Hazardous Duty - PA 8

by W. E. B Griffin

  “I am sure that my beloved Svetlana never took her clothing off in the presence of any man—with the possible exception, of course, of her gynecologist—until she went to her marriage bed.”

  “What did the guy she married have that you didn’t?”

  “Evgeny Alekseev was an SVR polkovnik.”

  “A what?”

  “A colonel in the SVR, which is sort of like your Department of Homeland Security.”

  “I know what the SVR is,” Agrafina said. “So you’re confessing that you’re not really the coach of the Greater Sverdlovsk Table Tennis Association?”

  “I was going to get to that, my precious,” Murov said. “I want no secrets between us. I am General Sergei Murov of the SVR. At the time my beloved Svetlana married Evgeny Alekseev, I was a junior captain. He was a colonel, and she was a lieutenant colonel, so what chance did a lowly junior captain have?”

  “Wait just a minute! I find this insulting, Sergei. You’re telling me I bear a remarkable resemblance to some short-haired two-hundred-and-fifty-pound female with stainless steel teeth?”

  “I’m saying you bear a remarkable resemblance to an astonishingly beautiful female.”

  “I thought you said she was an SVR lieutenant colonel?”

  “She is. Or was when she married Evgeny. Oh, I see where you’re coming from. Let us say that my beloved Svetlana is the rare exception to that rule vis-à-vis female SVR lieutenant colonels.”

  “Well, if you put it that way, Sergei, darling. So, what happened to her after she married Colonel Whatsisname?”

  “The marriage didn’t last long, and then she defected. Evgeny chased her to Argentina, where he got himself whacked by some Irish cop.”

  “So she’s a widow?”

  “Yes, she is. The Widow Alekseeva. That’s what I’m really doing here, my love. I’m supposed to get my darling Svetlana, her brother, former SVR Polkovnik Dmitri Berezovsky, and this goddamned American, Colonel C. G. Castillo, onto an airplane and fly them to Moscow.”

  “I have to tell you, my darling, that I’m tempted to break both your legs for profanely referring to an American officer like that, but my female curiosity seems to have overwhelmed me. Why do you want to take these people to Moscow?”

  “Well, I think Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin wants to start by turning them into ice statues.”

  “You want to help Putin turn them into ice statues? How’s he going to do that?”

  General Murov explained the process to her.

  “I’m shocked,” Agrafina said, “as I got the distinct impression you still have feelings about this lady.”

  “Yes, my love, I do. Not as much, of course, as I did before you came into my life, my precious. But I will love her to my dying day—or hers, whichever comes first—and the thought of turning her into an ice statue, immediately before—or immediately after, whichever comes first—she marries is giving me a good deal of personal pain.”

  “Who is she going to marry?”

  “The godd— the American gentleman.”

  “At the Grand Cozumel Beach and Golf Resort, down the beach?”

  “Yes. But how could you possibly know that?”

  “They told me when I was there earlier.”

  She handed him the liter bottle of Stolichnaya.

  “Tell me, Sergei, are we to be just two ships that passed in the night, or would you like to see how this relationship develops?”

  “I realized about an hour or so ago, my precious, that I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

  “Well, there are several problems that I can see with that. Starting with I have my career to think of.”

  “I can understand that.”

  “Which means I cannot move to Russia.”

  “I can understand that, too.”

  “When you said you want to spend the rest of your life with me, did you mean it? Was that a proposal of marriage, or did you mean you would like to continue to take sexual advantage of my naiveté and innocence?”

  General Murov got off the bed and onto his knees.

  “My darling Agrafina Bogdanovich, will you do me the great honor of becoming my bride?”

  “Before I answer that, darling Sergei, I have a little confession of my own to make.”

  “Which is?”

  “My latest film, Catherine and the Household Cavalry, to which I referred is not actually a documentary.”

  “I know, I know. I’ve watched it a hundred times. Another reason, my precious, that my heart was beating so wildly when I first saw you in the flesh.”

