by Doug Walker
CHAPTER ELEVEN
One fine morning, Orson received a voice mail from President Warren. He was to report to the President’s residence at seven that evening to receive his overseas assignment. He had been told a week ago that he would be sent abroad.
He called his town house to inform the nannies he would not be home for dinner. They had an informal way of snacking during the day, then all would attend the evening meal. Usually they would cook, but sometimes he would take over that chore. He made it a rule to see that one of them did not have wine with dinner.
No doubt a legitimate assignment was in the works, but he had little doubt that he would spend the night in the family quarters. President Warren was a very attractive woman, a year or three older than Orson, hardly old enough to call her a cougar. Anyway, he enjoyed their encounters and felt no guilt.
He knew what to expect in the way of food, so he killed time after work, working on a plate of barbecue ribs and sweet potato fries, washed down by a partially sweetened tea. It was possible to order half and half in this Southern city.
Then he returned to his office to clear away the debris of the day until the appointed hour arrived. He found Madame President in her tacky dressing gown, a sack of Fritos on the coffee table and a half empty jar of salsa.
He looked at the layout of treats with some disdain, and she said, “You were expecting maybe caviar?”
“I’m not disappointed. I had barbecued ribs.” There was also an open bottle of Chablis on the table, in addition to one unopened, a waiter’s corkscrew lying nearby. He poured them each a glass and looked up with what he hoped was an expectant slight grin.
“That scar distorts your face slightly,” Mary observed.
“You should see my wife.”
“I have. Believe me, I envy you both. You have a good marriage.”
“You bet. All this and heaven too.”
“Heaven comes later,” she glanced at her watch and managed a smile. “Your assignment is quite simple, go to Moscow, visit Mikhail Primakov, thaw the icy relations between our two countries.”
“Do I sit up and beg?”
“No. He pays a price. They arrested a man named Curtis Johnson. I’m told they’re holding him incommunicado. Although they might have killed him. The Russians don’t seem to care about things like that. They must set him free to revive cordial relations.”
They clinked glasses and drank down their wine. He gave them each a refill. “I see no problem. It’s simplicity itself. Why me? Why not our ambassador, or someone in the embassy?”
“For starters, I don’t trust any of them. The secretary of state simply isn’t up to it. Also, I want the offer coming directly from me.”
Rather than go home in the early hours, Orson hopped down to the exercise room and had a long, steamy shower. He had several ties in a desk drawer to avoid that slept-in look. Of course secret service operatives gave him sly glances. He looked at them like what else is new?
Two days later he was on a plane to Moscow. Picked up at the airport, he was driven to the Hotel Peter I, pure luxury with both an indoor and outdoor pool.
There he stayed for three days, cooling his heels, waiting for Mikhail Primakov’s call. The days were far from idle.He worked out in the gym twice a day, ate like a prince – the hotel restaurant prided itself on recreating the czar’s menu of a century ago.
There was koulebiaka, sturgeon blended with rice, cream and spices inside a flaky pastry. And kedrach, a liqueur made with pine nuts. Then there were outings, strolls through nearby Red Square and to explore St. Basil’s Cathedral, also a short walk away.
The call came in late afternoon of the fourth day. He was to exit the hotel through a side door at precisely 20:00 and enter a waiting BMW with dark tinted windows. Sounded cloak and dagger, but he had no choice.
The Kremlin was also nearby and he was hustled out of the BMW by a single guard, escorted through deserted halls and then into Primakov’s outer office, also deserted. His escort told him to have a seat and wait, then left him alone. The atmosphere was a bit eerie.
Almost an hour slipped by, then Mikhail Primakov himself emerged from the inner office and bade him step inside. He did not offer his hand, but motioned him to a seat beside his desk. The Russian president sank into his office chair and they were almost nose-to-nose.
The Russian spoke first. “President Warren informed me you were coming. But she didn’t say your exact mission. Perhaps you want to buy some of our products, or permit a wave of tourists to descend upon us, loaded with Euros of course.” He did not seem friendly.
“No, Sir, I hoped to thaw our frosty relations. We are two great nations. Why not get along?”
“Why, indeed. So what thoughtful gifts do you bring from your vast land? Albeit, not as vast as ours.”
