Jack Yocke glanced into the backseat, then looked back at Toad. “She was an assassin?”
“She fought for her people.”
“Well…”
“Asshole!” Toad roared. “I killed a man tonight. I am not in the mood for moralizing from the editorial page pulpit. This ain’t a cocktail party in Georgetown! They slaughter people by the millions on this fucking continent! Mass murder is the European sport. Got a social problem, kill another million!”
“Sorry,” Yocke said contritely.
Toad snarled, “They oughta make you the fucking wine editor at the Post.”
The two men sat in the car looking at the park as the night faded into a gray dawn. They had nothing else to say to each other. Each was occupied with his own thoughts.
If there was anyone watching, Toad didn’t see them. Finally he opened his door and stepped out. “Help me with her,” he muttered to the reporter.
They left Judith Farrell under the nearest tree. Toad tried not to look at her face. As he straightened up he could see the body of the man he had shot still lying just as he had fallen.
On the way back to the car Jack Yocke glanced over his shoulder at the body of the Israeli agent. Toad Tarkington didn’t.
A Russian army detail was picking up the bodies around the American embassy compound when Toad and Jack returned. The soldiers were piling the corpses in a large truck. They weren’t carrying weapons.
A marine opened the gate and Toad drove through. As he got out of the car he saw her walking toward him. She wore khakis and a leather flight jacket and her hair was in a bun. When he held out his arms she broke into a run.
“Rita!”
“Hello, Toad-man.” She gave him a fierce hug, then stepped back. “I brought you a present,” she said. She unzipped the jacket and held it open. “Me!”
He took her in his arms. “When did you get here?” he asked finally.
“An hour ago.”
“Why?”
“Admiral Grafton asked for three pilots. I volunteered.”
Toad tried to frown. “I told you never to volunteer.”
“Ah, Toad-man, you do it all the time.”
“Yeah. And look at me. God, I’m glad you’re here.”
The marine recon team commanding officer was Captain Iron Mike McElroy. His broad shoulders tapered to a trim waist and a flat stomach that was probably corrugated like a washboard under his camo shirt. He saluted crisply and introduced himself. He and Jake had just started to get acquainted when Agatha Hempstead came marching across the sidewalk straight at them.
“Ambassador Lancaster didn’t know or approve of this decision to bring in a marine recon team.” She ignored Captain McElroy.
“General Land talked to the president about it,” Jake Grafton said mildly. “The president approved it.”
“Owen — Ambassador Lancaster should have been consulted. This request should have gone through the State Department. We can’t have the military making foreign poli—”
“Ms. Hempstead,” Jake said firmly, cutting her off. “I apologize to Ambassador Lancaster. I did not intend to cut him out of the loop. But time and urgent operational considerations required that I communicate directly with General Land in the Pentagon.”
“What considerations? What considerations do you consider to be nonpolitical? Here in Russia everything is political! Everything! I don’t think you understand Ambassador Lancaster’s position!”
Jake cocked his head and eyed Ms. Hempstead. “You’re the one who seems to be having the difficulty understanding who is responsible for what, ma’am. I suggest we stop this little turf war before it goes any further and start cooperating.”
“What considerations?”
Jake Grafton was ready to use a dirty word or two, but he swallowed it and rammed his fists into his pockets. “The situation here in Russia is a bit out of control. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
“The marine guard is quite capable of defending the embassy compound from a riot, Admiral.” Jake had never heard a flag officer’s rank pronounced quite this way. Antipathy, derision, disrespect — Goodbody Hempstead got a lot of mileage out of one little word. “The decision to augment the marines is for Ambassador Lancaster to make. A reconnaissance team armed to the teeth is not going to help matters very much!”
She paused, so Jake said, “The team is not here to augment the marine guard.”
But she was merely marshaling her arguments, not entertaining replies. “I’m sure the Yeltsin government will be making a diplomatic protest within hours. A recon team ready for combat strikes me as a very serious stretch of the military cooperation agreements that we have been operating under these last few weeks. Ambassador Lancaster—”
“Maybe I’d just better have a talk with the ambassador.”
“What are you going to use the team for?”
“I’ll tell it to the ambassador.”
So seven minutes later he was standing in the ambassador’s office. Boris Yeltsin was on television addressing the nation. Jake and Hempstead stood silently while the ambassador listened to a translator. When the broadcast was over, Lancaster muttered, “Well, at least he’s not resigning.”
“These seven people that want to take over, this junta, any mention of them?” Jake asked as the translator left the room.
“No. That’s a good sign, I think. But the situation is very fluid.” Lancaster sat down behind his desk and turned to Jake again. He went straight to the point: “What’s the recon team for?”
“I haven’t decided yet, sir. I thought they might come in handy.”
“Admiral, I don’t want you or Hayden Land starting a war. Before any of those gung-ho special warriors dons his warpaint or steps outside of this compound, I want a complete briefing. In writing.”
“Yessir.”
“We’ll put them in the gymnasium. They can sleep there. But so help me, Admiral, the secretary of state is not going to be a happy little camper. Foreign policy is the prerogative of civilians under our system of government. It’s a tried and true system and we’re going to ensure the United States sticks with it. If Land shoved the president out onto thin ice the shit is going to hit the fan.” The cuss word sounded weird coming from the New England Brahman. Jake would have bet money the old man had never even heard the word.
“Before you even scratch yourself,” the ambassador continued, “I want a complete briefing.”
“I should have discussed my concerns with you, sir, but the press of events didn’t seem to allow the time. I apologize. In a few hours I’m going to steal a couple helicopters from the Russians and fly down to Serdobsk for a look. I want to see that power plant.”
Lancaster sat back in his chair. “They tell me that site is too hot for humans.”
“The marines brought some antiradiation suits. And we probably won’t land. But I want to see what the place looks like and we need to get some better data on radiation levels.”
Lancaster digested that with a sour look on his face. Apparently he came to the conclusion that the less he knew the better. “Steal helicopters?” he asked mildly.
“Steal.”
Jake reached across the desk for an envelope, turned it over and wrote: Today I will steal two helicopters and fly to Serdobsk.
He signed his name, wrote the date, then passed the envelope to Lancaster, who looked at it and sighed. He ran his fingers across his scalp. “You don’t let much grass grow under your feet, do you, Admiral?”