Free Phantom: An Alex Hawke Novel by Ted Bell

and lapels. Her thick blond hair was gathered at the back of her head into what used to be called a “french twist.” She was quite pretty, spoke perfect English, and Hawke instinctively liked and trusted her. A mother, he was sure, for the boy brought those instincts instantly to the surface of her features.
    “You are Mr. Alexander Hawke, traveling on business to St. Petersburg? Correct?”
    “Yes.”
    “And this gentleman?”
    “This young gentleman is Alexei.”
    “Last name?”
    Hawke stared up at her for a moment, then down at Alexei, briefly startled by such a profoundly unexpected question, and then said, “Hawke. His name is Alexei Hawke.”
    “Your son, then. Well. He looks just like you. Look at those eyes.”
    “Yes, he is,” Hawke said, slightly dazed. “Yes, he is indeed my son.” Hearing himself utter those words, Hawke was filled with a flood of warmth and joy that was nearly overwhelming.
    “Well, Mr. Hawke, you should give your son some milk. At least water. All those tears have dehydrated him.”
    “I have none of either to give, I’m afraid.”
    “No milk?”
    “You see, Alexei was—is—well, the thing is, he decided to join me at the last moment. He’s somewhat—spontaneous. Rambunctious boy. Never know what he’ll do next.”
    She reached down with open arms. “May I take him a moment? You’re not holding him at all properly. And he’s very tired. I think he’ll be more comfortable tucked into the berth in the second room. I’ll bring him a cup of warm milk. It will help him sleep. Does he have any toys?”
    “Toys? Oh. Only this sad little teddy bear I found in the pocket of his coat.” Hawke held it up, a poor ragged thing the color of oatmeal.
    “Lucky for him I keep a healthy supply of wooden soldiers and horses for just such emergencies.”
    “That would be very kind. I wonder about . . . feeding him. I’m not sure when he last ate, I’m afraid. And I’m not really sure what he—”
    “Well, I’ll bring hot porridge, too. He looks very hungry. The first seating in the first-class dining car is at five this evening. Shall I book a table for two?”
    “Yes, thank you. That would be lovely. I’m sorry, I don’t believe I caught your name?”
    “Luciana.”
    “Italian?”
    “My mother. My father is from Kiev.”
    “I appreciate your help, Luciana. I’m rather—rather a new father.”
    She laughed. “Really? Why, Mr. Hawke, I should never have guessed.”
    A few hours later, Alex found himself sitting side by side with Alexei in the extravagantly decorated dining car. It was all gleaming ivory cream walls, curving up to form the ceiling, and furniture, every square inch trimmed in gold leaf, with upholstery of deepest claret red. The decor was exactly like his first-class compartments. The whole train was done up in this scheme, he imagined. The table linen was snow white, and the silver, though not sterling, was quite elegant, emblazoned with Russian double-headed eagles.
    Alexei, grasping his much-loved teddy bear, sat on his velvet-covered, raised baby chair. Save for his rapidly shifting eyes, he was perfectly still, his eyes wandering up and down the long rows of tables inhabited by strange people from this new world he’d never known existed; then he was turning briefly to the window and the blur of some dizzying world turned red and purple in the sunset. And then, he stared unblinking at this new man in his life. Absorbing, Alex could sense, absolutely everything.
    A fastidiously moustachioed waiter was suddenly hovering above the candlelit table, bowing and smiling solicitously at Hawke.
    “Monsieur?” he said, preposterously, in French.
    Alexei suddenly looked up at the waiter and said in a loud voice, “Watch out! I’m the birthday boy!”
    “Ah, mais oui,” he replied bowing his head slightly. “Bon anniversaire.”
    “Good evening,” Hawke said, looking up from his menu. “I’ll have a glass of Krug Grande Cuvee and the cold borscht