"Mr. President," Porky Parker said. "May I respectfully suggest that we have to carefully consider the ramifications of this?"
President Clendennen glared at him. "The next time those two sonsofbitches go to Fort Leavenworth, they'll be in handcuffs on their way to the Army prison…"
"Porky's right, Mr. President," DCI Powell said. "If we've invaded some South American country-"
"If? If? You just heard Roscoe J. Danton tell the whole goddamned world we did! Putin was probably watching us carry that general we kidnapped off that fucking airplane we stole."
"Or is watching it being replayed for him as we speak," Parker said. "I'm told the Ministry of Information tapes Wolf News and then distributes the significant stories around the Kremlin."
"That's true, Mr. President," DCI Powell said. "I really think we should get the secretary of State's input on this, so we can decide how to react."
"Well, get her here. In thirty minutes."
"Secretary Cohen is in New York, at the UN, Mr. President," Porky Parker said. "At a reception for President Chavez of Venezuela."
"And if you plan to arrest General Naylor, Mr. President," DCI Powell said, "I think we ought to hear what the attorney general has to say. And/or the secretary of Defense."
"Maybe we should all give this some thought, Mr. President, overnight," Porky Parker said. "Collect all the facts, and then, say, at ten tomorrow morning…"
"We really don't want to act precipitously in the heat of the moment," DCI Powell said.
The President looked between them for a good thirty seconds before saying, "Okay, ten tomorrow morning. Just make sure they're all here."
He then walked out of the presidential study, slamming the door behind him.
A moment later there was the sound of a vase falling to the floor.
Or perhaps of one being thrown against a wall.
[ELEVEN]
The Mayflower Hotel 1127 Connecticut Avenue, N.W. Washington, D.C. 0925 14 February 2007 There is another, more elegant, name for it, in keeping with the elegance of the Mayflower itself, but most people think of it simply as "The Lobby Bar."
It's on the left of the hotel, and has windows opening on the Desales Street sidewalk. It offers morning coffee and a simple but of course elegant breakfast menu.
There were perhaps twenty people in it when Sergei Murov walked in.
"Over here, Sergei," Frank Lammelle called.
He was standing beside one of the tables near the window. There were three men and a woman sitting at the table.
"Thank you for coming, Sergei," Lammelle said as Murov approached the table. "I know it was more than a little inconvenient for you."
"Anything for you, Frank," Murov said.
"I don't think you know this fellow, but I understand you've been anxious to meet him. Charley, say hello to Sergei."
"How do you do, Colonel Castillo?" Murov said in English as he sat down.
"Frank's been telling me a lot about you, Sergei," Castillo said in Russian. "But not that you look like cousins."
"My Carlitos sounds as if he's a Saint Petersburger, wouldn't you agree, Sergei?" Sweaty asked.
She put her hand out. Murov rose, bowed, took her hand, kissed it, and then sat down.
"Svetlana, you are even more lovely than I remembered," Murov said.
"And of course you and Dmitri are old friends, right?" Lammelle said.
"We have known each other for a very long time," Murov said. "But perhaps 'acquaintances' would be the more accurate term."
"Charley's right," Berezovsky said. "You and Frank do look like cousins."
A waiter appeared with a silver coffee service on a tray and poured a cup for Murov.
"Lovely place, the Lobby Bar, isn't it, Sergei?" Lammelle asked.
"I come here often," Murov said.
"So I expect you'll miss it?"
"Excuse me?"
"As soon as he gets to his office, your ambassador will be getting a call from Secretary of State Cohen. She will suggest to him that it would be best if you voluntarily gave up your post here and returned to Moscow. Today. If that is not acceptable, you will be declared persona non grata. In that case, you would have seventy-two hours to leave the country, but you will be leaving, Sergei."
"Is that why you asked me to come here, Frank, to tell me that?"
"No. Actually, it was to ask a favor of you. I want you to take something to Moscow for me when you go, and see, personally, that it gets into the hands of Mr. Putin."
"What would that be?"
"It looks like a blue rubber beer keg," Castillo said. "I happened to come across it on a little island off the coast of Venezuela."
"Not to worry, Sergei," Sweaty said. "It's quite dead. It would be nice if you dropped it on Yakov Vladimirovich's foot, but I don't want to kill you or him. Or anyone else that way."
Murov lost his diplomatic composure.
"It's dead?"
"As a doornail," Castillo said.
"And that's why I'd like you to take it to Mr. Putin, so he can see that for himself. And the sooner the better, of course," Lammelle said. "Today. Rather than insisting on the seventy-two hours to which you are entitled before being expelled."
"If you look out the window, Sergei, you will see that the beer barrel is being loaded into your Mercedes SUV right now," Castillo said.
Murov looked.
"There's just a little more, Sergei. I'm sure you have by now seen the Wolf News report…"
"You can't miss it. It's been on since last night."
"Then you probably noticed that nothing was said about Congo-X."
Murov nodded.
"Not a word about General Sirinov jumping Spetsnaz into the Congo, to see if we'd missed any Congo-X when we took out the Fish Farm," Lammelle said. "Not a word about him personally flying into El Obeid Airport in North Kurdufan, Sudan, on a Tu-934A when they did find some that we missed. Not a word about the seventeen bodies he left at the airfield when he took off for what we now call 'Drug Cartel International Airport' in Mexico. Not a word about him watching as Pavel Koslov, the Mexico City rezident, loaded the two beer kegs you sent to Fort Detrick into a Mexican embassy Suburban for later movement across the border. Not a word about his then flying to La Orchila Island in Venezuela with what was left of the Congo-X."
"We have movies of most of this, Sergei," Castillo said.
"And General Sirinov has decided it's safer for him to be here, talking to Frank, than it would be for him in Moscow, trying to explain his failure to Vladimir Vladimirovich," Berezovsky said.
"And are you also talking to Frank, Dmitri?" Murov asked.
"I could tell you no, but you wouldn't believe me."
"We can keep it that way, Sergei," Lammelle said. "If Vladimir Vladimirovich agrees that getting into the question of Congo-X would not be good for either Russia or the United States."
"'Keep it that way'?"
"Well, your Ministry of Information could deny the whole thing. They could say it wasn't a brilliant intelligence operation, that they had sold the Tu-934A to… what's the name of that corporation, Charley?"
"LCBF. The LCBF Corporation," Castillo furnished.
"Who then turned a quick profit by selling it to the CIA."
"No one would believe that," Murov said.
"There are always some people who will believe anything," Sweaty said. "Including that Vladimir Vladimirovich is a fool."
"I don't quite understand, my dear Svetlana."
"Sorry, Frank," Svetlana said. "I know how much you and Sergei love to show each other how brilliant and civilized you are, but I've had enough of it."
"Which means?" Murov asked.
"You tell Vladimir Vladimirovich that I said that if so much as a thimbleful of Congo-X turns up anywhere, or if I even suspect he's trying to hurt any member of my family-and that includes my Carlitos, of course-I will make sure that every member of the SVR learns in detail how reckless and incompetent he is.
"And if he thinks this is an idle bluff, tell him to watch what happens if Koussevitzky's wife Olga-he's a Spetsnaz major; I shot him in the leg and left him on that island-and the entire Koussevitzky family are not in Budapest within seventy-two hours of your arrival in Moscow. I'll have two out of three SVR officers giggling behind Vladimir Vladimirovich's back, whispering that what he did when he was head of the KGB in Saint Petersburg was close his door and write poetry."