“Funeral postponed indefinitely,” Hawke said, reaching forward to squeeze Harry’s shoulder. “Thanks, old buddy, I definitely owe you one. Where are we headed?”
“No rest for the weary,” Harry said, turning around in his seat. “We’re going direct to Ramstein Air Base in Germany. Two FA-18 Super Hornets are gassing up right now to take us to Bermuda. We hook up with Stokely on the ground there.”
“Why on earth are we going to Bermuda?”
“Hostage-rescue mission, boss, all I can say. It’s too noisy to talk in here,” he said, casting a meaningful glance at the Russian Army pilot. “I’ll fill you in when we get on the ground at Ramstein.”
“And what about you, darling girl? Are you coming to Bermuda?” Hawke asked Anastasia, taking her hand and holding it to his cheek. The Gulf of Finland, garlanded with wind-blown whitecaps, was disappearing beneath the chopper at an amazing rate.
“No, darling, I can’t. I’m returning to Moscow. A gala reception for my father tonight at the Facets Palace inside the Kremlin, and then we board the airship in a day or two for the short flight to Stockholm. For the Nobel ceremony, you know?”
“I hear he’s the new Tsar,” Hawke said, with a heartiness that rang with terrible falsity in his ears. “You must be very proud.”
“It’s so wonderful, Alex. Not for him but for my country. Russia will be a great nation once more,” she said, beaming at him. “The first Tsar to receive a Nobel. I am so very proud of him. Promise me you’ll come that night, Alex! Come to Stockholm for the Nobel dinner? I’ll save a seat for you.”
“Of course I’ll come, Anastasia. If you want me there, I will be there.”
“Might be a lot of empty seats at that Nobel ceremony,” Harry Brock said, looking meaningfully at Hawke, but neither Alex nor Anastasia had any idea what he was talking about. Hawke let it go. Clearly, Harry had a great deal to tell him. He’d just have to wait and find out what when they landed at Ramstein.
Alex Hawke spent the rest of the trip staring down at the sea, all the way to the frozen white fields of Germany. He was oddly troubled for a man who’d just escaped a horrible death. Something was stuck in his craw, and for the life of him, he could not figure out what the hell it was. Half an hour later, he had it. An offhand remark Putin had made last night, a simple sentence that had seemed innocuous enough at the time.
It’s a great irony, isn’t it, that it was his daughter who found you and delivered you to the sacrificial altar?
Alone on a deserted beach? One of hundreds just like it? No. How could he doubt her love? She’d just saved his life. This marvelous woman who was carrying his child. She was truly beautiful. And true beauty, as she’d told him one afternoon at Half Moon House, came from deep inside.
He reached over, took her hand, and gently squeezed it.
“I may not have mentioned this,” Hawke said, whispering into her ear, “but I want to thank you for saving my life.”
“I had nothing to save until I found you. Now I have you, I have everything.”
55
It was snowing.
A beautiful winter’s night. Anastasia rushed through Cathedral Square to the Grand Kremlin Palace, her long white sable coat trailing behind her in the powdery snow. She was late, breathless, and completely happy for perhaps the first time in her life. Her heart, she knew, was full at last. Every palace window was aglow. Nothing had never looked so dazzling.
Lofty and majestic, the Moscow residence of the Tsars dominated the southern part of the Kremlin. The windows of the main wing faced the dark Moskva River, brimming with ice floes in mid-December. There were great throngs of people lining the quay and the bridges despite the heavy snow, all eyes gazing up at the glittering palace. All of Moscow seemed aware that this was a truly historic night not to be missed. The city seemed frozen in place; even the traffic had come to a complete stop.
For the first time in more than ninety years, Russia had a Tsar. Bells were ringing loudly from every church tower, and in some places, crowds had gathered and were singing ancient Russian folk songs, passing bottles of vodka to stave off the chilly night air.
The Grand Kremlin Palace overshadows all other Western European palaces of the period in terms of sheer size and ornateness. It was only fitting, she thought, that her father’s greatest triumph should be celebrated in such a glorious setting. She hurried up the white marble staircase leading to the State Parade Chambers on the second floor. This entrance was closed to the public tonight but, tonight, Anastasia was not the public.
She was the princess.
Two guards in their most festive regalia stood at attention on either side of the ancient wooden door in the huge east wing of the palace. The door was fifteen feet high, a masterpiece of nineteenth-century Russian carpentry, made from the wood of nut trees without using a single nail or any glue.
A chain of halls named for the old Russian orders lay behind this door: the St. George, St. Vladimir, St. Catherine, St. Andrew, and St. Alexander Halls. Anastasia paused at a cloak room just inside the entrance and gave the attendant her sable coat, hat, and muff. Also her furry boots, which she exchanged for the pair of heels in her bag.
Then she hurried through the vast octagon of St. Vladimir Hall, her heels clicking on the parquet floors. One of the arches opened onto a passage leading directly to the largest and most festive hall in the palace, St. George Hall. The dimensions of the lovely cloister vault were gigantic, nearly two hundred feet long and sixty feet wide. At the far end was the orchestra, and she noted with pleasure that they were playing, not Tchaikovsky or Rachmaninoff, but her father’s new symphony, Light of Dawn.
She pushed through the sea of beautiful gowns and splendid uniforms toward her father. Above the crowd, six massive gilt chandeliers lit with more than ten thousand electric candles cast a lovely glow. She saw him! He was standing with a small group on a raised podium just in front of the orchestra, in one of his most splendid white uniforms.
She hurried toward the new Tsar, her eyes shining.
“Father,” she said, embracing him. “I’m so sorry I’m late. You look wonderful.”
“My dear girl. I’ve just asked for a waltz. Will you join me out on the floor?”
“I should be honored, Papa.”
He took her outstretched hand and stepped down from the podium. As they made their way to the center of the floor, a lovely Strauss waltz began, and the crowd parted magically, every eye on the new Tsar and his beautiful daughter in her shocking crimson gown. She looked at her father, dazzling in his uniform, and remembered something Alex had said to her that night in the troika.
Don’t look now, but we’re living in some kind of bloody fairy tale.
It was true, she was. As she’d made her way through the palace’s many halls, she’d heard the words whispered over and over as she passed. “The princess! Do you see her? How beautiful she is!”
And then her father was waltzing her around the suddenly empty dance floor, the crowd having moved to the sides of the hall, leaving the Tsar and his daughter alone to bathe in the adulation of all of Moscow. And no one in the ballroom that night would ever forget how heartbreakingly beautiful the new Princess of Russia had looked, waltzing with the Tsar.
“Oh, Papa, isn’t it magical?”
He pulled her close and whispered softly into her ear. But his words were a cruel shock.
“How dare you?” he hissed. “How dare you?”
“What?” she cried, pushing away so that she could look up into his face. “How dare I what, Papa?”
She had never seen such anger as flashed in those eyes, and she tried to shrink back, but he held her tightly around the waist with one hand, the other hand cruelly squeezing her fingers. And so they danced on, the enraptured crowd blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding before their eyes.