  —

  Thirty minutes later:

  “Well, that’s the end of the Stolichnaya, my darling, and almost the end of me,” General Murov said somewhat breathlessly. “What should we do now?”

  “Actually, I’ve been giving that some serious thought, my precious.”

  “What occurred to me was getting into the Jacuzzi—they say that restores vigor—and then ordering up another bottle of the Stolichnaya and a couple dozen oysters. How does that sound?”

  “I was thinking of our future. Since you agree that your only option is to defect and become—once you’re finished with the CIA debriefing—chairman of the board of Red Ravisher Films, Inc.”

  “I look forward to that. I’ve always had a secret yearning to be a capitalist.”

  “And you told me, right, that to defect and not find yourself playing soccer with a bunch of crazy Arabs in Guantánamo, you’ll have to defect through the director of the CIA, A. Franklin Lampoon.”

  “That’s Lammelle, my darling, A. Franklin Lammelle. Frank and I, professional differences aside, of course, always got along very well.”

  “And you said that getting in touch with him might be difficult—”

  “What I said, my precious, is that if I just called the CIA in Langley and asked to speak with him, they would ask who was calling, and if I replied I was General Sergei Murov of the SVR, they would laugh hysterically and hang up on me.”

  “I think I see a way around that, my darling. You also said that Mr. Lammelle and the officer who is about to marry your beloved Svetlana are friends.”

  “They’re as tight as ticks,” Murov said.

  “I’ve always wondered what that means. It brings to my mind an image of intoxicated insects.”

  “Well, that’s what people are always saying.”

  “What I think we should do, my darling, striking while the iron is hot, so to speak, is go over to the Grand Cozumel and speak with Colonel Costello—”

  “That’s Castillo, my precious.”

  “And ask him to get Mr. Lammelle on the line for you.”

  “Darling, I don’t know—”

  “Going to the Grand Cozumel, my darling, would also give you the opportunity to not only see your beloved Svetlana but to offer her your best wishes on her upcoming nuptials.”

  “My precious, I don’t think—”

  “Not closing the door on your relationship with your beloved Svetlana would be a deal breaker, my darling, on our own upcoming nuptials.”

  “Well, viewed from that perspective, the idea of going over to the Grand Cozumel does have great appeal.”

  “Well then, my precious, put your trousers on. The last time I saw them they were hanging from the chandelier.”

  “There’s something I didn’t tell you about Colonel Castillo, my precious.”

  “Which is?”

  “There are twenty-four members of the Cuban DGI—the Cuban version of the SVR—here in Cozumel under orders to whack Castillo.”

  “And these people are likely to be at the Grand Cozumel? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “At the moment, they’re engaged in cleaning the ladies’ rooms on the Czari
na of the Gulf, the cruise ship. But they should be about finished, and when they are, they’ll go looking for Castillo.”

  “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, my darling. Now go put your pants on while I repair my makeup.”

  “You’re going with me to the Grand Cozumel?”

  “I want to be there, my precious, when you finally close the door on your Svetlana. To be sure there’s no mistake, no misunderstanding.”

  [FOUR]

  The Grand Lobby and Reception Hall

  The Grand Cozumel Beach & Golf Resort

  Cozumel, Mexico

  2110 21 June 2007

  Hiding behind two of the larger potted palms in the lobby when the Archbishop Valentin and the Archimandrite Boris made their spectacular—one might even say regal—entrance were Mr. C. Harry Whelan and Mr. Matthew “Hockey Puck” Christian.

  They had been traveling together since they had met at the White House gate earlier in the day, immediately after Mr. Roscoe J. Danton had been pushed out of the Yukon in which he had traveled from the Old Ebbitt to meet with President Clendennen.

  Although they normally loathed one another, the situation here dictated a truce between them. C. Harry was determined to find out, and damn the cost of finding out, what Roscoe was doing with the President and the reason behind the porn queen throwing the French paparazzo at Danton in Las Vegas.

