Ambassador to Washington, and Arnold was very fond of both families. But in Jimmy he had a soul mate, a much younger man, whose creed was suspicion, thoroughness, tireless determination to investigate, always prepared to play a hunch, and a total devotion to the United States, where Jimmy had been brought up.
He might have been engaged to a goddess, but Jimmy Ramshawe believed Arnold Morgan was God. Several years ago Admiral Morgan himself had been Director of the National Security Agency, and ever since had continued to consider himself in overall command of the place.
This suited Admiral George Morris, the current Director, extremely well, because there was no better advice available than that of Admiral Morgan. And the system suited everyone extremely well: the ex — Carrier Battle Group Commander George Morris, because Arnold's input made him look even smarter, and Jimmy because he trusted Arnold's instincts better than he trusted his own.
When Admiral Morgan called the NSA, Fort Meade trembled. His growl echoed through Crypto City, as the Military Intelligence hub was called. And, essentially, that was the way Arnold liked it.
'Jimmy, I was at the banquet, standing only about ten feet from the Siberian when he hit the deck. He went down like he'd been shot, which he plainly hadn't. But I watched him die, rolling back and forth, fighting for breath, just like his lungs had quit on him. Wasn't like any heart attack I ever saw…'
'How many you seen?'
'Shut up, Jimmy. You sound like Kathy. And listen…I want you very quietly to find out where the goddamned body is, where it's going, and whether there's going to be an autopsy.'
'Then what?'
'Never mind ‘then what.' Just take step one, and call me back.' Slam. Down phone.
'Glad to notice the old bastard's mellowing,' muttered Jimmy. 'Still, Kathy says that's how he's talked to at least two Presidents. So I guess I can't complain.'
He picked up his other phone line and told the operator to connect him to Bill Fogarty down at FBI headquarters. Three minutes later the top Washington field agent was on the case, and twenty minutes after that Bill was back with news of the fate of the corpse of Mikhallo Masorin.
'Jimmy, I walked into a goddamned hornet's nest. Seems the Russians want to take the body directly back to Moscow tomorrow afternoon. But the Navy is not having it. Masorin is officially in their care while the body's in the USA. He died on American soil, and they're insisting the formalities are carried out here, including, if necessary, an autopsy.'
'What do the Russians think about that?'
'Not a whole hell of a lot,' said Bill Fogarty. 'They are saying Masorin was an official guest of the President in the United States, and they should be afforded the diplomatic courtesy of treating his death as if it happened in their own embassy, where he was staying. They want to take the body home as soon as possible.'
'Will they get their way?'
'I don't think so. Under the law, a foreign national who dies in the USA is subject to the correct procedures of the United States. If something has happened to a high-ranking Russian official, it is within the rights of the United States to demand the most exhaustive inquiries into the cause of death until we are satisfied that every avenue has been explored. Even then, the body is released only on our say-so.'
'Sounds like the Russian President is asking for a major favor.'
'And some people here at HQ think they're gonna get it. But I still think the will of the U.S. Navy will prevail. And they have the body still at the hospital at Bethesda.'
'Bill, I'm gonna make one phone call. And I have a hunch it's going to end all speculation. After all, anyone who was in the White House at that time must be a suspect if there is a question of foul play. And that must include the President and all his agents and officials. That body's not going anywhere for a while, except the city morgue.'
Lt. Commander Ramshawe thanked Bill Fogarty and immediately called the Naval Hospital, leaving a message for the duty officer to call him right back at the NSA. That took two full minutes, and it established that the body of the number one political commissar in all of Siberia would be leaving for the morgue inside the hour. An autopsy would be carried out this afternoon. The Russians were, apparently, not pleased.
Jimmy hit the buttons to Chevy Chase.
'Morgan, speak.'
'Sir, the body of Mr. Masorin will be at the city morgue in a couple of hours. The Russians are trying to kick up a fuss and get permission to remove it back to Moscow. But that's obviously not going to happen.'
'Doesn't surprise me any, Jimmy. Tell the pathologist we're looking for poison of some kind. I'm damn sure it wasn't a heart attack.'
'You think one of our guys got rid of him?'
'Well, that's what it looks like. But you never know with the Russians. A short, sharp murder in the White House gives 'em marvelous cover. Because they can feign outrage at this disgraceful breach in American security, while they make their getaway home, to that god-awful country of theirs.'
'You mean they might have killed their own man?'
'It's happened before, both in and beyond the old Soviet reign. But let's not get excited. We'll wait 'til we hear the autopsy report. Then we'll take a very careful look…hey, well done, kid…but I gotta go. I'd better talk to the Chief.'
Lt. Commander Ramshawe's veteran black Jaguar pulled into the parking lot behind the city morgue, and headed straight into one of the VIP reserved spaces. This was an old ruse taught him long ago by Admiral Morgan…
Inside the building, the area where the autopsy had been conducted was busy, despite the fact the FBI had denied the Russians entry. There were two U.S. Navy guards on the door, three White House agents outside in the corridor, and the Chief Medical Officer from Bethesda was in attendance. The coroner, Dr. Louis Merloni, was there, and the autopsy was carried out by the resident clinical pathologist, Dr. Larry Madeiros. No details of the examination had yet been released.
Jimmy showed his NSA pass to the guards and was admitted immediately. Inside he said firmly, 'Dr. Madeiros?'
And the pathologist walked over and held out his hand.
'Lt. Commander Ramshawe, NSA,' said Jimmy. 'I would like to talk to you for a few minutes in private.'
'No problem, sir.'
They walked to an adjoining office across the wide examination room, and almost before they had time to sit down, Jimmy Ramshawe said, 'Okay, Doc, gimme the cause of death.'
'Mikhallo Masorin died of asphyxiation, sir.'
'You mean some bastard throttled him?'
'No. I don't mean that. I mean he was given a substance, a poison of some type, which caused the transmission of nerve impulses from the brain to the muscles to be seriously impaired. In the end to the point of limpness. When this process hits the chest muscles, breathing stops.'
'Jesus Christ.'
'This diagnosis tallies with the accounts of the two doctors who attended Mr. Masorin. The victim was wide awake and aware of what was happening, until he lost consciousness.'
'You don't think he was poisoned by something in his food?'
'No. I found a very fine puncture mark on the back of his neck, right side. I think we will find he was injected with the poison through that hole.'
'Do we know what the poison was yet?'
'No idea. All the bodily fluids are still in the lab. That's blood cell counts, bone marrow, liver, kidneys, and all biochemical substances found in the body. It'll take a while, but I'm pretty sure we're going to find something very foreign deep inside that corpse.'
'The bloody corpse was very foreign,' said Jimmy cheerfully. 'That makes the poison amazingly foreign.'
'Unless it was American,' replied the doctor, archly.
'Well, yes. I suppose so,' said Jimmy. 'When will you know?'
