“Do we know who?”
“We are working on it.”
“Has Patrushev seen those photographs? Or Korsakov?”
Nikolai allowed a wan smile at this small joke. General Nikolai Patrushev, director of the KGB since 1999, was Kuragin’s immediate superior. But Nikolai’s lifelong allegiance was to two men only: his old comrade seated behind the desk and Count Ivan Korsakov, a man whom Nikolai believed Rostov might one day order him to eliminate. If the president were to maintain his grip on power within the long halls of the Kremlin, he could not long tolerate rivals as strong as Korsakov.
The count, a national hero, was growing in power every day. Rostov was clearly aware of it yet never mentioned it. Nikolai believed it was only a matter of time before the two men came to a crossroads. Only one of them would walk away. The general was shrewd enough to keep his powder dry for the moment, playing both sides against the middle.
“I thought perhaps you should see them first.” Kuragin smiled, showing his yellowed teeth. “It’s the reason I’m a bit early. I have a meeting with Count Korsakov and Patrushev at two o’clock.”
“Good. Where was this party?” Rostov said, examining a print.
“Miami. The residence of Lukov, a man we’ve been watching for the last month. A birthday party for Ramzan. One of my Miami field officers, Yuri Yurin, was looking into reports of Ramzan’s possible presence at this event. Genady Sokolov and Yurin managed to get inside the house, posing as hired security, and shot these photographs surreptitiously.”
Rostov threw a photo across the desk and said, “Here is Ramzan arriving. Find out who was driving his limousine. Talk to him. If he knows anything, talk to him some more. I want to know who was sheltering him in Miami.”
“Yes, sir.”
“These pictures are remarkable. I want a name to go with every face at this party.”
“By Monday.”
“This woman on the stage. She’s beautiful.”
“An entertainer. Singer. You’ll see her in the next shot. A large black man grabbing her and leaping off the stage. Just before the explosion.”
“The bomb was probably in the cake. This hornye had foreknowledge of the explosive device’s existence. How did he know? Was it his? Get his name first.”
Nikolai strongly disapproved of the derogatory slang the president had just used but nodded in the affirmative and said, “Notice also the big man in white. He has a name, ‘Happy,’ embroidered over his left breast. Perhaps he is in league with the black man? This one delivered the cake, and then, and now here, you see him quickly moving away, pushing through the crowd surrounding the stage. Our agents in Miami are looking for him now.”
“Who do we have in Florida now?”
“Nikita Duntov and Grigori Putov and their crew. I pulled them out of Havana last night.”
“Using what cover?”
“A couple of movie producers from Hollywood. Korsakov’s new production company, called Miramar.”
“Perfect. This man Happy, he won’t be happy long,” Rostov said, now staring at the last few photographs. “This yacht intrigues me, too. Moored at the dock, one man on deck with binoculars, another at the top of this fishing tower. Hand me that magnifying glass.”
Kuragin and Rostov examined the picture closely.
“The Fado. See the name on the stern? That’s what she’s called. Come take a look, Nikolai. Up here, the man at the top of this superstructure. What is he doing? Some kind of equipment, not for fishing, I don’t believe.”
“Cameras?”
“Yes, exactly, surveillance cameras. It appears others besides ourselves were interested in Ramzan that night. The hornye and the singer leaped aboard this boat seconds before the explosion, and here, the boat leaves the dock just in time to avoid the blast. I want them all taken care of, understand?”
“Fado. I’ll get everything I can on it and call you first thing in the morning, sir. Is there anything else? I’m afraid I must get back to the office if I’m to meet with our friend at two.”
“There is always something else, Nikolai. But for now, I’m going to finish my breakfast and enjoy a quiet afternoon worrying about our country. Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I want to know who killed Ramzan.”
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Nikolai said with a smile.
“Friends till death.”
They both laughed.
20
Warring thunderheads muscled one another about out over the aquamarine Atlantic. The western skies were lead-blue and getting blacker. Seabirds mewled and swooped overhead. Bermuda Weather Service had forecast gale-force winds later in the day, with moderate to heavy chop in Hamilton Sound. Seas were expected to be running six to ten feet offshore, increasing to twelve to fifteen later in the day.
An exciting day to be offshore, Hawke thought, missing his pretty little twenty-six-foot sloop, Gin Fizz.
Wind never bothered him much at sea. As an old sailor once put it, the pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts his sails. “Reef in a blow” was one of Hawke’s favorite life mottos, and so far, it had served him well. Today he would put it to the test.
The approaching storm front was moving east-northeast, approaching Bermuda at twelve miles an hour. The temperature had fallen at least ten degrees since he’d left Teakettle on his motorcycle. He was wearing only his scuffed boat shoes with no socks, old khaki trousers, a grey Royal Navy T-shirt, and a faded blue wind cheater. Aboard the Norton on the coast road, it was cold as hell.
Eyeing the approaching squall line, he estimated perhaps an hour before the full force of the oncoming storm made landfall. He twisted the handlebar grip and leaned into the lefthand turn. Traffic was light, police presence was invisible or nonexistent, and if it continued, he could arrive at his destination on time and dry as a bone.
Hawke, pushing his treasured Norton motorcycle hard, was racing east along Harrington Sound Road. To his left now, there were whitecaps frothing in the small inlet locally known as Shark’s Hole. The little bay was swollen like a blister, bulging. As he leaned into a turn, the first drops of rain stung his face and hands like angry bees. Then, just as suddenly, the rain stopped, and the sun returned, warm on his face and turning the world green and gold again.
This road would lead to the causeway, round the north side of the airport, and from there out to the tip of St. George’s and his destination, Powder Hill. It was Tuesday. He had a one o’clock appointment with Asia Korsakova. He had no idea why he was going. Perhaps to tell her he’d changed his mind about the portrait. That was one of the reasons he told himself he was going. There were many others better left alone.
Suddenly, he was aware of another motorcycle hard on his tail. He darted a look over his shoulder and saw the rider accelerating, closing the gap. He had long, matted dreadlocks whipping around from beneath his black helmet. Hawke thought he caught a glint of gold chain at the fellow’s neck. One of King Coale’s riders, the Disciples of Judah? Entirely possible, he decided. The bike behind him was a red Benda BD 150. At 150 cc, it was the most powerful engine legal on Bermuda. But his machine, as the Jamaican would soon learn, was no match for the ancient Commando.
Hawke grinned and slowed his bike, allowing the Rastaman’s Benda to close within a few yards. He looked back at the rider and saw him smile, the sun catching the trademark gold teeth that filled his mouth. Hawke smiled back, then opened the throttle on the Norton. The acceleration was explosive, and he surged ahead, reaching the next turning along Harrington Sound flat out, probably doing eighty miles an hour. He braked, caught the apex perfectly, and accelerated again, quickly winding it up to ninety.