Crash Dive: An Alex Hawke Story (5 page)
T
he wretched conveyance was slowing, steel wheels creaking and brakes squealing as it approached the tiny rail station. Tvas was a bleak Siberian outpost, a small village situated literally in the middle of frozen nowhere. Picture perfect for his appointment in Samarra. After the long hours of worry, waiting, and trying to distract himself by reading, Alex Hawke finally turned the last page of his well-thumbed book, a volume by Balzac, and reread the final passage for the umpteenth time.
T
HE TRADE OF A SPY IS A VERY FINE ONE, WHEN THE SPY IS WORKING ON HIS OWN ACCOUNT.
I
S IT NOT IN FACT ENJOYING THE EXCITEMENTS OF A THIEF, WHILE RETAINING THE CHARACTER OF AN HONEST CITIZEN?
B
UT A MAN WHO UNDERTAKES THIS TRADE MUST MAKE UP HIS MIND TO SIMMER WITH WRATH, TO FRET WITH IMPATIENCE, TO STAND ABOUT IN THE MUD WITH HIS FEET FREEZING, TO BE CHILLED OR TO BE SCORCHED, AND TO BE DECEIVED BY FALSE HOPES.
(O
H YES, YES, THERE WAS ALWAYS THAT LITTLE POSSIBILITY
!) H
E MUST BE READY, ON THE FAITH OF A MERE INDICATION, TO WORK UP TO AN UNKNOWN GOAL; HE MUST BEAR THE DISAPPOINTMENT OF FAILING IN HIS AIM; HE MUST BE PREPARED TO RUN, TO BE MOTIONLESS, TO REMAIN FOR LONG HOURS WATCHING A WINDOW; TO INVENT A THOUSAND THEORIES OF ACTION . . .
T
HE ONLY EXCITEMENT WHICH CAN COMPARE WITH IT IS THE LIFE OF A GAMBLER.
Monsieur Honoré de Balzac. A century and a half ago, he had nailed this bloody business to a fare-thee-well. Hawke closed the book, stood, and stretched his weary body, reaching with both hands toward the smoke and grease-stained green ceiling overhead. He rose up on his toes, flexing his taut quad and calf muscles, and his fingertips easily brushed the grimy ceiling. Hawke was tall, well over six feet, trim, but powerfully built.
And afraid of no one.
He possessed a martial spirit; his strong heart beat with the grim, stubborn, earnest energy, the might and main that had won at Waterloo and Trafalgar. At his naval college, Dartmouth, he’d once asked his boxing trainer what it took to become a fighter truly worthy of the name. He never forgot the man’s response. “The ideal fighter has heart, Alex, skill, movement, intelligence, but also creativity. You can have everything, but if you can’t make it up while you’re in the ring, you can’t be great. A lot of chaps have the mechanics and no heart; lots of guys have heart, no mechanics; the thing that puts it all together, it’s mysterious, it’s like making a work of art, you bring everything to it, you make it up while you’re doing it.”
He’d recently turned thirty-three, a fine age for a man, but old by his accounting methods. Still, a daily regimen of rigorous Royal Navy training and conditioning kept him fitter than most men ten years younger. Hawke cut an imposing figure. He had a heroic head of rather unruly thick black hair and a fine Roman nose, straight and imperial; his glacial blue eyes were startling above the high and finely molded planes of his cheeks and strong chin. His mouth could be a bit cruel at the corners but one always sensed a smile lurking there, a smile that was at once dangerous and sympathetic.
“Quite a simple man, actually,” his friend Ambrose Congreve, the famous Scotland Yard criminalist, had once explained about Hawke. “Men want to be him, women want to bed him. And when he puts his mind to it, he’s an immovable object.”
Hawke, to put it quite simply, went through life with the supremely confident outlook of a man with nothing left to prove. He had a dark and magnificent aspect about him, proud and fiery. Women, as Congreve had said, seemed taken by him. He was both funny and sad, that irresistible combination that is one of the secrets of charm. For one thing, he had no idea that he was especially charming or even remotely good-looking. Or the faintest notion that the affection he gave and inspired so freely among others was anything but natural, at least among normal, healthy people.
What he possessed was the real thing, and he adulterated it with nothing else. If one, and many were prone to do so, went looking for his faults, it could easily be said of him that he was not given to deep introspection. His heart and mind were always simply too busy. Elsewhere. His focus was outside, not inside. And if it was a shortcoming, so be it. He didn’t have time to worry about it.
He reached up and took his grandfather’s battered Gladstone portmanteau down from the overhead rack and placed it on the seat. Underneath his clothing were twin false bottoms. Unfastening the straps, he reached inside the hidden compartments and removed a handheld GPS, a miniature sat phone, and his only weapon, a SIG .45-calibre handgun. He popped the mag and ensured that the hollow-point parabellum rounds were properly loaded, leaving one in the chamber. Feeling the heft of the pistol, he almost laughed out loud at the puny state of his armament.
