“Well, you remember when the Venezuelans nationalized the American oil companies, seizing them, so to speak, for the workers and peasants?”
“Indeed, I do. And I confess that I was surprised when you didn’t send your Marines to take them back from the workers and peasants. That’s what we would have done. In the bad old days, I mean.”
“We’ve learned subtlety, Alek,” Castillo said. “What we did was refuse to sell them any more parts for the oil well drilling equipment and refineries they seized.”
“Whereupon we—I mean the Russian Federation—leapt to their aid in the interest of internal peace and cooperation, and sent them the parts they needed.”
“Which you—I mean the Russian Federation—since they don’t make those parts themselves, bought from us, doubled the price, and then sold to the Venezuelans. Correct?”
“You’re not saying there’s anything wrong with turning a little profit on a business deal, are you?”
“Absolutely not! So when we found out what the Russians were doing, we had several options. We could stop selling the parts to the Russians, which would have meant our parts people wouldn’t have made their normal profit. That was unacceptable, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Or we could have sunk the Russian Federation ships either as they were leaving the U.S. or—after the parts had been put ashore in Russia, where they were reloaded into crates marked ‘More Fine Products of Russian Federation Craftsmen’—when the ships carrying the parts were en route to Venezuela. That would have been an act of war, so we didn’t do that, either.”
“So, what did you do?”
“We made some parts that wouldn’t quite fit, or would wear out in a week or so, or would cause the drilling strings to break, or all three, and put them into crates marked ‘More Fine Products of Russian Federation Craftsmen.’ Then we loaded them and some SEALs onto nuclear submarines.”
“I know what’s coming,” Pevsner said. “Genius! No wonder we—I mean the USSR—lost the Cold War!”
“When the crates were off-loaded from the Russian ships onto docks in Venezuela, that same night the SEALs exchanged our crates for their crates. The parts the Russians bought from us were taken back to the U.S., put on shelves, and sold. They’re good parts. The—excuse the expression—bad parts no doubt now are installed in Venezuelan drilling rigs and refinery equipment. It’s only a matter of time before that equipment promptly breaks down or blows up—or both. The Venezuelans then will say unkind things to the Russians, and the Russians, who know they haven’t done anything wrong, will say unkind things to the Venezuelans.”
“When I changed sides, I knew it was time for us to change sides,” Pevsner said. “Didn’t I say that, Dmitri?”
“I remember you saying exactly that,” Tom Barlow said. “And you were right.”
“I’m always right. Or almost always. I have to admit that I did place my trust in that Korean sonofabitch who sold me those lousy air conditioners.”
He turned to Castillo.
“So when are you going to start the C. G. Castillo Pirated Ship Recovery Training Program?”
“After what you’ve just told me, how can I?” Castillo asked. “Won’t it take days to… how do I say this delicately? . . . restore the ladies’ rooms to their normal pristine and functioning condition?”
“This is another of those times when I wonder both how you got to be an intelligence officer and whether or not you’re intelligent enough to be let into the family. The last I heard there are zero females in your Delta Force and zero in your SEALs. That suggests there will not be a requirement for ladies’ restrooms, whether functioning and pristine or not.”
“You have a point,” Castillo admitted. “Does that mean I can charter the Czarina of the Gulf?”
“Absolutely!”
[FIVE]
Aboard Cessna Mustang “Happy 38th Birthday”
31,000 feet above Petersburg, Virginia
1015 21 June 2007
“Roscoe,” Major Dick Miller, USA, Retired, said to Roscoe J. Danton, who was sitting beside him in the co-pilot’s seat of the aircraft, “I’m about to begin our descent into John Foster Dulles International Airport. Should I call ahead and get a limousine for you?”
“You mean a limousine for us?”
“No, I mean a limousine for you.”
“You’re not going to the White House with me?”
“What I’m going to do is drop you off and then fly to Chicago to pick up Archbishop Valentin and Archimandrite Boris and take them to Cozumel.”
“Who the hell are they?”
“The clergymen who are going to unite Sweaty and Charley in holy matrimony.”
After a moment’s thought, Roscoe said, “Thank you, Dick, but no. I’ll just get a taxi.”
“Why not a limousine? We’re living high on the CIA’s dime. If Charley can charter a Gulfstream Five, the Rhine River cruiser Die Stadt Köln, and now the two-thousand-plus-passenger Czarina of the Gulf, why can’t you ride to the White House in a limousine?”
“Frankly, Dick, I’m shocked at the suggestion. Here you are marching along in the Great Gray Line of West Pointers and suggesting that I waste the taxpayers’ hard-earned money by taking a limousine.”
“And now that I think of it, Charley’s going to bill the CIA five thousand dollars an hour for flying you here in his thirty-eighth birthday present.”
“Be that as it may, I will take a cab.”
“Suit yourself. And that’s the Long Gray Line of West Pointers, not the Great Gray Line.”
“Thank you. I’ll make a note of that. As a journalist I pride myself on making accurate statements.”
“If that’s the case, since my leg is still pretty well fucked up, you should have said, ‘Here you are limping along in the Long Gray Line.’”
