General Arkady Gerimosov, who had perhaps drunk more “little water” than his comrades, spoke first.
“We could distract them by taking out New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles, Excellency? A most persuasive
The laughter in the room was explosive, but not everyone thought it was funny. Some of them privately thought it was a seriously good idea. Korsakov was not amused.
“A most entertaining idea, General Gerimosov, but, as Napoleon once said, ‘There are but two powers in the world, the sword and the mind. In the long run, the sword is always beaten by the mind.’ And on that note, there being no further business until the president’s presentation later on, this meeting is adjourned.”
“Volodya?” Korsakov said, speaking privately to the president via an earbud in Rostov’s ear.
“Excellency?”
“I desire a private word with you. I wonder if you might excuse yourself for a few minutes and join me in my office?”
“Indeed. I’m on my way.”
Rostov put his napkin to his lips, smiled at his colleagues, and slipped behind the curtain to see the wizard.
“Yes, Excellency,” Rostov said to the silhouetted figure sitting in the shadows. He took his usual chair, crossed his legs, and lit a cigarette.
“There is a man who needs watching, Volodya.”
“Who and where, Excellency?” Rostov replied.
“An Englishman named Hawke. I have some history with his family. He recently moved from London to Bermuda. He has somehow become involved with my daughter, Anastasia. A romantic liaison, perhaps. Perhaps not. He would appear to be a private citizen, extraordinarily wealthy. But I’ve reason to believe he’s MI-6. Or perhaps just a freelance operative for hire.”
“He needs watching or killing?”
“Both. For now, just watch. Contact my private security force on Bermuda. A Mr. Samuel Coale on Nonsuch Island. The old American NASA downrange tracking base. He’ll know what to do. When it’s time for Hawke to go, I will inform you. Then I will want you to contact Mr. Strelnikov. Paddy Strelnikov. An American gun of mine. He’s the only one I would send up against this Englishman.”
“He’s good, is he, this Brit?”
“Perhaps the best. He has caused our comrades in Havana and Beijing no end of trouble. Also, I am worried about my darling Anastasia. My daughter has been…unhappy since the untimely death of her husband, Vanya. She seems quite taken with this Hawke. It is troubling. I don’t want him in our nest.”
“Perhaps you should tell your daughter to steer clear of this man, Excellency. She is, after all, the soul of obedience.”
“Perhaps. But for a time, maybe, he will make her happy. And besides, who knows what she might learn from this Englishman in the meantime, eh, Volodya?”
Rostov nodded.
“Where is Paddy Strelnikov now, Excellency?”
“On assignment in America. Taking care of business.”
5
The road ahead looked like a frozen snake. Black and glistening in his headlights, slithering out there, disappearing into the distant snow-white hills. Paddy Strelnikov had his high beams on, but still, mostly all he could see was swirling snow. Wet stuff, soft blobs of it hitting his windshield.
He found the stalk of the left side of the wheel and put the dims back on. Yeah. That was better, less snow and more road.
Strelnikov didn’t know from driving out in the middle of nowhere at night in the middle of a freaking blizzard. He was a Russian emigrant from Brooklyn, f’crissakes, where they had normal highways. The BQE, the Long Island Expressway, hell, even the Santa Monica Freeway out in L.A., et cetera, those he could handle. This road? North Dakota? Forget about it, brother. This was freaking Mars.
He glanced at his chunky gold watch, saw what time it was, and accelerated, fishtailing a little. He watched the red needle climb past eighty, ninety. He hoped to hell this automobile had traction control. He thought they had a switch for that on these new cars, but he hadn’t been able to find one. He wasn’t exactly sure what traction control was or even where he’d heard about it. TV commercial, probably. Whatever it was, it sounded good to him. When it had first started snowing hard, he’d pulled into a rest stop and looked for the switch.
Good luck. There were a whole lot of knobs and switches on the dash, way too many, in fact, but not one of them said anything about traction control. It was no wonder Detroit was going down the toilet. Nobody had a clue how to work the damn cars anymore. Somehow, a few years back, some genius in Motown had decided everybody in America wanted dashboards to look like the cockpits of a 747. Now, they all did, and nobody had a clue what button did what anymore.
He’d looked around inside the glove box for some kind of a manual, but of course there was none. Just his rental contract and a folded map of North Dakota, which he did not need, and his.38 snub-nose, which he
Maybe traction control was even standard on this thing, automatic, he told himself now, speeding up a little. But about an hour ago, he’d almost skidded into a ditch. Twice. The road conditions were so bad back there it had been like trying to drive a friggin’ schoolbus across a frozen lake.
The car, a black Mustang coupe rented at the Bismarck airport Hertz counter, had a good heater, at least, once you finally found the knob that turned it on. He’d come across it only by accident, looking for the traction-control thingy, just like he’d finally found the button that turned the radio on. At least a previous renter had punched in some pretty good radio stations. Must have been some fuckin’ electronics engineer or jet pilot or something who’d done that. Whatever happened to two knobs, over and out?
There was an all-night talk show out of Chicago he’d been listening to. Pretty good reception, and the show was good, too, called
Everybody in the country, not just Chicago, was talking about Charles Edward Stump, a.k.a. Stumpy the Baby Snuffer. Yeah, talking about Stumpy’s impending execution, et cetera. This case had gotten media attention worldwide, not just the tabloids, either.
Mr. Stump was, in fact, the reason Fyodor Strelnikov, known since childhood as Paddy, was driving through the Badlands of North Dakota on this most miserable night in December. The execution was scheduled to take place at midnight tonight, which was, he saw, looking at his watch, exactly two hours and six minutes from now. Stumpy’s
Distance to the joint from here was approximately sixty-seven miles.
Paddy snugged the pedal a little closer to the metal. He had time to do what he had to do, but he didn’t want to cut it too close. Get in, make his delivery, and get the hell out of this friggin’ state. You had to figure the joint would be mobbed, all the protesters and media crawling all over the place. He stuck the needle on 100 miles per hour.
“The real question is, is Charles Stump insane?” a caller said on the radio.
“
