He thought of his own portrait, now apparently complete, which he’d not been allowed to set eyes on. No mystery there, he thought. He’d not be astride a great steed or dressed for the hunt or battle or anything else, for that matter. Bloody hell, what had he got himself into?
She came gliding up behind him, whispering, “Don’t stay up past my bedtime,” into his ear before turning to her father and saying, “Papa, I will see you at our usual breakfast. Perhaps we’ll go riding afterward and let Mr. Hawke sleep. He’s been on a tiresome journey, poor man.”
“Lovely. Sleep well, dear.”
She blew him a kiss, then pulled the ornate doors closed behind her.
Korsakov had taken one of the two leather armchairs on either side of the cavernous fireplace, and Hawke took the other, stretching his feet out toward the crackling logs.
The count raised his glass and said, “For your health, sir!”
“And yours, sir.”
They sipped in silence for a moment, and then Korsakov said, “I owe you an apology, Alex.”
“Really? What on earth for?”
“When I first learned you were seeing my daughter on Bermuda, I was deeply concerned. I’m very protective of her. She’s been badly hurt in the past, and I won’t let that happen again. I’m afraid I had you followed.”
“The Disciples of Judah are in your employ?” Hawke said mildly.
“For many years, yes. When I first came to Bermuda, many of the Jamaican immigrants worked on my banana plantation. Hardworking, loyal, very religious. Especially old Sam Coale, who was my tally man for decades. He, his children, and a few others eventually joined my private security force. Of late, they have become problematic. There were rumors of drug dealing, arrests, other scandalous misdeeds. You are no doubt aware of the sad fate of Hoodoo, a trusted employee and friend of long standing.”
“I am.”
“I’ve had Sam Coale and his two sons arrested for his murder and incarcerated in Casemates Prison. My friends in the local constabulary are building a strong case against them. The other inhabitants of Nonsuch Island, primarily rabble, have all been evicted. I consider the case closed. But again, I apologize for any inconvenience I may have caused you in the past.”
“Inconvenience? Only if one counts kidnapping, torture, and the destruction of a beautiful old yawl belonging to a friend of mine an inconvenience.”
Dark anger flared in the count’s eyes, but he said only a quiet “I’m so sorry. I was foolish to trust these men.”
“I see.”
Hawke regarded the man in a silence that lengthened to the point of discomfort. He was thinking of bringing up the issue of the Russian arms Hoodoo had stowed aboard the launch. After a moment’s consideration, he said, “You say Anastasia has been badly hurt. I want you to know that I care very deeply for your daughter and would never allow any harm to come to her.”
“I believe you,” Count Korsakov said, his hard, bright eyes never leaving Hawke’s.
“Would you mind telling me what happened? To Anastasia? How was she hurt?”
“She’s strong-willed, as you’ve no doubt noticed. Sometimes, frequently, her heart leads her head. She married a man wholly unsuited for her. I was vehemently opposed. I even threatened to disinherit her. But of course, that old ploy never works when they think they’re in love.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“At any rate, she had a short, unhappy marriage that ended in tragedy, all as I had predicted.”
“How did it end?”
“The man was killed. In a hunting accident.”
“How awful.”
“Yes. I actually saw it happen. We were in Scotland, shooting pheasant and partridge. I have a small shooting estate there, midway up the Spey Valley at the junction with the River Avon. Ballindalloch Castle? Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”
“No, sorry.”
“No matter. At any rate, Anastasia’s husband was accidentally shot by one of my other guests. Shot to the head, died in the field before help could be summoned.”
“Horrible. Still, accidents happen, do they not?” Hawke forced a smile, not at all sure this had been an accident.
“Yes. But come, let’s talk of more pleasant things, shall we? These are precious holidays, meant to be festive. I understand you’ve started a new company on Bermuda. Blue Water Logistics, I think it’s called?”
“Indeed. I’m most excited about it. I’ve two young colleagues in the venture, Benjamin Griswold and Fife Symington. We’ve great aspirations, at any rate.”
“But your primary interests remain in London. Your family interests?”
“Yes. A large, diversified holding company. I’m trying to ease my way out of those responsibilities and have hired some splendid managers to remove most of the day-to-day burden. Blue Water allows me to live as I please on Bermuda with a new business challenge to occupy my mind.”
“You’re ex-military, are you not?”
“You seem to know quite a bit about me.”
“Does that surprise you? Given the circumstances?”
“Not really, no.”
“You were a Royal Navy man. A pilot? Held the rank of commander, I believe.”
“Yes. I flew Harriers. Saw some action in the first Gulf War.”
“And now?”
“Now?”
“You’ve severed your military connections?”
“Yes.”
That little three-letter affirmative hung in the air for a seeming eternity. Hawke and Korsakov seemed content to stare into the fire in silence, sipping their drinks, thinking their separate thoughts. Suddenly, Korsakov slapped his right knee and spoke up.
“I may drop by Blue Water one day, when I return to Bermuda. If that suits you.”
“I’d be delighted.”
“You know about these computers of mine? The Zeta machines? Popularly known as Wizards these days?”
“I daresay the whole world knows of them. You’re rather the Henry Ford of the computer era, you know.”
“Well, you flatter me, of course. But TSAR, my company, does ship millions of these things all over the world from our factories here and in China. Perhaps the Zeta might be of interest to your new logistics firm?”
“It certainly would.”
“I wonder. Have you any written material on your new enterprise? Any brochures or things like that I could peruse?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. I’ll give them to you first thing in the morning.”
“Excellent. And now, I must confess, I’m a bit tired. It’s been a rather long evening. You could do with a bit of rest yourself after your travels.”
Count Korsakov got to his feet and raised his arms over his head, unable to stifle a surprisingly noisy yawn.
“I could sleep for a week,” Hawke said, rising as well, though in truth, his one-hour nap had completely refreshed him. Naps were the secret of life, as his hero Churchill had discovered during the war.
The count put his arm around Alex’s shoulder, and together they moved toward the door.
“One curious thing, Alex,” he said, pausing in midstride. “Speaking of shooting in Scotland. You’re a sportsman, obviously. I wonder. Do you ever visit the island of Scarp? Up in the Hebrides?”
“I do. I’ve an ancestral hunting lodge there. I do a bit of stalking now and then. Why do you ask?”
“My older brother Sergei, you see, was a great one for stalking. Tragically, he disappeared while on such a hunt. On Scarp, as a matter of fact.”
“On Scarp? Surely you must be mistaken. It is a very small island, mostly uninhabited. Only a few crofters and farmers. I’m sure I would have heard of his disappearance.”
“Oh, no, this was years ago, Alex. Back in the drear dark days of the Cold War.”
“How did he come to choose Scarp, of all places? Most forbidding place on earth.”
“Sergei was a Soviet intelligence officer, on leave from the military, and had sailed his small sloop to the island for a day’s stalking. We never saw him again.”
“Really? What year was this?”