“No sir,” I lied. “Furthest thing from my mind.”
His face was reddening. “I have a dead officer on my hands. I have another American officer and an American citizen involved in a shootout in the capital of Russia. And the worst thing is, I haven’t got a goddamn clue why. You see where that puts me in a very foul mood?”
I said, “The police told us it was a Chechen thing, a simple terrorist attack, and we were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Bullshit! They always blame these things on Chechens. What were you two up to?”
I bent forward to answer, but Katrina lunged forward faster. “That’s the same damn thing I was going to ask you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What am I talking about?” Her voice rose with outrage, and I have to admit I was waiting breathlessly to hear her story as well. “We come here to conduct our investigation and you assign us a driver who nearly gets us killed.”
Jackler lurched forward in his chair. “This Torianski guy?”
She replied, “That attack was directed at him. That’s obvious, isn’t it?”
All four men were now regarding her with inquisitive expressions. For their joint benefit, Jackler asked, “Why’s it obvious?”
“Mel told us he was sorry he got us into this only a second before he was shot.”
“He said he was sorry?” the ambassador asked.
“Didn’t I just say that?” Katrina demanded.
All eyes turned to me, and Jackler asked, “That right, Drummond?”
“I remember he said he was sorry. And he mentioned something… something…” I scratched my head and looked up at the ceiling, trying to recall what he said-that he didn’t really say. But that’s beside the point.
Katrina said, “About the SVR?”
“Right, that part. Something about SVR bastards.”
“He said that?” the ambassador asked.
“Bullets were flying through the window, so I couldn’t hear real distinctly. But yeah, SVR bastards, or buzzards, or something. Anyway, Mr. Ambassador, I’m registering an official protest. My associate and I had our lives put at risk by your people.”
Riser turned to one of the two men I didn’t know from Adam. “Could that be possible?”
The man hunched his shoulders. “We, well, um, we hadn’t even considered it. We’ll have to comb through everything he was working on to see if it’s a possibility.”
Riser’s face flushed. “Why didn’t you already consider it? It’s your damned job to consider it. Why do I have to sit in front of these poor people looking like a horse’s ass?”
“Uh, sir,” said the other unidentified man, “Phil meant we considered it… we just ruled it as… well, as a lower possibility.”
“A lower possibility?”
The unnamed guy looked cunningly at Phil and said, “Yes sir. Torianski was involved in a few things; we just… didn’t think they were worth bringing to your attention yet. We wanted to hear Drummond’s side first. We’re narrowing the possibilities. Now we intend to look more deeply.”
“Right,” said the guy I didn’t know from Adam, whose name turned out to be Phil. “We don’t like giving you half-cocked theories. But now that we’ve ruled out these two,” he said, indicating us, “we know exactly where to look.”
“At the SVR thing, right?” the still-unidentified guy suggested to Phil, whom I took to be his boss, whose ass he was scurrying to save.
“The SVR thing, right,” Phil adamantly replied, looking at the ambassador and nodding his head in our direction. “Which we obviously can’t discuss in their presence.”
Katrina appeared to be fascinated by the unfolding scene. They should start one of those reality TV shows where you get to watch trained bureaucrats play cover-your-ass.
With an aggrieved scowl, Riser said to us, “I’m very sorry. This is so embarrassing. As you can see, my own staff has been keeping me in the dark.”
“It happens, sir,” I said, ever the graceful type.
“For Godsakes, just assign us a driver who doesn’t get us killed,” Katrina insisted.
“Of course.” He hastily ushered Jackler and us out of his office, apologizing profusely as we walked out his door.
Out in the hallway, we could hear his voice go off, as Jackler said, “You two aren’t bullshittin’, are ya?”
“What? About Torianski?”
“Come on, Drummond. That boy didn’t have anything to do with this Morrison thing, did he? He worked for Morrison, right? And you’re here looking for an accomplice, and this guy gets whacked.”
“You know, I haven’t got a clue. I hadn’t even thought of it, but it does look suspicious, doesn’t it? Christ, I hope not. With him dead it would blow our chances for a deal with Eddie.”
He walked away shaking his head, leaving little doubt that he intended to look fully into this matter. It would’ve been hilarious, except a young Army captain who had struck me as a very decent guy was dead.
Not to mention that Katrina and I were on somebody’s hit list.
Not to mention this was Arbatov’s turf.
Not to mention it was his game.
And if you add all that together, it was time to book two tickets on the next flight home.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I swallowed three more aspirins and lay down to nap before I organized our flight from Moscow. As both Napoleon and Hitler learned, planning a retreat from Moscow is a tricky affair that takes a clear mind and meticulous preparation. I’d woken up early, been shot at, wounded, and operated on, and was left feeling a bit groggy and foggy. I don’t know how long I slept, maybe a few minutes, maybe a few hours, but I awoke to a hand shaking me.
My eyes cracked open, and I found myself staring at the handsome features of Alexi Arbatov. Instinctively, I jerked forward and nailed him in the forehead with a flat-handed punch. He flew backward, and I leaped out of the bed and jumped on him. He put up no fight, just went limp and passive. I flipped him over on his stomach, got one arm wrapped around his jaw and the other against the back of his head. I said, “Move and I’ll break your neck.” Not too original a line, but suitable for the occasion and, more important, authentic.
“Please… let go,” he replied, his words choked and strained, because I had rotated his chin nearly forty-five degrees to the right, poised for the quick jerk that would disconnect his skull from his spine.
“Of course… I let you go and you whack me.” I did, however, let his head rotate slightly back toward its natural position before I accidentally strangled him to death.
He mumbled, “You are being fool. Why did I not kill you when you were sleeping?”
It was a reasonable point-unless he was like one of those old western gunfighters who called their victim before they shot. The common perception is they did that out of some heroic sense of fair play. Wrong-it was the sadistic code of the Old West to let the victim have a miserable moment to contemplate his impending death.
Anyway, I released him from the lock, and he rolled over and sat up and began rotating his head. I stayed coiled, ready to strike. He didn’t say anything for a moment, but regarded me through sullen eyes.
He eventually said, “I have gotten report on attack an hour ago. We have big problem.”
“True.” I added, “But not the same problem. Mine is the number two guy in the SVR wants me dead. Yours seems to be how to murder me without causing the fingers to point back at you.”
He scratched an eyebrow. “This is not true.”
“No, and Stalin’s not dead, either. He and Elvis are hiding out together at some luxurious resort in Mexico, partying their asses off.”
He gave me a quizzical look. “Elvis?”