Orson smiled. “Hardly as vast as Canada, or China. Maybe we are only half vast.”
Mikhail smiled. He understood American idioms. He had served in the embassy in Washington and briefly at the U.N. “I’ll drink to that.” He produced a bottle of vodka from a credenza, along with a pair of glasses, and poured them each a few ounces. They drank. Then the Russian asked him to go on.
“What we are seeking is a sign of goodwill.”
“Do you have anything in mind?”
“Yes. An American, a Curtis Johnson, has been seized and held in prison here for some time. I’m assuming he’s alive. If not, we would like his body. But we would like him freed.”
Mikhail did not seem the least surprised. “He is alive and he is held nearby. We think he might be a spy, but thus far our courts have not handled the case.”
“No charges have been brought?”
“None so far.”
“But you have evidence that this American businessman is a spy?”
“He fell in with evil companions.”
“A spy ring of some kind?”
Mikhail smiled and poured them each more vodka. “A nightclub performer, a lovely woman. Not young, mind you, but still beautiful and, as you say, well preserved.”
“And she too has been taken into custody?”
“My, no. She is one of our agents. She tipped us off.”
“She told you he is a spy?”
“She was suspicious and she is quite insightful.”
“So you have no evidence?”
“So far, none. But he may incriminate himself. Tip his hand so to speak.”
“And when might that be?”
Mikhail shrugged. “Who knows? We are long on patience.”
“What do you think of my offer?”
“For us to take the first step in restoring good relations, as if we ever had them. It’s insulting.” With that he opened a desk drawer, pulled out an automatic pistol and slammed it down on his desk. Orson was somewhat shocked because the automatic was more or less pointed at him, and a shock might set it off. Then he noticed something of great interest.
“Do you propose to shoot me?” he asked.
“Shoot the messenger,” Mikhail said. “Of course I do. You will not be imprisoned like your countryman, this Johnson person. You will simply vanish. Your body will be buried in a military cemetery under a soldier’s marker. You will take your place among glorious Red Army heroes. That should make you proud.”
Orson gave him a sharp look. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Of course I’m serious. This will send your president a message. That her wonder boy dropped from sight. Not a trace left behind. I’ve checked you out. Your career smacks of the unsavory. I pick up this gun and shoot you. Do you prefer the heart or the head?”
“Neither, really. If you even look like you’re going for that weapon I’ll snap your neck.” Aware that the Russian prided himself on his trim physical shape, Orson had forty to fifty pounds on him, was half a head taller and possessed a long reach. His ace in the hole was that the automatic’s safety was on. It could not be simply picked up and fired.
“I could press a button and summon guards.”
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“Go for the button and I’ll snap your neck.”
“We seem to be at an impasse. What do you suggest?” As the Russian spoke he leaned forward and lunged for the weapon. Orson was on him in a flash, and then the sickening crack of his neck followed by almost instant death.
Orson dropped the weapon into his jacket pocket after clicking off the safety. Then he arranged Mikhail’s body on the floor, hoping it would seem the man had a stroke. Then he went to the door at the rear of the office and cracked it open. Just as he had imagined, the door provided a soundproof barrier. Only the buzzer would have alerted security. Two guards were seated, reading newspapers.
“The President has had a stroke,” he announced. “He’s in here on the floor.”
The guards rushed in and surveyed the scene. Both seemed to understand English. The oldest one crouched and checked for vital signs, then looked up and said, “I think he’s dead. What must we do?”
“The prime minister must be notified,” Orson said. “Someone should call Sergei Zyuganov.”
“Right,” the younger man said. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Probably we should tell no one,” Orson said. “It might cause some sort of political crisis.” The men seemed to understand exactly what he was saying and agreed. Weighing on his side was the fact that Mikhail Primakov was not the most popular man in Russia. These were hard times and certain austerity programs the President had forced through had brought protestors into Red Square despite tight police control. Zyuganov was the overwhelming favorite. The ruthless Primakov was feared by both friend and enemy.
“We will take care of it,” the older man said. “Your hotel is nearby. You can walk back.” If they thought Orson might be responsible for the death, they didn’t seem to care. He strolled back to his hotel, passing small groups of merry makers. The Russians knew how to have fun.”