He slipped the gun into a quick-draw nylon holster suspended inside his worn black leather jacket. Underarm protection you just can’t find at the corner druggist. He took his ridiculous-looking and heavy bearskin coat down from the hook on the door and shouldered into the damn thing. Donning the black sable trapper’s hat that Anastasia had given him years ago, he stepped out into the narrow corridor and made his way, carefully lurching toward the exit at the rear of the car.
I’m walking straight into a bloody trap,
the voice in his head warned for the hundredth time
, seduced by false hopes. I’m willfully entering a wholly hostile environment alone, dressed in a bloody bear suit and carrying a bloody popgun.
Insanity!
The train screeched to a stop, the passenger door slid aside, and a blast of icy particles stung his face like so many chips of diamonds. Enormous white billowing clouds were spilling from beneath the cars as he stepped down onto the deserted, snow-crusted platform. The new mantle of eggshell snow was already turning mushy in the strong winter sunlight. He quickly cast his eyes right then left. The platform, mercifully, appeared empty.
No one was waiting for him, not this time. No beautiful Russian tsarina. Not even some grey-faced KGB goon squad waiting to simply gun him down right here at the steps. Alex Hawke, apparently not dead on arrival. He shrugged, finally admitting what had been the most likely scenario hiding in the back of his mind: that he would step off this train and into a hail of bullets.
The trip was off to a good start. He had not really expected to leave this train depot alive. He smiled at his good fortune and started for the stationmaster’s office. He had not even noticed two large men in heavy black overcoats who’d stepped down from a first-class car near the locomotive of the train once his back was turned.
After the stuffy, foul-smelling compartment, the icy air was bracing and, feeling cautiously optimistic, he made his way toward the station house, glancing at the elderly stationmaster through the ice-glazed window, the same man Anastasia had once introduced him to as her trusted friend. He paused at the door, the snow piled up against it like dirty sherbet.
“Good morning,” Hawke said in Russian, stamping his boots to rid them of snow. Then, since his Russian was so embarrassingly poor, he asked the white-bearded stationmaster if they might speak in English.
“Da, da, da,” the wizened old man said, staring up at him, this towering alien from another planet. He squinted through his gold pince-nez glasses and smiled, recognizing Hawke as the man the famous Anastasia Korsakova had journeyed by troika to meet here many years ago. “I’ve been expecting you, sir. I am Nikolai. Remember?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Hawke said. “The good Dr. Halter told me he paid you a visit sometime last month. He said you would have a name for me. Someone who might be of assistance in my travels.” Hawke extracted an envelope containing five thousand rubles and passed it to the old fellow. “I believe this is for you.”
“I do, I do,” the old white-bearded man said, smiling as he quickly slipped the payment under a stained ink blotter. “His name is Grigory Ivanovich. A farmer. He lives in this village. His house is nearby, the only one with a red roof. You cannot miss it. Are you hungry? His wife, Rica, is a very good cook. Goulash. She’s Hungarian, you see.”
“I am hungry. Well. Thank you for all your help. Spasibo.”
“Spasibo,” the man grunted, not looking up, too busy counting his fistful of rubles.
Hawke found the farmhouse but not without some difficulty. The tiny houses that composed the village, slumped against each other shoulder to shoulder, were all smothered in two or three feet of fresh snow and he had to clear away portions of a number of rooftops jutting out into the muddy road. Nearing the end of the short road, he found a red one. He rapped on the weathered wooden door. There came a happy exclamation in Russian from within. And also a wonderful aroma of stewed beef that stirred his latent hunger.
A
n hour later, a renewed Alex Hawke found himself with a full stomach, some black bread, a full liter of good country vodka with a cork stopper to keep the cold at bay, and a good horse beneath him, a great bay mare. He spurred her onward through the snow, anxious to arrive at the KGB facility before nightfall. His plan was to surveil it carefully before deciding on his approach.
Indian country,
he thought to himself, looking around at the vast forests and plains. It had begun to snow again, heavily. Great feathery flakes brushed his cheeks with the weight of dust. Old Petra plowed ahead through the heavy snow, jets of steam puffing from her nostrils.
For better or worse, he was fully committed now.
W
hen he finally emerged from the forest, he saw that the snow and wind had heightened in intensity, and ice crystals stung his face and hands. He looked up, squinting through the foggy snow at a barrage of bright klieg lights lighting up the sky, now faintly visible in the distance. He could see the lake and the massive palace rising along its shores. The compound was maybe a mile distant and since he’d gotten this far without being shot at, he was slowly gaining confidence that getting off Petra and approaching alone and on foot had been a good strategy.
His leg muscles afire, he marched on, planting one boot in front of the other for what seemed a hellish eternity. Another mile took him an hour to complete and brought him to the river. The river made no sound; it was running too fast and smooth. He sat down on a log to smoke a cigarette. Maybe it would stave off his hunger.
