Tsar by Ted Bell Page A

hawklike nose. Noble was the word that came to mind.
    Tonight, in perfectly cut evening clothes, with his lined sailor’s face and clear blue eyes, hard as marbles, he looked like some Hollywood movie director’s vision of a very elegant English spy. He was elegant, all right, but with a backbone of forged Sheffield steel.
    “Do you read Yeats at all, Alex?” Trulove said, glancing down at the splayed book on the table.
    “No, sir. Most poetry eludes me, sorry to say.”
    “You really shouldn’t give up on it. I can’t abide much poetry myself, but Yeats is sublime. The only truly heroic poet we have, I suppose. Well. Surprised to see me here, are you?”
    “A bit. Mind if we sit?”
    “Not at all. Would you be comfortable sitting over there?”
    Alex nodded and took the other fireside chair. The old worn leather felt good, and he collapsed into its embrace. He was conscious of C’s unwavering eyes and stared back at the older man. Neither looked away. It was a game they played, one that, so far, neither had lost.
    “Having a splash of whiskey myself. Join me?” C said, his eyes drifting past the decanters on the sideboard and up toward the shelves of books rising to the octagonal skylight above. A narrow railed parapet ran around the room at the second-story level, looking hardly substantial enough to support a bird, much less a human being with a stack of books in his hands.
    “No, thank you, sir.”
    “Alex, I hate to disturb what is no doubt a pleasant interlude in your life. God knows, after your last assignment, you’ve certainly earned your respite. But I’m afraid we must speak about a situation that may require your involvement.”
    He looked at Hawke, making him wait a beat. Both men knew perfectly well the precise three-word phrase forthcoming from the lips of the head of British Intelligence. He did not disappoint.
    “Something’s come up.”
    “Ah.” Hawke tried not to betray the pulse-quickening feeling that always accompanied hearing those three magic words from his superior.
    “Are you fully recovered from your maladies? Jungle fevers gone? No recurrence?” His hard eyes regarded Hawke attentively. Hawke had very nearly died of an assortment of tropical diseases, including malaria, in the Amazon recently. There were some in C’s inner circle at the old firm who believed Hawke might never fully recover.
    “Clean bill, sir. Never felt better, to be honest.”
    “Good. I’ve made an appointment for you tomorrow morning with a friend of mine here on Bermuda. At St. Brendan’s Hospital.
    Chap named Nigel Prestwick. Internist. Quite a good man. Used to be my personal physician in London before he came out.”
    “I’d be happy to see him, sir,” Hawke said, trying to hide his irritation. He’d yet to meet the doctor who knew his body better than he did, but it was obvious C was taking no chances. Hawke was secretly pleased. This level of concern boded well for an interesting assignment.
    “I very much doubt that. Your feelings about physicians are no secret. Nonetheless, your appointment is at nine sharp. No food or drink after midnight. After your physical, I’d like you to meet me out at the old Naval Dockyards. You’ll find a car and driver waiting outside the hospital. I’m looking at some real estate out there, and I would value your opinion.”
    “Real estate, sir?”
    “Yes. Let’s skip the chase and cut to the denouement, shall we?” C said, leaning forward and putting his hands on his knees.
    “Fine with me.”
    “It’s the Russians.”
    “Back to the good old Cold War, are we?”
    “Not yet. A lukewarm peace, perhaps. But it won’t last. There’s a distinct chill in the air.”
    “A new turn for the worse?”
    “You remember when Mother Russia was the sworn enemy of democracy and freedom?”
    “I do.”
    “She’s swearing again. Like a bloody sailor.”
    “I’d really no idea.”
    “Good heavens, Alex, have you read a newspaper lately? Turned on your