As he walked he considered his situation. The guards especially, or any other official for that matter, could hardly announce that the President of Russia had been killed in his office by a lone unarmed American while two bodyguards played cards in the adjacent room. He might be home free. But it might be wise to dispose of the weapon.
In the shadow of a building, he snapped out the clip and dropped the rounds into his pocket, including the chambered round. He carefully wiped the weapon and clip for prints and returned it to his pocket. No reason to dispose of a loaded weapon.
This was a business and tourist area and he didn’t stand out from the crowd. Entering a bar he ordered a beer and carried to a small table for two. He was joined almost immediately by a bargirl.
“Buy me a drink?”
“What’s your name?” Orson inquired.
“Olga.”
“Are all Russian girls named Olga?”
“Only half of them,” she smiled. “The rest are named Minka. What happened to your eye?”
“It’s on vacation. I’ll buy you a drink, a shot of vodka or a beer, no champagne, if you’ll watch my beer while I hit the head.”
“Deal.” Her English and vocabulary seemed faultless.
In the men’s room, Orson waited by a urinal until the other occupant departed, then using his handkerchief, dropped the automatic into a trash receptacle, making certain it was buried under paper towels.
Then he returned to his table, eyed his beer, wondering if a little something had been added, tossed enough money on the table for at least two common drinks and said goodnight.
“You disappoint me, handsome man. Why not sit and drink your beer?”
“You have bigger fish to fry. The night is young.”
She cocked her head to one side and quipped, “I’d like to fry your fish.”
Back at the Hotel Peter I, he went directly to his room, looked around to see if the place had been tossed or bugged, finding nothing, he took one of the midget bottles of vodka from the small reefer and poured it into a plastic cup. When in Moscow do as the Muscovites, he thought to himself. He would conduct himself as if every word he uttered might be recorded.
He sat on the edge of the tub, sipping vodka and flushing the rounds down the toilet one by one. He was aware there was an internal trap in the toilet, but the force of the water seemed strong and should carry the cartridges into the main Moscow sewage system. With the final flush, he polished off the vodka, found his way to the lobby and then to the business facility for guests and e-mailed Delilah.
“My Darling Delilah – This part of Moscow at night is a wonderland. You would love it. Bright lights, parks, Red Square, St. Basil’s Cathedral, alive with couples dressed to the nines. You would think every one of them might be a Wall Street broker loaded with currency.
“My hotel is fabulous with every imaginable amenity. Swimming pools inside and outside. Of course I watch CNN in my room and sip the standard vodka. Miss you and hope to see you soon.
“All My Love, Orson”
He returned to his room thinking that was innocuous enough, in case he was being monitored.
Dawn brought a tumult of news and crowds into Red Square. President Mikhail Primakov had succumbed to a stroke while working alone in his office late the previous night. Security guards found the body lying facedown on the floor. The country was in mourning for its dearly departed leader. Prime Minister Sergei Zyuganov was of course at the helm.
For some time the two men had switched back and forth as prime minister and president, but it was common knowledge that Mikhail had always been in charge. Now Sergei was on his own and a good portion of the country breathed a sigh of relief.
Orson kept a low profile, keeping to his room, emerging only for a light lunch. He showered and slept and watched TV. A call came from the prime minister’s office just before five. He was sending a car for Orson. “Be at the side door of the hotel in fifteen minutes.”
Again, it was a black BMW with heavily tinted windows. Orson climbed into the front seat next to the driver, the older guard from last night’s misadventure.
Orson grinned and said, “Greetings, Comrade.”
The guard smiled and nodded. He seemed in good spirits. Doubtless, he was in on what had actually happened.
Sergei Zyuganov greeted Orson with a bear hug when he was admitted to the inner office. “This is a new day,” the Russian said. “We mourn the old, but welcome the new. What wonderful prospects we see in the rising of this sun. Now sit down and tell me about your mission, so rudely interrupted.”
“We too grieve your loss. The demise of a player on the international stage, irreplaceable.”
“Of course,” Zyuganov agreed. “But you carry a message from your President, from Mary Warren.”
“Yes, she wishes for peace and good relations between our two countries. She asks that an initial symbol of our determination to carry on as one with maximum cooperation, a small symbol, that this man Curtis Johnson be pardoned for whatever sin he has committed and be free to return to his country where he will be subjected to severe questioning.”
