“I am aware of the shootdown,” Bender replied. “But that was not the way to tell me that the Poles cannot guarantee the security of their own airspace.”
“Sir…”
Bender held up a hand, cutting him off. “I know, It was not your fault that I was not given advance warning. But that is exactly the breakdown in communication that I want stopped. Keep the players informed. Also, on the drive in from Okecie, I counted eight patrol cars along Aleje Ujazdowskie in the vicinity of the embassy. And I must admit, the embassy’s security arrangements are impressive. This place is a sealed fortress. Am I wrong in the assumption that security is a major concern?”
Everyone in the room was fully alert. Bender had been in Poland less than three hours and was already comfortable with the local geography and had keyed on a major problem. He was not going to be a political appointee adroitly corseted by the professionals on his staff. “That’s a true statement,” the CIA chief of station said.
“The situation is extremely complex,” the political officer said.
Bender gave her an encouraging nod. “And we’re going to make sense out of it.” He glanced at the calendar on his desk. “This is Thursday. I want a detailed assessment of the security situation on my desk by Monday morning. Include a list of programs we can make available to the Poles so they can help themselves. Please tell your staffs I’ll be touring the embassy tomorrow morning to meet them.” The meeting was over and his staff set a new record in retreating to the safety of their offices.
Outside, the political officer was a very worried woman and she cornered the protocol officer, the other high-ranking woman on the staff. “What do you think?”
The protocol officer gave her a sympathetic look. “It’s going to be very interesting.” The two women were silent as Winslow James rushed past muttering something about cowboys and jet jockeys.
“He is very attractive,” the political officer said.
“That won’t be a problem,” the protocol officer added.
EIGHT
Geraldine Blake answered the phone and jotted down the message. This will be trouble, she thought. She dialed another number and spoke in Russian for the benefit of the technicians monitoring the line. “Tom, I may need you in a few minutes. Are you available?” The technician on duty automatically annotated the time of the call to Thomas Johnson, Mikhail Vashin’s chief of security everyone called the American. Johnson said he would be at his desk. “It might be better if you were in the penthouse,” Geraldine said, this time in English.
She broke the connection, thought for a few moments, and called Le Coq d’Or, Vashin’s nightclub. Best be prepared, she told herself. “Please send Naina and Liya to my office.” She listened for a moment. “I don’t care what time it is. Do it now.” She broke the connection and looked at her watch. It would take at least thirty minutes for the girls to arrive. She could delay the inevitable that long. She took a deep breath. Part of her job as Vashin’s personal assistant was to anticipate trouble.
At exactly 2:07 P.M. the two girls walked into her office. Both were young, beautiful, and elegantly dressed. But more important, the two prostitutes were well trained. Geraldine gathered up her folder and personal telecommunicator and marched into the penthouse. She handed Vashin the note from the phone call. “This came in from Minsk a few minutes ago.”
She waited patiently as he read, the cool business professional ready to serve her employer. As expected, the eruption built slowly. “Vitaly Rodonov has overstepped his bounds,” Vashin said. Strain played at the edge of his voice. “He may be the minister of defense, but he does not confiscate my cargo.” His voice shifted pitch, growing more shrill. “No one does that! Do you know the dollar value of what he stole from me?”
Geraldine opened her folder and read the manifest. “Eight cargo pallets of high-grade cocaine, weighing 500 kilos each, is a delivered value of $48 million; two pallets of hashish, same quality, weighing 700 kilos each, is a delivered value of approximately $10 million; fifty-four girls, delivered value almost $400,000. Total amount lost, exactly $58,340,000.”
“Delivered value!” Vashin screamed, his face mottled with fury. “Street value returned to us is four or five times that! I lost a quarter billion dollars because Rodonov confiscated one cargo!” He banged his fists on his desk as a stream of invective spewed over the room. He started to shake. “The bastard! I wanted him in the ground four weeks ago! Where is Yaponets?”
Geraldine never hesitated. She punched at her telecommunicator and summoned the godfather. Then she called for Johnson. In less than thirty seconds, Johnson was in the room. “Why isn’t Rodonov dead!” Vashin shouted, barely understandable.
“I’ll check it out,” Johnson said, his voice calm and matter of fact. Hit contracts weren’t his job but, increasingly, he was branching into other areas. “I imagine it’s because he’s guarded by professionals. Sooner or later, they’ll make a mistake and our men will be waiting.”
For a moment, Vashin seemed rational. “Where is Yaponets?”
“He’s on his way,” Geraldine said soothingly.
Then the dam burst, Vashin’s rage in full flood. He lunged at Johnson who was closest to him, screaming a torrent of obscenities in Russian that were all but incomprehensible. Johnson took the blow in his face. He was a wall and didn’t move. Vashin spun around and kicked at Geraldine. But he missed and hit the leg of a table. He fell to the floor and rolled as his body shook. He swallowed his tongue and started to choke. Johnson and Geraldine bent over his flailing body and held him down. The American forced Vashin’s mouth open while Geraldine fished out his tongue. She stroked his face, trying to calm him.
“I can give him a sedative,” Johnson said.
“No drugs or needles,” Geraldine replied. She shouted at one of the guards. “Get Naina and Liya! They’re in my office.” The guard ran from the room while Johnson pinned the bucking man to the floor. The two girls ran up and stepped out of their shoes. They fell down beside Vashin, one on each side, and scooted under Johnson to help sandwich Vashin with their bodies. Vashin wrenched his right arm free and smashed his fist into Naina’s face. She cried out in pain but only hugged him more tightly. She stroked his cheek and whispered softly, cooing to him like a mother to an infant. Liya hummed a lullaby as she stroked his crotch. Slowly, Vashin quit shaking and Johnson got up. His nose was bloodied and he had a vicious bite on the edge of his left hand. He wrapped it with a handkerchief and said nothing.
Vashin pulled at Naina’s dress while Liya undid his belt. She pulled his pants off, taking his shorts with them. Naina guided him into her as he rocked rhythmically back and forth, licking the growing bruise on her face. He climaxed and rolled off. Liya cuddled against his back, still humming the lullaby while he sucked on one of her fingers. She rocked him to sleep.
Johnson let out his breath and inhaled. “That was bad.”
“I’ve seen worse,” Geraldine told him.
Vashin sat on one of the heavily brocaded couches with Naina and Liya still beside him. His clothes were neatly arranged and only his flushed face betrayed the fury that had swept over him. Geraldine handed him a cup of tea drawn from the ornate silver samovar that had once been in the Hermitage in Saint Petersburg. He looked at Naina, almost adoringly. “Thank you,” he murmured. Geraldine read the signs correctly and motioned for the girls to leave. Vashin’s hand lingered for a moment on Naina’s arm before she left.
When the door was closed behind them, Vashin walked to the heavy plate-glass window overlooking Moscow. Mist swirled in front of him, blocking the view. He touched the inside of the bullet chip. The glass was smooth to his touch and, for a moment, he thought of the chip as the icon of his life, dented and scarred on the outside, but polished and whole on the inside. “The problem of Rodonov is still with us.”