The two old friends embraced and clapped each other on the back. They’d not seen each other since Hawke had interviewed the man for the Moscow job, running Red Banner.
Hawke had no luggage to speak of, just weapons and extra mags of ammunition in the black nylon carryall he tossed into the Audi’s boot. He wasn’t planning to be here long. He shed his black leather jacket and tossed it in as well. It was warmer than he’d expected.
“How far to the dacha?” Hawke asked, once they were on the rough, two-laned road.
“A good half hour. Is that long enough to tell me your plan? If it’s not, the plan’s too bloody complicated to work.”
Hawke laughed. “Haven’t changed a bit, have you?”
“Have you?”
“No.”
“As the Yanks say, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”
Hawke spent the drive time discussing a broad outline of his plan with Concasseur. The man was enthusiastic, to say the least, and contributed a number of nuanced changes that only strengthened Hawke’s idea. With a little help from Putin, they just might pull this off, Hawke told him.
“Something will go wrong,” Concasseur said. “It always does.”
“Of course it will. It’s what keeps it interesting. The thing that keeps us coming back for more. Am I right?”
“Always right. Sir.”
“I never figured you for a ‘yes man,’ Ian.”
“Damn right. I’m not stupid. Here we are. The first checkpoint. Let’s hope this guard has my name as well as yours.”
“He does, Ian. I told Putin you were coming. Ever met him?”
“Never. We don’t seem to travel in the same circles.”
“Piece of work,” Hawke said, gazing up at the tall evergreens that lined the drive leading to Putin’s dacha. “You’ll see.”
“You two are, what, friends? I can’t believe it.”
“Yeah. We met in prison. Shared a bottle of vodka in his cell. Bit weird, isn’t it?”
“Oh, you have no idea how weird it is, Alex.”
“He likes me for some reason. What can I say?”
“It’s insane is what it is, actually, mate. I seriously doubt that there’s anything more bizarre in the entire annals of espionage. And I include fiction.”
Forty-five
Saint Petersburg/Moscow
“Alex,” 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 cloisonne 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.”