“Johnson, the man who is locked away awaiting some sort of disposition. He is the one?”
“Yes, apparently no charges have been filed.”
Sergei smiled broadly. “No charges have been filed because none have been found. Our legal system is imperfect, as is yours. They tell me there was only one perfect man. I can’t decide. It must have been either Josef Stalin or Franklin Roosevelt.”
“Good choice, certainly a toss-up. I’d be happy to escort this Johnson back to America.”
“No problem. And tell your Madame President that I’d be willing to meet with her anyplace, anytime.”
“God bless you, Sergei,” Orson said, hoping using the first name was not offensive.
“And bless you, Orson Platt. You are a better friend to Russia than anyone will ever know. I’ll send Johnson along to your hotel and we’ll send you off in style, first class on Aeroflot.”
A pale and wan Curtis Johnson showed up at Orson’s door two hours later. He brought with him the small-
wheeled carry-on bag that he arrived with in Moscow.
They embraced briefly, and then plopped down in chairs for a chat.
“Holy God, it’s like the day of reckoning,” Johnson said. “When they unlocked my cell and led me out I didn’t know what was coming down. Naturally, I thought the worse. Yet, I had already been through the worst, all that time in solitary. Any change would have been welcome. Even execution.”
The day went on like that with Johnson rambling on, finally happy to have a sympathetic ear. That night Orson treated him to the sturgeon dish of czarist fame. Odd how the Russians look back with hungry eyes on the old days of the czars. They revel in them.
The following morning the two were driven to the airport by limousine, complete with a police escort. Change was in the wind. Some were curious over why a buff man like Mikhail had fallen to a late night stroke. One vodka too many seemed to be the answer. While in a small apartment in the tenderloin district, a janitor polished an automatic pistol with his hand and couldn’t believe his good fortune. It looked and felt expensive.
In New York, Johnson was met by family and friends. Orson dodged the hullabaloo as best he could and hotfooted it for his flight to Washington. His first priority was to report to the President. He would return to the Big Apple and visit Delilah as soon as possible. After ridding the world of Mikhail he deserved a few days off.
It was late in the day when his plane touched down at National, and he went immediately to his Georgetown townhouse, greeted the nannies and looked in on the twins. All well. He was told the White House had called earlier, but decided to ignore the call and be in early for work the following day.
He had been at his desk for some time when his secretary arrived. Surprised to see him, she asked if he had talked with the President.
“Not yet. I thought she might call.”
“She did. More than once yesterday. She wants to see you ASAP.”
“Do you suppose she’s up?”
The secretary grimaced and said, “Of course. She’s the leader of the free world.”
“Call her office and see if you can wangle an appointment.”
“She’ll wangle you if you don’t get over there.”
“Not unannounced. She has all sorts of briefings and scheduling problems in the morning.”
“Aren’t you supposed to attend those briefings?”
“I rely on rumors and Fox news.”
She laughed. “Isn’t that one and the same?”
“I have confidential stuff. I must see her alone.”
“Speaking of rumors, I’ve heard something about those encounters.”
“Please, no loose lips. Just call her office.”
“Yes, Master.”
President Warren’s first question as, “How did you manage to kill Mikhail?”
Orson almost cringed and placed a finger before his mouth.
“I have the office swept more than once a week. I certainly don’t record anything. I’m no Nixon.”
“We all like a joke, Madame President. It seems that Sergei Zyuganov, who incidentally sends his greetings and says that he will meet with you anytime, anywhere… Anyway, Sergei and most Russians seem to believe Mikhail died of a late night stroke, possibly triggered by excessive drinking. Vodka, you know.”
“Ah, yes. That colorless, tasteless liquid, possibly made from potatoes or some other unspeakable items. I suppose we should leave it at that. At least for the present. I am not a cat, but I am curious. Anyway, whatever happened, the world is a better place and you have somehow pulled off one of the greatest coups of your career. You deserve a reward.”
“I was thinking a few days off.”
“That can be arranged. Come by my quarters at 7:30 tonight and we’ll talk and make medicine.”
“Shall I bring a bag of Fritos?”
“I’m well stocked.”