Crash Dive: An Alex Hawke Story by Ted Bell Page A

I could say or do—but there isn’t, is there?”
    “I am glad you are alive. At least I have that knowledge to carry with me. And I am happy that I got to see my son, if only for a few brief moments. Knowing he, too, is alive, safe, happy, and with his mother . . . I can take all that with me, Anastasia, carry that in my heart at least. I don’t blame you for what happened. You did what you had to do to survive. Anyone would.”
    “Dear Alex.”
    “I should like to leave this place, Anastasia. Now. Is that possible?”
    “No, Alex. Please. Stay just a little while. If only for his sake . . .”
    “You have no idea what you’re asking of me. None.”
    “But tomorrow is his birthday. We have planned a little party. He thinks you will be there and—”
    “No! Please stop this!”
    “All right. As you wish. There is a train tomorrow. The Red Arrow.”
    “I shall be on it.”
    She looked away.
    “But you cannot—”
    “Please. It is done.”
    “If you insist, I will make the arrangements. It’s a lovely train, an express. I’ll take you to the station. In the troika. I remember how you loved the troika.”
    Anastasia looked up at Hawke, awaiting his reply. He was looking directly at her, but every trace of animation had flown from his face. His fierce blue eyes were cold as stone. He was still as still.
    “I will retire to my room until it is time to leave tomorrow morning. Will you please apologize for me? Tell your—husband—that I’m not feeling well? And that I deeply appreciate all that he’s done for you and Alexei?”
    “Of course. He will understand.”
    She put her hand on his forearm.
    He regarded her in silence for what seemed a very long time, and then he turned his back and walked away from her, his head held high, his hands clasped behind his back, his hidden heart shattered.

Six
    E arly the next morning, Hawke emerged from General Kuragin’s private study into one of the palace’s great sunlit hallways. He’d been unable to find sleep all night, but he put a brave front on it. After a brief conversation about the possibility of an extremely private meeting with Prime Minister Putin at some point in the future, he got to his feet to bid Kuragin farewell, allowing himself to be embraced by the much older man.
    His parting words to the general had been, “Thank you, thank you for saving them both, Nikolai, from the bottom of my heart. I know that I owe you their lives, and I will never forget it.”
    He turned to go.
    “One more moment, Alex, please,” Kuragin said, moving toward the fireplace. “I have something for you. It’s been in this house for over three hundred years. I want you to have it.”
    Kuragin then retrieved a long, slender red leather case that rested upon the mantel beneath the massive portrait of Russia’s greatest hero, Peter the Great, in the midst of battle. He placed the object on his desk and unfastened the two latches. “I think you should open the case,” he said, smiling, and stepped back. “It belongs to you now.”
    Hawke stepped forward and opened it.
    Inside, embedded in an aged swathe of dark blue velvet, was a magnificent sword. It was sheathed inside a red leather scabbard decorated with brilliant gold fittings including the Russian double-headed eagle emblem. He withdrew the gleaming blade, admiring the helmeted steppe warrior at the hilt and the engraved ivory handgrip. It felt good in his hand. It must have been a good companion in battle.
    “I don’t know what to say, General, it’s a bit overwhelming. I really don’t think I can accept such a grand gift.”
    “Yes, yes, yes. Take it, my boy. Your heroic actions against that madman Korsakov may well have saved our entire nation from entering a new reign of Tsarist terror. I spoke to the prime minister by telephone in Moscow this morning. He agrees this small gift is the least we can do.”
    “Can you tell me a bit of its history?”
    “Well, it was one of Peter the Great’s