  Mr. Christian had been told by his superiors at the Continental Broadcasting Corporation that unless he got them out from under the fifty-million-dollar libel suit brought by Miss Red Ravisher for mis-identifying Miss Ravisher as the person who had thrown the French paparazzo at Mr. Danton, he could not only expect to lose the Hockey Puck show, but would work out the balance of his contract doing the midnight weather broadcast over the Continental station in Dry River, North Dakota, where he would have to write his own copy, do without the company-furnished chauffeur-driven Mercedes he had grown used to, and learn to live without an expense account.

  C. Harry and Hockey Puck quickly agreed to share whatever information they acquired from their highly placed confidential sources within the White House, no matter how many folded hundred-dollar bills they would have to pass out to these people.

  Their plan succeeded. A third assistant botanical superintendent, who was bitter at his low pay of only $96,500 per annum, and happy to get the tax-free C-note, informed C. Harry that while he had been rearranging the white roses on the dining room table in the Very, Very Important Person guest room, he had accidentally happened to overhear the President’s conversation with DCI Lammelle.

  He reported that the President had ordered DCI Lammelle to immediately get his ass out to Andrews and get his airplane warmed up. As soon as he could get Roscoe J. Danton sobered up and out there they were to get their asses on the DCI’s airplane and fly to the Grand Cozumel Beach and Golf Resort in Cozumel, Mexico, where they were to make it perfectly clear to Colonel Castillo that the Clendennen administration was not in the business of slaughtering innocent and illiterate Somali teenagers and that he was to immediately cease and desist carrying out any nefarious and criminal plans he had made to do so.

  On hearing this, C. Harry told Hockey Puck that he had a line on a Learjet at Baltimore International and was going to fly to Cozumel. He asked Hockey Puck if he wanted to share the ride and the cost.

  “Absolutely,” Hockey Puck had immediately replied. “Just make sure you get two original copies of the bill, so that we can both get our respective employers to reimburse us.”

  When they got to the Cozumel Beach & Golf Resort, they were told there were no rooms at the inn, unfortunately, as all accommodations were reserved for the upcoming nuptials of the owner’s cousin.

  At first this was disappointing, but then they saw a silver lining in the black cloud. For one thing, they were going to have to hang around the lobby anyway as the only thing they could see in their rooms was Mexican television, and for another, another folded C-note got them spurious bills for deluxe suites so they might be later reimbursed by their respective employers.

  They took up positions behind potted palms.

  The first thing they saw was truly shocking. Both deeply regretted not having charged their cell phones in order to have cameras to record it.

  DCI Lammelle came into the lobby, followed by two burly CIA operatives supporting Roscoe J. Danton between them.

  Then Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo appeared, accompanied by a spectacular redheaded female.

  There was an excited conversation between the two men. Seated as far away as they were behind the potted palms, they could only hear parts of the conversation. But they did hear that the President was ordering Castillo to immediately cancel any plans he had with Somalian teenagers, including slaughtering them.

  Castillo then asked, “And he has no other nutty orders for me?”

  “Just that you are to fall off the edge of the earth again, and never be seen by anyone.”

  Castillo had then grabbed DCI Lammelle and kissed him wetly on both cheeks. And then the spectacular redhead had grabbed Lammelle and kissed him. Wetly. On the mouth.

  “I love you, Frank,” she cried. “I don’t care what everyone says about you!”

  Both men, fully aware of the news value of films of CIA directors being kissed by females to whom they were not married, not to mention their being bussed by men, groaned with the regret that this kissing session was lost to posterity.

  They had then disappeared, only to appear fifteen minutes later with large numbers of other people dressed to the nines.

  It was at this point that the Archbishop Valentin and the Archimandrite Boris marched into the lobby attired in their finest vestments.

  A man whom neither Hockey Puck nor C. Harry recognized—Aleksandr Pevsner—then advanced on the clergymen, dropped to his knees, and kissed their rings.