“I’ll make a note of that, too. Accuracy and truth in all things has long been the creed of Roscoe J. Danton.”
The truth of the matter here was that Mr. Danton not only did not wish to go to the White House in a limousine, he had no intention of going to the White House at all.
He had made that decision while Castillo was still on his CaseyBerry speaking with Secretary of State Cohen and DCI Lammelle. She had called to say that the First Lady wanted Danton’s version—in person—of why Red Ravisher had thrown the paparazzo at him, and the President wanted to hear—in person—what he was doing in Las Vegas with Miss Ravisher when he was supposed to be in Budapest trying to sneak into Somalia.
The moment Castillo had said, “Well, okay. If you two are agreed it’s that important, I’ll have Dick Miller fly him up there in the morning,” Roscoe had had an epiphany, the first he could ever recall having, and which he had previously believed was a religious holiday, falling somewhere during Lent.
I’m not going, his epiphany had told him. I don’t know how I’m not going, but I am not going to try to explain to the President or the First Lady what happened at the airport in Las Vegas. Cohen and Lammelle and Castillo want to throw me at them—like a chunk of raw meat thrown to a starving tiger—to get the pressure off themselves, and I am just not going to permit that to happen.
He had had no idea how he was just not going to permit that to happen until Miller had brought up the subject of a limousine to take him from Dulles to the White House. Then, in an instant, he had another epiphany: He would get in a taxi, go directly to Union Station, take the train to New York, and seek asylum in the embassy of the People’s Democratic Republic of Burundi.
Several months before, while driving home from a party at the Peruvian embassy, he had come across a sea of flashing lights on patrol cars and police prisoner transport vehicles, and stopped to investigate. He had quickly learned what was going on.
The police were in the process of raiding the K Street Stress
Relief Center, as the stress relief techniques offered apparently violated the District’s ordinances vis-à-vis the operation of what were known as disorderly houses.
Roscoe, in the hope that he would see, which seemed to be a distinct possibility, in the lines of now stress-free customers being led in handcuffs to the police prisoner transport vehicles, one or more distinguished members of Congress, had gotten out of his car for a better look.
Surprising him, he hadn’t seen any congressmen, but he had recognized someone who had been at the Peruvian embassy party. He recognized him because he was about seven feet tall and weighed probably 350 pounds, and wore a zebra-striped robe and an alligator-tooth necklace.
He saw, too, that the Burundian ambassador had recognized him.
He hadn’t written anything about the incident for a number of reasons. For one thing, diplomats being hauled off by the cops from establishments like the K Street Stress Relief Center was hardly news. For another, the ambassador had a name that could be pronounced and spelled only by fellow Burundians.
Roscoe had not been surprised to see the ambassador’s photo in the society section of the next day’s edition of the Washington Times-Post. He was pictured with his wife, who was even larger and more formidable-appearing than he. That explained why he had sought stress relief.
But he was surprised when that same afternoon a messenger delivered a burlap bag containing twenty-five pounds of Burundian coffee beans and a note from the ambassador, in which the ambassador expressed his profound gratitude for Roscoe’s discretion when they had met the previous evening. Roscoe correctly interpreted that to mean the ambassador was grateful his picture had appeared in the society section only.
The ambassador’s note had gone on to say that if there was any way, any way at all, that he could be of service to Roscoe, all Roscoe had to do was ask.
Under these circumstances, Roscoe decided, the ambassador would be happy to conceal him for a few days, a week, however long it took until the situation was resolved. And he doubted very much that the President would look for him in the Burundian embassy.
Roscoe’s good feelings lasted until he came out of Immigration into the Arriving Passengers area of the airport.
“Welcome to our nation’s capital, Roscoe,” David W. Yung greeted him. “Let me help you with your bag.”
“You look a little green around the gills, Roscoe, if you don’t mind my saying so,” Edgar Delchamps said. “Would you like to stop at the Old Ebbitt Grill for a Bloody Mary, or would you prefer to go directly to the White House?”
[SIX]
The Reception Area
The Grand Cozumel Beach & Golf Resort
Cozumel, Mexico
1020 21 June 2007
“Words cannot express my chagrin and remorse, Miss Bogdanovich,” the general manager of the Grand Cozumel said.
“There’s some sort of problem?”
“Indeed there is,” he said. “I’m afraid there is no room at this inn.”
“Why not?”
“The owner’s cousin is to be married here. The entire establishment will be required to accommodate the guests.”
“But you told me I would always be welcome here.”
“And you always will be, except, of course, when the owner’s cousin is to be married, which unfortunately changes things.”
“But what am I to do? I was so looking forward to a huge bowl of your marvelous borscht whilst looking down from a penthouse at the white sands of the beach.”
“Let me tell you what we’re going to do. I can only hope it meets your approval.”
“It better.”
“Not far down the beach is a splendid establishment—not as splendid as this, of course, but splendid—the Royal Aztec Table Tennis and Golf Resort and Casino. The manager is a personal friend of mine. When I saw your reservation, I explained this unfortunate happenstance to him, and he has arranged an exquisite penthouse suite for you overlooking the white sands of the beach.”
