The Old Ebbitt Grill
675 Fifteenth Street, N.W.
Washington, D.C.
1245 21 June 2007
When he had time, later, to reconstruct the disaster at the Old Ebbitt, Edgar Delchamps was forced to conclude that he was at least partially responsible for it.
There had been no question in his mind when he met Roscoe J. Danton at Dulles International that the journalist needed a little—more than a little—liquid courage before going to the White House to explain what he was doing in Las Vegas when he was supposed to be in Budapest.
Especially since the story Charley Castillo had come up with to explain Danton’s presence there seemed to stretch credibility. When Castillo had called to tell him that he wanted Delchamps and Two-Gun to meet Danton and see (a) that he got to the White House, and (b) that he had his story for the President right, he had both explained his concern that Roscoe might be considering desertion from the Merry Outlaws and related the story he had given Roscoe to explain his presence in Las Vegas.
Danton was to tell the President that when he had heard from various sources, whose identity he was honor-bound as a journalist to not make public, the rumors about the formation of the committee to build the President Joshua Ezekiel and Mrs. Belinda-Sue Clendennen Presidential Library and Last Resting Place, he had prevailed upon Castillo to make a quick stop in Las Vegas en route to Cozumel so that he could check out the rumors.
As a manifestation of his great admiration for the President and the First Lady, Danton was to tell the President, he wanted to be the one to break the story to his millions of readers in his syndicated column and to the millions more who couldn’t or wouldn’t read but who watched him on Wolf News.
Roscoe was to tell the President that no sooner had he gotten off Castillo’s Gulfstream than another identical Gulfstream had appeared. A large crowd of journalists was on hand to meet the second airplane and, his journalist’s curiosity naturally aroused, he had stood with them to see which famous person was arriving.
What had happened next, Roscoe was to tell the President, was that a porn star named Red Ravisher, whom Roscoe recognized even though he had never met her in his life, got off the airplane, apparently in her cups, picked a fight with a French cameraman, and then threw him at the crowd of journalists in which he was innocently standing. A riot had then ensued.
Aware that the President’s political foes might attempt to somehow connect this shameful event to the President Joshua Ezekiel and Mrs. Belinda-Sue Clendennen Presidential Library and Last Resting Place, and determined that that should not be permitted to happen, Roscoe had immediately gotten back on Castillo’s Gulfstream and they had instantly taken off and flown on to Cozumel, where Castillo was going to train SEALs and members of the Delta Force to take back pirated ships from their Somalian captors.
Delchamps thought the story smelled worse than a twenty-five-pound catfish left to rot in the Mississippi sun for ten days. But on the other hand, he thought that if President Clendennen believed that public-spirited citizens had donated ten million dollars to his library because of their admiration for him, he was likely to believe anything, up to and including this cockamamy yarn Roscoe was going to try to feed him.
The other mistake he had made, Delchamps was forced to admit later, was taking Roscoe to the Old Ebbitt, instead of, for example, to the Round Robin Bar in the Willard Hotel, which was right around the corner.
He had taken Roscoe to the Old Ebbitt because he knew Roscoe was an habitué of the establishment, and also because he and Two-Gun Yung, too, were fond of the Old Ebbitt’s version of the Bloody Mary.
He completely forgot that others knew that Roscoe was an habitué of the establishment—especially before and at lunchtime—and that one or more of these people might go there looking for Roscoe, which might complicate things.
As it turned out, three such people were there when they led Roscoe in and ordered double Bloody Marys for the three of them.
He didn’t see any of them at first. This was because two of them—C. Harry Whelan and Matthew “Hockey Puck” Christian—had immediately hidden behind their copies of the enormous Old Ebbitt’s menu cards so as not to be seen by Delchamps, Yung, and Danton when they saw them come in.