  Then Castillo and the spectacular redhead did the same.

  “That redhead looks somehow familiar,” Hockey Puck whispered to C. Harry.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” A. Franklin Lammelle demanded to know.

  “We’re here to unite Carlos and Svetlana in holy matrimony,” Archbishop Valentin said.

  “Not you, Your Grace,” Lammelle said. “Him.”

  He pointed to General Sergei Murov, who, with Agrafina Bogdanovich, had just come through the revolving door into the lobby.

  “Actually, Frank, old buddy, this is a delightful surprise. I want to defect.”

  “My God, there’s two of them!” Hockey Puck cried loudly, as he came out from behind his potted palm to demand, “Which one of you redheads threw the Frenchman at Roscoe J. Danton and ruined my television career?”

  “I don’t know who that is,” Aleksandr Pevsner ordered. “But grab him.”

  Two burly ex-Spetsnaz instantly complied. And then two more went after C. Harry Whelan.

  “I know who that ugly man is, Sergei, my precious,” Agrafina said. “He’s the pervert who made all those awful allegations about me!”

  “I hate to say this with these distinguished Russian Orthodox clergymen standing here,” Murov said, “but you’re a dead man, sir. No one insults the woman General Sergei Murov loves. Not and lives.”

  “As a distinguished Russian Orthodox clergyman, my son, I must forbid you from killing anyone.”

  “Excuse me, miss,” Svetlana said. “Did Sergei say he loves you?”

  “That’s what he says, Svetlana,” Agrafina said.

  “Your Grace,” Murov asked, “if you say I can’t, I won’t kill the pervert. But how does Your Grace feel about me sending him to Moscow and turning him into an ice sculpture?”

  “I have a confession to make,” Svetlana said. “It was I who threw the French pervert into the paparazzi. I wasn’t aiming at Roscoe; he was just collateral damage. An
d this lady was in no way involved.”

  “Why, my daughter, would you do something like that?” the archbishop asked.

  “Can I whisper why in your ear?”

  “Of course.”

  She did so.

  “I understand your anger, my daughter,” the archbishop said. “But that doesn’t excuse the violence.”

  “I guess that means I can’t turn the pervert into an ice sculpture, either,” Murov said.

  “No, you can’t,” the archbishop said.

  “Your Grace,” Agrafina said, “I confess that I am a FAMOTORC—”

  “What the hell is that?” Castillo asked.

  “Fallen Away Member of the Orthodox Russian Church,” Sweaty said. “Now shut up, my beloved heathen, while we Christians deal with this.”

  “But I seem to recall, Your Grace, that bearing false witness is a sin,” Agrafina went on.

  “Yes, my daughter, it is.”

  “Well, that sonofabitch certainly bore—beared?—false witness against me. I just have to swallow that?”

  “What would you suggest, my daughter? Since I’m not going to permit you, no matter how far you’ve fallen from Holy Mother Church, to either kill him or turn him into an ice sculpture.”

  “I have a suggestion,” Aleksandr Pevsner said. “First thing in the morning, I’ll take him out on the Czarina of the Gulf and put him with the Cubans.”

  “What Cubans are those, my son?” the archbishop asked.

  “The ones the Cuban DGI doesn’t know that I know they sneaked onto my ship.”

  “I don’t understand, my son,” the archbishop said.

  “What I plan to do, Your Grace,” Pevsner said, “when we’re five or ten miles offshore, and they have finished restoring the ladies’ restrooms to a suitably pristine condition, is gather the Cubans on the fantail, tell them I know who they are, and ask them how well they can swim.”

  “That’s okay with me insofar as ol’ Hockey Puck is concerned,” Agrafina said. “But it seems a little tough on the Cubans.”

  “Not to worry, my daughter,” the archbishop said, “I am not going to permit my son Aleksandr to drown twenty-four Cubans.”