He next sauntered to the counter, where a chubby babushka was filling somebody else’s order. He yelled something in Russian, and she looked up, chortled, and said something back. They both laughed. I didn’t understand a word, but got the general gist. He was complimenting her on the coffee and roll, and she was responding like a thirteen-year-old who just got her hair stroked by the Backstreet Boys.
I was oddly impressed. One wouldn’t expect a bloodthirsty, conniving spymaster to be so convivial toward the hired help. On the other hand, these guys are good. They know it’s the little things that lend legitimacy to their biggest shams.
I caught up with him by the doorway and frantically whispered, “So what’s next?”
He ignored me, walked out, and got about ten steps before he looked back. “Nothing is to be next. Good- bye.”
He disappeared into the crowd, obviously having made up his mind. I could scrape all the chalk stripes on that statue I wanted; I would never see him again.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Over breakfast, Katrina filled me in on the latest revelation released by Eddie. He had turned up the heat again-or, perhaps torched up would be more apropos. In addition to everything else, Morrison was now accused of giving the Russians copies of the President’s and Secretary of State’s briefing papers and talking points in advance of every U.S.-Russian summit and meeting.
This whopping revelation had really set the Beltway back on its heels. It’s one thing to give the Russians technical secrets, or to betray their betrayers, or even to pervert the American decision-making process. It’s another thing altogether to provide the President’s and Secretary of State’s scripts to the Russians in advance of all their meetings. Consider some of the guys and gals who work in those offices, who frankly are glued to those scripts like coma patients connected to life-support systems.
Katrina said the newspapers and news channels were filled with outrage, innuendos, and theories regarding the release. Devise all the silly theories you want, the average schmo on the street had the bubble. No President or Secretary of State had talked to the Russians anytime lately where the Russians didn’t know exactly what he was going to mutter in advance, exactly how far he was willing to go, how much was bluff and how much bluster. As diplomatic catastrophes go, it would be hard to imagine worse. The Russians had been inside the minds of our national leaders for years.
Eddie had to be delighted by his latest little release, and it did not escape notice that he was finding ways to get his name on the front page almost every single day. Katrina reported that the latest copy of People magazine was in the hotel lobby, and Eddie’s gorgeous mug graced the cover. I nearly blew chunks all over my limp bacon and undercooked eggs. Clapper had to be delighted. His beloved tarantula was becoming the poster boy of the JAG Corps.
At nine o’clock, Mel arrived in a black embassy car to take us to the embassy. I climbed into the front and Katrina got in the back. Mel immediately made a few gleeful wisecracks about the latest revelations, taking sadistic joy in the continuing humiliation of his former boss. The man must’ve been a real bastard to work for.
Mel had just pulled off the main highway and turned down a side street, when all of a sudden a big truck careened out of an alley and blocked our way. He jammed on the brakes and nearly threw Katrina and me through the windshield-followed by a very quiet moment while we sat and stared at the truck. It wasn’t moving.
I spun around just in time to see three men climbing out of a car at the end of the street we’d just come down. They were dressed in suits, which somehow looked outrageously incongruous, because they were all holding Kalashnikov rifles in their hands, sort of casually adjusting their stances, the way golfers prepare to tee off.
I shoved Katrina’s head down and yelled, “On the floor!”
Mel spun around and saw what I was looking at. He froze.
I screamed, “Weapons? Do you have any weapons?”
He was just starting to reach across me when the first rounds came spraying through the rear windshield. I was splattered with glass and blood as Mel’s head appeared to explode and his body flopped over and landed in my lap.
I instinctively shoved him off and dove for the floor as bullets pelted against the car. That’s when I saw what Mel had lunged for-an M16 rifle strapped to the underside of the passenger seat, two metal clips holding it in place. I quickly undid them and yanked the M16 to my body, straining to pull back the charging handle and unlock the safety, ordinarily simple things to accomplish, except when your body’s all scrunched up and keeps involuntarily flinching from the sounds of bullets striking around you.
Two possibilities struck me-I could stay in the car, pray no bullets hit me, and wait till the shooters walked in our direction to perform the coup de grace. Or I could try to get out of the car and pray nobody shot me. Staying in the car posed one problem. Sometimes, bullets cause a fuel ignition and you get one of those Hollywood moments that just mess up your plans for the evening.
Option two had drawbacks also. If I threw open my passenger door and simply rushed out, the three shooters would nail me. They were maybe forty yards away. They couldn’t miss. I yelled, “Katrina!” and through the sound of loud bangs I heard her say, “Yes.”
“Open your door. And stay inside.”
“Okay!” she yelled.
I gave her a two-second head start before I threw open my door. Her door was on the other side of the car, and the second it opened, it became a bullet magnet as the three shooters tried to hit whoever rolled out. I leaped out my side, and as soon as I hit the ground I scrambled for the front of the car. I could feel chips of concrete striking my legs, but I made it.
I got on my belly and scooted until I could peek around a tire. The shooters still stood casually out in the open, unaware I had a weapon, believing they were invulnerable. One was calmly changing magazines while the other two nonchalantly plunked away at our car.
The obvious choice was to take out the two who were firing. I pushed the semiautomatic selector on the M16, stuck it around the corner, took quick aim, and swept it across the two shooters. The first folded over like he suddenly got a bad bellyache, while the second was flung backward and landed on the concrete.
The guy reloading scurried behind his car-I fired two shots, but missed. At least I think I missed, although I saw no movement and there was no firing. I had expended about ten rounds, and the M16 had a twenty-round magazine, so I had maybe ten bullets left. Harassing fire wasn’t an option.
I aimed my weapon in his direction and yelled, “Katrina, get out of the car!”
I hoped she was still alive to hear me. Five or so seconds passed and there was nothing, no sound from her, no movement.
Then I saw her land on the cement and scramble in my direction. At nearly the same instant, I saw the Russian pop over the top of his car, and I fired a quick burst. I had no idea whether I hit him. I was too fixated on the little round cylinder he’d thrown that was sailing in our direction.
I jumped up, tackled Katrina, and ended up on top of her. Then came the explosion. The thing about being in a narrow street is that sound does not escape. A loud boom sends its first shock wave into your eardrums, followed by an almost instantaneous aftershock from ricocheted waves.
My ears were ringing as I rolled off Katrina. She had her hands over her ears, and her elbows and knees were bloody from the effects of my tackle. Something in my left leg stung as I got up and dragged her to the front of the car.
I sat and tried to appraise our situation. The smell of cordite was heavy in the air, and there was a fair amount of smoke, but all I could hear was a loud ringing. I looked over at Katrina, and her lips were moving, but I couldn’t hear a word.
What next? Check to see if the last shooter was dead? Wait right there and hope he didn’t have another hand grenade and better aim?
After all the noise and racket, surely the Moscow police had to be on the way. Katrina was staring down at my leg and pointing at a spot below my knee. When I pulled up my trouser leg, blood was pumping out in tiny spurts, an indication a significant vein had been punctured. She slapped a palm over the wound and tried to stem