Delchamps, who was, after all, as a result of his long service with the Clandestine Service of the CIA, skilled in deducing things, had deduced that both journalists had come—independently—to the Old Ebbitt hoping to see Roscoe. If he showed up, Mr. Whelan intended to corner Roscoe to demand to know what “out of the box” story vis-à-vis President Clendennen he was chasing.
Mr. Christian intended to corner Roscoe to learn the identity of the woman whom he had seen throwing the French paparazzo at Danton. Christian knew that it wasn’t Miss Red Ravisher, as her attorneys were suing him and Continental Broadcasting for mis-identifying her as the thrower. He didn’t think they would be seeking fifty million dollars in slander damages if there was any chance at all she had indeed been the thrower.
The third person to have come to the Old Ebbitt in the hope of encountering Mr. Danton was Miss Eleanor Dillworth, who at one time—before she had been, in her judgment, unfairly terminated by the CIA—had been the CIA station chief in Vienna, Austria.
Miss Dillworth planned to share with Mr. Danton—and through him with his millions of readers and viewers—some little jewels of CIA mistakes and blunders that, when Mr. Danton made them public, would make those miserable bastards in Langley really rue the day when they had messed with Miss Eleanor Dillworth.
Everything at first had gone smoothly. As they appreciatively imbibed their first two double Bloody Marys, Edgar and Two-Gun had rehearsed Roscoe over and over until they were satisfied he had his cockamamy story for President Clendennen down pat.
That accomplished, a celebratory third double Bloody Mary was certainly called for. Edgar had just taken his first sip when he was assaulted by Miss Dillworth.
One moment he was patting Roscoe on the shoulder, telling him not to worry, and the next he was on his back on the floor with a more than Rubenesque fiftyish blonde lady—Miss Dillworth—sitting on his chest, and choking him.
“At first I couldn’t believe my eyes,” she screamed. “But then I knew it was you, you sonofabitch!”
“And which sonofabitch, madam, is it that you mistakenly believe I am?” Edgar courteously inquired in sort of a whisper. Miss Dillworth’s hands on his throat were surprisingly strong for someone of her years.
“The sonofabitch who garroted the Russian rezident in Vienna and left his pop-eyed corpse with my calling card on his chest in a taxicab outside the embassy, thus ruining my CIA career,” she replied.
Edgar’s own CIA training and experience produced a Pavlovian reaction to his predicament.
“Get Roscoe over to the White House, Two-Gun! Forget about me!” he cried nobly.
Before the lights went out, so to speak, Edgar saw Two-Gun hustling Roscoe out of the Old Ebbitt. And then he saw C. Harry Whelan following them. And then he saw Matthew “Hockey Puck” Christian following C. Harry.
And finally he saw the polished brass spittoon Miss Dillworth was directing toward his head with both her hands.
The next thing Edgar Delchamps saw was the ruddy face of a policeman looking down at him.
“You’ll be all right, pal,” the policeman said. “The ambulance is on the way. It took two bartenders and three cocktail waitresses to do it, but they finally pulled her off of you.”
“Blessed are the lifesavers, for they shall inherit the earth,” Edgar said.
“What did you say to the lady that so pissed her off?”
“I said nothing to her. I’ve never seen her before in my life.”
“She says you’re a CIA assassin who’s left bodies all over the world, including one in a taxicab outside the U.S. embassy in Vienna.”
“Poor thing,” Edgar said. “She’s obviously bereft of her senses. In my work as a shepherd of souls I have learned that often happens to ugly old women who have finally given up all hope of finding a mate with whom to walk down life’s path.”
“If you’re not a CIA assassin, who are you? Got any identification?”
“My card, sir,” Edgar said, taking one from his wallet. “As you can see, I am the Reverend Edgar Delchamps, religious director of the American Association of Motorized Wheelchair Manufacturers.”
“Well, Reverend,” the cop said, handing the card back, “just as soon as the ambulance gets here, we’ll get you to the hospital. You can sign the charges there.”
“You mean the Old Ebbitt is giving me a bill after I have been criminally assaulted by a crazy woman on their premises?”