“A penthouse suite seems nice, but what about the borscht?”
“As we speak, Miss Bogdanovich, two of our chefs are in the kitchen of the Royal Aztec preparing borscht—as only they can—for you.”
“That’s all very nice, but what about security? I don’t want any of my fans, and certainly no paparazzi, butting into my personal life while I’m resting to recover from an unfortunate incident in Las Vegas that I’d rather not talk about.”
“Not a problem, Miss Bogdanovich. We have trained the security staff of the Royal Aztec. You may rest assured on that score. And did I mention that the Grand Cozumel is going to pick up your bill at the Royal Aztec to make up a little for any inconvenience we may have caused?”
“How kind of you!”
[SEVEN]
Penthouse A
The Royal Aztec Table Tennis and Golf Resort and Casino
Cozumel, Mexico
1130 21 June 2007
When she had looked around Penthouse A, which occupied half of the twenty-second floor of the Royal Aztec, and found it satisfactory, Agrafina Bogdanovich thanked the Royal Aztec’s general manager and sent him on his way.
Then she unpacked, took a shower, and put on what she thought of as her itsy-bitsy tiny polka-dot bikini and her sunglasses and went onto the balcony of the suite. She saw that a steam table had been set up, and resting above the bubbling waters thereof was a silver bowl. She lifted the lid, sniffed appreciatively of the borscht it contained, replaced the lid, and started to pull a chair up to the table.
She was in the act of opening a bottle of Dos Equis cerveza when she sensed eyes on her. She looked and saw a head looking at her over the colored-glass partition that separated the balcony of Penthouse A from that of Penthouse B.
“That’s borscht I smell, isn’t it?” the man inquired.
“It’s none of your goddamned business what it is, you goddamned perverted Peeping Tom,” Agrafina said, and threw the bottle of Dos Equis at him.
She missed, the bottle striking the glass partition instead. It shattered. The Peeping Tom fled his balcony.
Ten minutes later, her door chime went off. The general manager stood there. So did three bellmen. One of them held two dozen long-stemmed roses. A second held a silver dish with a pound of caviar in it, resting on a bed of ice. The third held an ice-filled bucket and a two-liter bottle of Stolichnaya vodka.
“Miss Bogdanovich, I come bearing these small gifts from your neighbor…”
“Señor Peeping Tom, you mean? I was led to believe I would be left alone to recover from the unfortunate incident in Las Vegas—”
“What unfortunate incident was that, my dear Miss Bogdanovich?”
“I’d rather not talk about it. And I barely had time to settle myself when this Mexican Peeping Tom intrudes on my privacy—”
“Actually, he’s Russian, not Mexican, Miss Bogdanovich.”
“Okay. Russian Peeping Tom. What do you mean, he’s Russian?”
“He’s from Greater Sverdlovsk—”
“That’s just Sverdlovsk, not Greater Sverdlovsk,” Peeping Tom said from behind the bellman with the long-stemmed roses. “And I’m actually from Kiev, not Greater Sverdlovsk.”
“And did you have a mother in Kiev?”
“Of course I had a mother in Kiev. May she rest in peace.”
“And she didn’t teach you not to leer at strange women in itsy-bitsy tiny polka-dot bikinis while they are trying to recover from certain unpleasant things that happened to them in Las Vegas?”
“It was my nose that got me in trouble,” Peeping Tom said.
“You weren’t leering at me with your nose!”
“Your borscht smelled just like the borscht my sainted mother, may she rest in peace, used to make for me in Kiev. I got carried away.”
“Grigori Slobozhanin,” he said, and then: “To hell with it! My real name is Sergei Murov.”
“You’re in the theater?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“Well, I’m in the theater myself, so to speak. I know about stage names. My name as it appears in the credits is Red Ravisher. Agrafina Bogdanovich is my real, off-camera name.”
“A beautiful name for a beautiful lady,” Murov said. “It sounds Russian.”
“I am of Russian heritage.”
“So here we are, two Russians far from the motherland—”
“Actually, I’m from Cleveland, Ohio.”
“How about ‘two Russians in a strange land’?”
“It’s a strange land, all right, but I just told you, Grigori, that I’m an American.”
“The sound of my name coming from your lips is like heavenly music.”
“Thank you. I did study elocution, of course.”
“That’s obvious.”
“And you’re in the theater, too, I gather, Grigori?”
“There it is again! You don’t perhaps hear softly playing violins, my dear Agrafina?”
“What I hear actually sounds like a mariachi band. I asked if you, too, are a thespian.”
“Well, let’s say I’m playing a role.”
“All the world’s a stage, as they say.”
“Indeed it is. May I make a somewhat intimate suggestion, my dear Agrafina?”
“I sort of like the way Agrafina rolls off your lips, too, Grigori. Yes, you may, with the understanding that if I were to take offense at your somewhat intimate suggestion, I will break your legs.”
“What I was going to suggest is since you have that absolutely marvelous borscht, the kind my mother, may she rest in peace, used to make, and I have two liters of Stolichnaya and a pound of caviar, we merge our assets.”
Agrafina turned to the general manager of the Royal Aztec and the bellmen.
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