Conspiracy in Kiev

Hussein.”

“You’re not telling me anything new, Sam.”

The carriage had arrived at the East Seventy-second Street Plaza. Alex was ready to depart.

“No. I’m not,” he said. “But here’s what you have to remember in Latin America. The US screws around with the politics, but the alternative is ten times worse. The world works at the behest of the banks and corporations, and policy is enforced at the point of the gun. Because of that, you and I can walk free and are privileged to pay six bucks a gallon for gas. If it ever works the other way, it means the Islamo-fascists have defeated us, and they’d rape a nice-looking educated girl like you or hide you in a burka or burn you at the stake. So think of it as the binary system for world politics. You have two choices. Where would you rather live today? Cuba or the Dominican?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. “That’s your poli sci lesson, and that’s why Chavez’s options are clear. He can be a world outlaw, or we’ll take him out.”

He let his lesson settle.

“When are you leaving for Caracas?” Sam asked.

“I haven’t even decided if I’m going,” Alex answered.

“Of course you have,” Sam said. “I’ll make sure you have a weapon and a contact when you get there. Be sure to go to the doctor and get some antimalaria meds. If the heat, the gators, and the snakes don’t kill you, malaria might.” He eyed her as she stepped down from the carriage. “That’s a nice skirt, by the way. I like it. Looks good on you. You got the legs for it.”

“Thanks.”

“Want to have dinner later?”

“So long, Sam.”

She hopped out of the parked carriage and didn’t look back as she walked toward Fifth Avenue. Before she reached her apartment, she had pulled her cell phone out of her skirt pocket and phoned Joseph Collins. She would make the trip to Venezuela. That same evening, she phoned her friend, Don Tomas, in Washington. He had been the Counselor for Political Affairs at the US Embassy in Caracas. It had been his last tour with the Foreign Service, capping a distinguished career. He had even been there during the unsuccessful coup.

From his usual skeptical perspective, he gave her a rundown on current Venezuelan politics, particularly as affected by the current-day demagogue, Chavez.

“Venezuela has turned into a very dangerous place,” he said. “Almost as bad as Colombia next door.”

“I know,” she said.

“If you must go,” he said, “avoid the many bad areas of the city. My cleaning lady asked me that her schedule ensure that she would be able to get to her home in daylight. She lived in this hillside slum named Petrare. Governmental authority and social services only reached halfway up the hill. Toward dusk and after dark, hoodlums swaggered about with their guns exposed. Of course, there was always the threat of vigilante justice. Sometimes neighbors got really fed up with it and Petrare would ‘smell of kerosene,’ the favorite lynching tool. Police intervention was nonexistent.”

“Charming,” she said.

“Aside from that, travel safely and good luck.”

“Thanks. Should I carry a gun?” she asked.

“A woman on assignment in that part of the world?” he answered with a laugh. “You’d be a fool not to carry two guns.”

FIFTY-NINE

Mimi was dressed to kill when she arrived at the Club San Remo shortly before midnight. Sailor Moon all the way. Blue and white blouse. Red shoes and knee-high red socks. She wore a blue miniskirt, which normally was eight inches above the knee but she had used pins to take it up another two inches. Two ponytails, one to each side. Blue tint in her hair. The works.

Her escort was a handsome young plainclothes member of the carabinieri, a guy named Enrico. If he was going to get paid for escorting girls to clubs like this, well, he had the best job in the world. And Mimi, she liked the looks of her escort right away. He wasn’t the smartest guy she’d ever met, much less the most sophisticated. But he sure was well put together. She had hit the daily double on this assignment, she reasoned. She would get paid and have some fun.

They had another man in the club to watch their backs, but Mimi never even knew who he was. All she knew was what her job was, how to dress so a guy couldn’t miss her, much less say no, and then how to get the job done.

Enrico worked a cell phone once they were inside the club. The contact had been shadowing Anatoli all day.

Enrico sat at a table with Mimi and they sipped scotches. Mimi kept crossing and uncrossing her legs, enjoying the growing attention from her escort. Finally, Enrico turned to her.

“That’s him,” he said, indicating to his left. “That’s Anatoli.”

Enrico closed his phone. Mimi leaned over and put an arm on Enrico’s shoulder, but her real intent was to look past him and get a better view of her mark.

Anatoli, Federov’s onetime sidekick and bodyguard, sat at a corner table with two beautiful young women. He wore a leather jacket, his hair was cut short, almost an old-style KGB cut.

“He’s nice looking,” Mimi said in Italian. She recognized him from his picture.

“What did he do?” Enrico asked. “Why are we watching him?”

“I think he killed someone.”

“Oh,” Enrico said. “After we’re finished here, want to go get some food?”

She looked at Enrico. She smiled. “Sure,” she said. The nice thing about Enrico to Mimi, aside from how good looking he was, was that he was with the national police, so if he had killed anyone it was probably legal and he wasn’t in any trouble for it. Unlike Anatoli.

“Then let’s get this done and let’s get out of here,” Enrico said.

“You don’t like the music?”

“No.”

“You don’t like the drinks?”

“They’re okay.”

“But you do like me?” she laughed.

“A lot. Let’s go somewhere.”

“Your place?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay,” she said. “Keep me covered.”

She gave him a kiss on the cheek and went to work.

She fingered the small tacklike transmitter that she had concealed at the waist of her skirt. She pulled out a change purse that was filled with small coins. She unzipped it partially and stood.

She worked her way toward the ladies room, which, by good fortune, took her past Anatoli’s table. As she passed the table, she unzipped the purse. The contents, entirely coins, spilled out. As they fell, in the erratic light of the club, she whacked them so that they’d roll under Anatoli’s table.

Mimi then let loose with a loud profanity in Italian. Now she had Anatoli’s attention. He stared at her as did the women at his table. She had everyone’s attention now.

Her hands went to her face as she surveyed the loss of her coins with feigned horror. Anatoli, checking her out, slowly started to smile.

“Oh, scusi, scusi, scusi!” she pleaded.

Anatoli laughed. He didn’t speak much Italian. He gestured with his hands that it wasn’t a problem.

More sign language. Mimi pointed to herself and then under the table. “Voi permette? ” she asked. She gave him her sexiest most excited smile. Could she maybe crawl underneath and