He was desperate to speak with her. Would she have her mobile at a gala like this? Perhaps not, but worth a try.
He pulled out his own, saw his message light flashing, and punched in her number, watching her through the monocular as he heard it ringing at the other end. Yes! She reached down to pick up her evening bag and was about to open it, when her father grabbed her wrist, squeezing it cruelly by the look on her face. Bastard.
She returned the bag to the floor and pasted the smile back on her face. He waited for the tone and then spoke.
“Darling, I pray you get this soon. I’m here at the banquet. If you look up at the balcony between the trumpet players, you’ll see me smiling down at you. Listen carefully, this is vitally important. I can’t explain now, but it’s imperative that you get away from your father. As quickly as possible! It’s extremely dangerous to be anywhere near him. I wish I could explain more, but I beg you, make any excuse, say you’re ill and have to use the loo, anything, but run at the first opportunity! I love you. We’ll be together soon, and I will explain everything.”
He shoved the thing back into his pocket. Well, at least it was almost over. Somehow, they’d both survive this night. And when it was over-no time for that now.
The line was moving quickly, nearing the end, and he stepped back to take his place. The important fellow in front of him was introduced and proceeded down the steps, his wife at his side, her diamond necklace and earrings sparkling in the spotlights. Hawke took his place alone at the head of the staircase and waited, as the spotlights found him.
The staff came down with a great thump, and then the trumpets sounded a rising series of triumphal notes. A clarion voice rang out, “Your royal majesties, ladies and gentlemen, may I present Lord Alexander Hawke!”
He couldn’t imagine how the British ambassador had pulled that one off, but he was delighted. The fanfare still ringing in his ears, he put his hands in his trouser pockets and descended the wide steps in a somewhat jaunty fashion, affecting-unsuccessfully, he imagined-a kind of Fred Astaire nonchalance. He wished he could see Anastasia’s face at this moment, as this little performance was meant for her. And her father, of course. He’d have paid a pretty penny to see that face right now.
The Nobel Committee chairman was at the podium, standing next to the old fellow introducing this year’s winners in Physiology or Medicine. As he spoke, the honorees were making their way from their seats at the royal table back up to the lectern for a short acceptance speech. Along with his invitation, there’d been a copy of the evening’s program in his hotel room, and Alex had carefully studied the order of presentation he’d taped to the bathroom mirror while he dressed. After Medicine, he knew, came Physics, the Tsar’s prize.
Showtime.
Instead of proceeding to one of the many hundreds of round guest tables on either side of the lengthy royal one, Hawke remained discreetly on the podium, standing politely to one side with a group of officials as the four winners for Medicine made their brief remarks.
The Nobel chairman thanked the winners as they left the stage and then said, “And now, your royal majesties, the prize for Physics. I’d like to welcome Sir George Roderick Llewellyn of the British Royal Academy to the podium to present this year’s winner.”
Hawke walked toward the elderly chairman, who glanced once, then twice, over his shoulder, covering the microphone with his hand so he couldn’t be heard by the huge audience.
“You’re not Sir George,” he whispered as Hawke drew near.
“Sorry, no, I’m not at all, am I? Poor old fellow took ill, I’m afraid to say. I’m his replacement. Alex Hawke, British Embassy. How do you do?”
The lovely old gent, a bit flustered, shook his hand and walked away from the lectern, muttering something angrily in Swedish. He clearly wasn’t accustomed to last-minute changes in schedules on this night of nights.
Hawke adjusted the microphone upward to suit his height and looked out over the enormous crowd.
“Before I begin, I’d like to say hello to a few familiar faces I see in the audience this evening. These wonderful and brave people are all survivors of the horrendous hostage crisis aboard the airship Pushkin. Welcome, ladies and gentlemen. I’m glad you’re all here tonight! Would you stand, please, so that we can acknowledge your presence?”
The crowd erupted into cheers and applause as the rescued laureates and their families got to their feet, many of them with smiles of gratitude for the handsome Englishman who stood at the podium.
“The Nobel Prize for Physics,” Hawke said in a loud, clear voice, “is presented this year for outstanding achievement in the field of black matter. Black holes, things in the universe so dense that no radiation, no light, can escape. You can’t see it, but you know it’s there. Your royal majesties, ladies and gentlemen, the man we all honor here tonight is no stranger to dark matter. As he makes his way up here to the podium, let me tell you a little bit about this murderous and truly evil human being.”
The room went dead silent save the sharp intake of a thousand breaths at once. There was suddenly a good deal of murmuring and hand wringing on the podium. This new speaker was clearly deviating from the well-rehearsed script they all held in their hands. There was no mention of “murder” or “evil” in their copies.
“In addition to his brilliant scientific achievements, Russia’s new Tsar builds prisons. Like the one called Energetika, built, ingeniously, on top of a radioactive nuclear-waste site on a small island off St. Petersburg. Here the Tsar has restored the ancient practice of impalement. For those of you unfamiliar with this medieval torture, the victim is stripped naked and placed on a sharpened stake. The tip of the stake is inserted into the rectum and gradually pierces the body’s internal organs until-”
Someone, a woman at the royal table, Hawke thought, screamed loudly. She was thrown bodily from her chair as the new Tsar of Russia tried to force his way through the crowd to the stage. A spotlight was immediately swung his way, and Hawke could see the demonic rage in his eyes all the way from his perch on the podium.
“Sorry for the commotion,” Hawke continued. “As I was saying, the wooden stake perforates the perineum or the rectum itself and takes perhaps a week to kill the victim as it travels upward through the body and-”
“Stop him!” the Tsar howled, clambering over chairs and shoving aside anyone who got in his way, including the very furious King Carl XVI Gustaf of Sweden, in his desperate efforts to gain the stage and get at Alex Hawke’s throat, shouting all the while, “Someone stop this fucking madman!”
“Sorry for these beastly interruptions,” Hawke said, continuing with his conversational tone despite the shouted threats and the imminent arrival of the enraged Tsar at the podium.
“In addition to the marvels of impalement, let me touch briefly on our honoree’s invention of the Zeta computer. Hailed as a godsend in Third World countries, the Zeta computers are actually powerful bombs, used just last week to destroy an entire American town. But the Americans are not our honoree’s only target. No, he has shipped countless millions of these cleverly disguised bombs all over the world, creating a worldwide web of death, which he is even now using to threaten his political enemies, forcing them to stand by and watch as his Russian storm troopers sweep into Eastern European countries, the Baltics, East Ukraine, and other sovereign nations in an effort to reclaim these lands for Russia and-”
Hawke stood his ground as Korsakov clambered up onto the podium and headed straight for the lectern. The man was literally snarling, stringy loops of saliva flying from his open mouth as he crossed the wide stage. Hawke smiled and calmly continued, as if nothing were out of the ordinary.