Within a few minutes there were two doctors in attendance, but they could only bear witness to the death throes of the Siberian head honcho. One of them filled a syringe and unleashed a potent dose of something into Mr. Masorin's upper arm.
But there was no saving him. Mikhallo was gone, in rapid time, dead before the Navy stretcher bearers could get to him. Dead, right there on the floor of the State Dining Room in front of his own President and that of the United States.
President Bedford asked one of the doctors if the Siberian could be saved if they could get him to the Naval Hospital in Bethesda.
But the answer was negative. 'Nothing could have saved this man, sir. He was gone in under four minutes. Some heart attacks are like that. There's nothing anyone can do.'
Of course, only those few in the immediate vicinity realized that one of the Russian guests had actually died. More than 120 other dignitaries quickly became aware than someone had been taken ill, but were unaware of the fateful consequences of the heart attack.
And the evening passed agreeably, although the White House Press Office did feel obliged, shortly before eleven p.m., to put out a general press release that the Chief Minister for the Urals Federal District, Mr. Mikhallo Masorin, had suffered a heart attack at the conclusion of a State Banquet, and was found to be dead on arrival at the United States Naval Hospital in Bethesda, Maryland.
Admiral Morgan and Kathy made their farewells a little after midnight, and Arnold's driver picked them up at the main entrance and headed northwest to Chevy Chase.
'Terrible about that poor Russian, wasn't it?' said Kathy. 'He was at the next table to us, couldn't have been more than fifty years old. Must have been a very bad heart attack…'
'Bullshit,' replied Arnold, not looking up from an early edition of the
'I'm sorry?' said Kathy, slightly perplexed.
'Bullshit,' confirmed the Admiral. 'That was no heart attack. He was writhing around on the floor, opening and shutting his mouth like a goddamned goldfish.'
'I know he was, darling. But the doctor
'What the hell does he know?'
'Oh, I am so sorry. It entirely slipped my memory I was escorting the eminent cardiovascular surgeon and universal authority Arnold Morgan.'
Arnold looked up from his newspaper, grinning at his increasingly sassy wife. 'Kathy,' he said, formally, 'whatever killed Masorin somehow shut down his lungs instantly. He could not draw breath. The guy suffocated, fighting for air, which you probably noticed was plentiful in the State Dining Room. But it was beyond his reach. Heart attacks don't do that.'
'Oh,' said Kathy. 'Well, what does?'
'A bullet, correctly aimed. A combat knife, correctly delivered. Certain kinds of poison.'
'But there was no blood anywhere. And anyway, why should the CIA or the FBI or whatever want to get rid of an important guest at a White House banquet?'
'I have no idea, my darling,' said Arnold. 'But I believe someone did. And I'll be mildly surprised if we don't find out before too long that Mikhallo Masorin was murdered last night. Right here in Washington, DC.'
CHAPTER ONE
Lt. Commander Jimmy Ramshawe, assistant to the Director of the National Security Agency in Fort Meade, Maryland, had both his feet and his antennae up. Lounging back in his swivel chair, shoes on the desk, he was staring at an item on the front page of the
TOP RUSSIAN OFFICIAL DROPS DEAD IN WHITE HOUSE
'Poor bastard,' muttered the American-born but Australian-sounding Intelligence officer. 'That's a hell of a way to go — in the middle of the bloody State Dining Room, right in front of two Presidents. Still, by the look of this, he didn't have time to be embarrassed.'
He read on, skimming through the brief biography that always accompanies such a death. The forty-nine- year-old Mikhallo Masorin had been a tough, uncompromising Siberian boss, a man who stood up for his people and their shattered communist dream. Here was a man who had brought real hope to this 4,350-mile-long landmass of bleak and terrible beauty, snow fields, and seven time zones — one-third of all the land in the Northern Hemisphere.
Mikhallo was adored in Siberia. He was a politician who stood up fiercely against Moscow, frequently reminding his Russian rulers that the oil upon which the entire economy was built was Siberian. And it was the natural property of the Siberian people. And he wanted more money for it, from Central Government. Not for himself, but for his people.
The Urals Federal District is one of the three Siberian 'kingdoms' that make up the huge area. The others are the Siberian Federal District, thousands and thousands of square miles between the Yenisei River and the Lena River, and then the Russian Far East. The Urals Federal District is easily the most important because that's where most of the oil fields are located.
Mikhallo Masorin was a towering figure, standing stark upon those desolate plains of Western Siberia, the freezing place that the locals claim was 'forgotten by the Creator,' but beneath which lie the largest oil fields on earth.
And now Mikhallo was gone, and Jimmy Ramshawe's hackles rose a lot higher than his shoes on the desk. 'Streuth,' he said quietly, taking a swig of his hot black coffee. 'Wouldn't be surprised if a bloody lot of people were glad he died. None of 'em Siberian.'
At times like this, Lt. Commander Ramshawe's instincts of suspicion, mistrust, misgivings, and downright disbelief sprang to the fore. And a few harsh lessons issued to him by the Big Man fought their way to the front of his mind…
'Wouldn't be the biggest shock in the world if the old bastard calls on this one,' he said, refilling his coffee cup. And he was right about that.
Three minutes later his private line rang. Jimmy always thought it betrayed an irritable, impatient tone to its modern bell when the Big Man was on the line. And he was right about that too.
'Jimmy, you read the
'Yessir.'
'Well, first of all, you can forget all about that heart attack crap.'
'Sir?'
'And stop calling me ‘sir.' I'm retired.'
'Could've fooled me, sir.'
Arnold Morgan chuckled. For the past few years he had treated Jimmy Ramshawe almost like a son, not simply because the young Aussie-American was the best Intelligence officer he had ever met, but also because he both knew and liked his father, a former Australian Navy Admiral and currently a high-ranking airline official in New York.
Jimmy was engaged to the surf goddess Jane Peacock, a student and the daughter of the Australian
