vladimir Putin striding toward him, an honest smile on his face and his hand extended. He was wearing a black bathing suit and a white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was in very good shape, much better than the pale skeleton he’d been when the two of them had been inmates at Energetika Prison.
“Alex,” Putin said as they shook hands.
“Volodya,” Hawke said, smiling.
“My old cellmate, we meet again.”
“Under considerably better circumstances, I would say,”
“Your pilot waggled his wings as he flew over Red Star. Made me laugh. I admire your style.”
“I was asleep. My pilot’s the one with the style. What an incredible yacht. Yours?”
“I’d never admit it publicly, but yes. The sea has become my sanctuary. Come on, I’ll give you a short tour. Just enough time for a tour and a cocktail before lunch. We’re going ashore to the Hotel du Cap. I hope that’s suitable. If not, my chef can cook anything you like.”
“You just happened to have picked one of my favorite hotels on earth. Fifty quid for a Salade Nicoise with a teaspoon of tuna is pushing it a bit, but still.”
Putin laughed, clapping him on the back. “Follow me. We’ll start on the bridge. You’re difficult to impress, but I think you will be. You still have Blackhawke?”
Putin walked very quickly and Hawke matched his stride as they headed forward along the starboard deck.
“Yes, but I’m building a new one in Turkey. Sail, not power this time.”
“Tell me about her. I’m new to yachting and have become fascinated with them.”
“Well, she’s basically a twenty-first-century clipper ship. Three carbon fiber masts, each one about twenty stories tall. Extreme, I suppose.”
“The more extreme, the better. How long is she?”
“Three hundred twenty l.o.a., forty-two-foot beam, and she draws twenty feet. The naval architect, a Turk named Badi, told me that if she were anchored in New York harbor her mastheads would reach up to the level of the tablet carried in the arm of the Statue of Liberty.”
“Good God, Alex.”
“You only go around once in life, right? You know what all megayacht owners love saying to each other? ‘Mine’s bigger.’ ”
Putin laughed. “Good one. I’ll have to remember that.”
“My idea for the new one was to have all the attributes of a classic sailing ship, teak decks, varnished cap rail, et cetera, but with the overall appearance sleek, metallic, ultramodern. She looks a bit foreboding, to be honest. Darth Vader’s intergalactic yacht, the architect calls her.”
“I hope you’ll invite me aboard sometime. She sounds magnificent.”
“Done. I’m going to Istanbul for her sea trials in a month or so. I’ll let you know.”
They entered the bridge, and all the officers and crewmen snapped to attention.
“Captain Ramius,” Putin said to Red Star ’s skipper, “I’d like you to meet our guest, Alex Hawke. He’s just built a new yacht in Turkey. He’s been admiring our beautiful ship, but he has something he’d like to tell you, don’t you, Alex?”
Hawke grinned at the captain.
“Mine’s bigger.”
Eighteen
Putin’s security insisted the two men dine inside the hotel’s Eden Roc restaurant rather than at a table overlooking the sea. Hawke noticed that the prime minister did not argue. He knew that the man felt safe only two places in the world: inside the Kremlin walls and on board Red Star. Countless men wanted him dead, a lot of them with good reason. For all his star power on the world’s stage and celebrity, he was virtually a prisoner.
Upon entering the Eden Roc restaurant and being shown their table, in the corner, overlooking the sea, Hawke immediately noticed that someone was already seated at their table. A large fellow in a navy blazer sat with his back to them, but the man was instantly recognizable to Alex Hawke.
Good God, Hawke thought, it’s Stefan Halter.
Putin being Putin, but there was nothing for it. He’d laid a small trap for his British guest. He’d be watching the two of them closely, looking for any sign of recognition. Stefan, an MI6 officer who’d been at Cambridge with Congreve, had been burrowed deep within the Kremlin, a mole for over three decades. He was far and away the most valuable asset Six had inside Russia.
Over the years, the two men had become good friends. Hawke steeled himself for the coming trial of that friendship as Halter rose to his feet and turned to greet them.
“Ah, Stefanovich, you’re early,” Putin said, beaming. He turned to Alex, introducing him. “You know Lord Hawke, no doubt.”
Putin smiled quizzically, foxlike, waiting to pounce.
Stefan looked at Alex, his eyes mercifully blank as he stuck out his hand. “Only by reputation, I’m afraid.”
“It’s his reputation that makes you afraid, isn’t it?” Putin said with unforced joviality, and both men smiled at the prime minister’s flash of wit.
Did we pass that test? Hawke wondered.
Drinks were ordered, and the luncheon seemed, to Hawke anyway, to go off without a glitch. He and Halter engaged in meaningless small talk, saving the serious stuff for their host.
The three tables surrounding the Russian leader had been reserved for nine bodyguards. And Hawke was certain there were Russian security officers scattered all over the beautiful gardens and lawns of the magnificent old hotel.
Hawke, for his part, was glad he was in a hotel so accustomed to celebrity guests that there was zero chance he’d be surprised by paparazzi. The last thing he needed was a big color photo of him dining with Vladimir Putin in Britain’s Hello magazine. They had just finished their Salade Nicoise when Dr. Henry Kissinger stopped at the table on his way out. He greeted the Russian leader warmly and graciously recognized Hawke when Putin introduced the two men.