Rested, he flicked the cigarette away and got to his feet to ford the river. The swiftly flowing water was knee-deep and frigid, but not too wide. Climbing the bank on the far side, he saw that the principal road leading into the KGB compound had been recently plowed. There were tank-tread tracks in both directions, the new Russian T-95 judging by the depth and width of the tread dimensions. He gratefully walked the last few hundred yards or so with ease, steadily marching toward the waiting and watchful sentries near the main gate, wondering if he’d hear a shot ring out.
Russian Army soldiers standing in small groups were smoking and eyeing the intruder. Behind them, he could now make out a massive wall of steel and concertina wire some thirty feet high. Every fifty yards along the perimeter, a watchtower stood atop the wall, a slowly revolving searchlight mounted on each rooftop.
Two guards were visible behind the windows at each tower, both armed with automatic weapons. This new enclosure surely encircled much of the vast acreage of the old palace grounds. What had once been a dreamlike vision fit for a tsar, this majestic architectural masterpiece, given to the Korsakov family by Peter the Great, now had a new sinister aspect that was quite unsettling.
Six gate sentries appeared out of the mist, marching in loose formation, all with automatic weapons leveled at him. He pulled off his snow-encrusted sable hat and raised his arms into the air. He was smiling as a heavyset Russian Army officer, a captain, approached him, pulling his massive sidearm from the leather holster inside his full-length fur coat. Holding the gun loosely at his side, the man began shouting in Russian as he neared. Over the years Hawke had picked up enough native lingo to know the man was threatening to shoot him on the spot.
“I mean no harm,” Hawke said in halting Russian, “but I am armed.” It was the sentence he’d decided upon some time ago, riding his steed through the wood. Now he’d find out how smart he really was.
He planted his boots in the snow, kept both hands reaching for the sky, and waited. The captain quickly summoned five more guards who completely surrounded the intruder. Only then did the officer have Hawke open his heavy coat and allow the captain to reach inside and remove his weapon. The smell of vodka on the grizzled old soldier’s breath was powerful. He had a square face, a prominent chin, stubble on his head, and slits for eyes.
He growled, “Speak English; your Russian is shit.”
“Delighted. May I present my papers?”
The man nodded. Slowly, Hawke withdrew his most current version of proper identification, impeccable documents courtesy of the lads in Cryptology at Six. Once the soldier had the intruder’s weapon and had hastily inspected his papers, he whipped out a small handheld radio and keyed the transmit button.
“Intruder at the gate, sir,” he said to some higher-up, while another soldier patted Hawke down thoroughly, finding nothing.
Hawke heard a loud and angry shout through the tinny speaker of the captain’s radio. The officer’s displeasure was understandable. Intruders were probably quite infrequent out here. The captain held the radio away from his ear, frowning at the tirade issuing forth. He scowled at Hawke, the man who had appeared without warning to completely ruin his evening.
And then the captain said, “I’ve no idea how he got here—hold on.” Then, covering the mouthpiece and scowling at the Englishman, the burly officer said to Hawke, “How the fuck did you get here? You look like a goddamn frozen bear.” Hawke, shivering uncontrollably with cold and swiping at the icicles on his face, mumbled an answer in his pidgin Russian, before he remembered the captain’s request to speak English.
“I w-walked.”
“He walked. You walked?” He looked up and down at Hawke, who nodded his head in the affirmative. Speaking again into the radio, the captain said, “You heard right, Colonel Spasky. He says he walked. I have no goddamn idea, sir. Da, da, I know it’s impossible. What can I say? He’s got a United Kingdom passport. His name? Alexander Hawke, Hawke Industries, London.”
“Chairman and CEO,” Hawke said helpfully, adding a smile. “Tell your superior officer I’m here to see General Kuragin, will you? I’m not expected, you understand, I was just passing through. In the neighborhood, as it were. Decided to pop in.”
The captain looked at him with an incredulous snort and spat bloody phlegm in the snow before once more raising the radio to speak. “So? Now what, Colonel? Shoot him?”
“Better not shoot me, Captain,” Hawke said. “The general might shoot you. The great Kuragin and I are old friends, you see. Tight. White on rice. Thicker than thieves, closer than two coats of—”
Hawke, seeing the drunken captain’s eyes shift and flick, sensed sudden, aggressive movement behind him. Before he could whirl to confront his attacker, he was struck full force in the back of the head with a rifle butt. He sank to his knees in the snow and pitched forward facedown, unmoving. The captain spat again and kicked Hawke in the ribs with his heavy boot, smiling at the satisfying crack.
“Take this crazy bastard down to the cells,” the captain said, stomping off toward the cozy warmth of the well-lit guardhouse at the gate, still shaking his head in wonder at the ridiculous Englishman who claimed to have walked across Siberia and strolled right up to the most heavily guarded KGB installation in all of Russia. With a smile on his face!
