“Maybe it’s just me. But didn’t we split the atom? It was in Life magazine years ago, f’crissakes. So, how is it ‘indivisible’? See what I’m saying?”
Popov looked at him as if he hadn’t a clue, which he certainly did not, pounded him on the back, and said, “But hey, there you go! What did I tell you? You’re in! Welcome to paradise, Beef. Let’s go forward to the observation platform and get a view of the landing.”
“We’re landing?”
“Yeah. He’s just completed a new mooring tower on his estate at the tip of Montauk Point. He’s building these towers everywhere he has a house or palace, which is practically everywhere. Bermuda, Scotland, a Swedish fjord, you name it. We’re going to try this one out for the first time today. There’s a big lunch on the lawn for the press, and then we’re heading back to the city to drop them off. Tonight, at midnight, we turn around and sail for Miami.”
“Miami?”
“You got it, comrade. We’ll be there by the end of the week, depending on the prevailing winds.”
“Who was the weird Nazi in the black uniform?”
“That would be my boss. General Nikolai Kuragin. Head of the Third Department, the secret police.”
“The Russian secret police?”
“Hell no. Count Korsakov’s private army, his personal secret police. Kuragin was there checking you out. That’s why he stuck around when you spoke to the big guy.”
“Checking me out why?”
“That whole bodyguard thing was just a little game they were playing. Kuragin was the one interviewing you, to see how you handled yourself. He’s considering you for a job. Bigger than what you’re used to. High-risk. So he wanted a firsthand peek at the new guy. Now that you’ve been given the official blessing, I’m sure he’ll be wanting to talk to you out at Montauk.”
“What kind of job are we talking?”
“Ramzan Baysarov. Ever heard of him?”
“No.”
“Chechen rebel warlord. Not even thirty years old and yet the scourge of the Kremlin. General Kuragin put a ten-million-dollar bounty on his head after that attack that killed the count’s brother. Ramzan’s also one of the guys linked to the 2002 Moscow theater attack that killed one hundred seventy people, the 2004 subway attack that killed forty-one, and a double-suicide bombing at a Moscow rock concert that killed seventeen.”
“Seriously pissed-off guy.”
“Yeah. Yeltsin and Putin had him sent to a Siberian gulag for twenty-five years. Apparently, he didn’t like his pillow mints or the room service and checked out early. He just gave a press interview to ABC. He says he won’t quit killing Muscovites until everyone in Russia feels his pain.”
“And?”
“A couple of our guys had a chat with the ABC reporter last night. That reporter may have felt a little pain himself. Anyway, we now know where Ramzan is hanging out these days. Miami.”
“Miami.”
“Right. And Friday night is his thirtieth birthday. His Chechen Mafiya buddies in Miami are throwing a little bash in his honor. Big mansion on the water in Coconut Grove. Half the fuckin’ Chechen rebel sympathizers in America are going to be there.”
“What’s my job?”
“Make sure Ramzan doesn’t finish blowing out all his little candles.”
“Miami, huh? Beats the shit out of Alaska.”
“Beef, trust me. You’re going to love your new job.”
“One more question.”
“Yeah?”
“If I do this guy Ramzan, do I get the ten mil?”
15
Stubbs came to a stop where the sandy lane dead-ended at the dock. They’d reached the easternmost tip of St. George’s, taking Government Hill Road all the way to Cool Pond Road. It was nearly five o’clock, and the sun was still shimmering on Tobacco Bay. A few very large sport-fishing boats were moored on the bay, riding the gentle swells.
There was a freshly painted white post bearing a very discreet sign that read “Powder Hill-Private.” It stood just beside the floating platform that led out to the dock itself. The dock looked like any of the others jutting out into this small and tranquil bay. Most had small sailboats or runabouts moored alongside.
“Now what?” Hawke said, leaning forward to peer through the windshield.
“Looks like a phone box there, sir. Under the sign.”
“Right. Hang on, I’ll go see.”
Hawke got out of the car and instinctively looked around to see if he’d been followed. He’d asked Stubbs to keep an eye on the rearview mirror, but they’d seen nothing out of the ordinary on the journey from the West End. Still, it didn’t hurt to double-check. The narrow lane that wound down to the bay was empty. Golden-toothed Rastafarians on motorbikes were nowhere to be seen. He walked down the slight incline to the dock.
Mounted on the post was a phone inside a waterproof box. Fastened to the outside cover was a laminated sign: “Restricted Property! Invited Guests Only. Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted. Beware of Dogs. Armed Guards.”
Sounds chummy, Hawke thought to himself, and opened the box. Ah, well, as Pelham had so aptly put it, a hundred clams an hour was pretty good gravy.
Hawke lifted the receiver to his ear.
“Yes?” said a noncommittal Bermudian female voice on the other end.
“Yes. Alex Hawke here. I believe Miss Korsakova is expecting me.”
“Ah, Mr. Hawke,” said the voice, much friendlier now. “Miss Korsakova is definitely expecting you, sir. She’s at Half Moon House. I’ll send the launch over immediately. Should be there in less than ten minutes. A driver will meet you at this end.”
“Thanks,” Hawke said, and replaced the receiver. He walked back up the hill to where Stubbs waited with the car.
“They’re sending a boat. Thanks for your patience, Stubbs. You should go home, it’s been a long day. I’ll make arrangements to get picked up here after my appointment.”
“Yes, sir. It’s been my pleasure driving you, Mr. Hawke. If you need me again, here’s my card.”
Hawke pocketed the card. “Stubbs, what do you know about this Powder Hill? Anything useful?”
“Small private island, sir. Maybe twenty-five acres. Originally, it was an English fortress guarding the approach to the north coast. Then a failed banana plantation. It sat in ruins for years. They tried to make a tourist destination out of it back in the sixties, but it was too difficult to access. There’s a very strong riptide running between the island and the mainland. One day, the tourist boat capsized, and two honeymooners drowned, and that was the end of that.”
“Then what?”
“It just sat out there. In the early nineties, we heard there was some rich European buyer. All very hush-hush. Turned out he was Russian, one of those new billionaires getting their money offshore. He poured millions into the place, kept most of the fort and made a house out of it. Put in a landing strip, a hangar, and a big marina on the western side of the island where he moors his yacht. Also recently erected a big radio and TV tower. No one knows what that’s all about. Some say he’s in the media.”
“That yacht’s not called Tsar by any chance?” Hawke asked, remembering the name stenciled on the hull of the Zodiac that had come for Anastasia Korsakova.
“Tsar, that might be it. Have you seen her, sir?”
“Not yet, but I suppose I will. Here comes my ride. Thanks again, Stubbs. I’ll be seeing you.”
“Pleasure was all mine, Mr. Hawke,” Stubbs said. He waved good-bye, then turned around and headed back up the hill.
Hawke walked to the end of the dock, reaching it just as the gleaming white launch reversed its engines and came to a stop. He recognized Hoodoo at the helm. There was another chap, definitely not Bermudian, wearing crisp whites as well, who leaped ashore with lines and made them fast to the cleats. He kept an eye on Hawke the whole time, and it was hard not to notice the 9mm SIG Sauer MG-110 machine gun slung across his shoulder.