“No. I mean you sign the charges against the crazy woman who thinks you’re an assassin and did this to you.”
“Heavens, no! To err is human, to forgive divine,” Edgar said. “That poor crazy woman has enough problems without my adding to them. Just make sure she’s given a thorough psychological examination before she’s released.”
“You’re a kind man, Reverend.”
“So I have been told. God bless you, my son.”
The Presidential Apartments
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, N.W.
Washington, D.C.
1320 21 June 2007
“I’m very sorry to interrupt you, the First Lady, and the First Mother-in-Law at lunch, Mr. President,” Robin Hoboken said.
“What is it, Hoboken?”
“Mr. Danton is here.”
“About damned time.”
“He was just dropped off at the gate, Mr. President. Drunk.”
“What do you mean, dropped off drunk?”
“Someone the Secret Service described as an individual with Asian characteristics dropped him—actually pushed him out of a Yukon—at the gate and then drove rapidly away. Drunk means intoxicated with alcoholic spirits to the point of impairment of physical and mental faculties.”
“Plastered or not, I want to see him,” the First Mother-in-Law said. “Bring him up, Hackensack.”
“Mommy dearest, why do you want to see him if he’s in his cups?” the First Lady asked.
“Because I want to hear what happened in Las Vegas.”
“Mother Krauthammer,” the President said, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“You wouldn’t know a good idea if I hit you over the head with one,” the First Mother-in-Law said. “Go get him, Hackensack.”
“I personally hope Red Ravisher takes that miserable pervert to the cleaners,” the First Mother-in-Law said, when Roscoe J. Danton had reported his version of what had transpired, “but I can’t see how she hopes to collect if she did throw the Frenchman at you.”
“What miserable pervert?” the President asked.
“Who said that just looking at your wife made him tinkle down his leg? Santa Claus? No, Ol’ Hockey Puck Christian. That miserable pervert.”
“Mommy dearest, what Mr. Christian said was that looking at me made him tingle down his leg. Not tinkle.”
“What’s the difference?” the First Mother-in-Law asked.
“To tingle,” Robin Hoboken said, “is to feel a ringing, stinging, prickling, or thrilling sensation. Tinkle is what small children say when they have to urinate.”
“Either way, it’s perverted. But anyway it’s moot.”
“What’s moot, Mother Krauthammer?” the President inquired.
“Whether that miserable pervert pisses down his leg when he sees Belinda-Sue here, or just prickles. As a Southern lady, I don’t even want to think about Matthew Christian prickling. But I know perversion, whether it’s tinkle, tingle, or prickle, when I hear it. But that’s not your problem, Joshua. That’s what’s called moot.”
“What is my problem, Mother Krauthammer? If I may ask.”
“If it ever gets out what you’re planning to have this Colonel Castillo of yours do to those poor illiterate teenagers with your Delta Force and your SEALs, you can rename this new library of yours.”
“What do you mean rename it?”
“The President Joshua ‘Child Murderer’ Ezekiel and Mrs. Belinda-Sue Clendennen Presidential Library and Last Resting Place of the Monster comes quickly to mind. ‘Here Lies the Murderous Bastard’ also comes to mind.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about!” the President said.
“If I may hazard a guess, Mr. President,” Robin Hoboken said, “I suspect that the First Mother-in-Law is alluding to Somalian teenagers.”
“What about Somalian teenagers?”
“God, he doesn’t know, does he?” Mother Krauthammer said.
“I don’t know what?”
“Demographically speaking, Joshua,” the First Mother-in-Law said, “your typical Somalian pirate is between fifteen and nineteen years of age, and a kindergarten dropout. In other words, he can’t read or write.”
“I can’t believe that!”
“Believe it, Joshua. I got it from the Vienna Tages Zeitung.”
“From the what?”
“It’s a newspaper. I suppose if my name was O’Hara, I’d be reading the Dublin Daily to get the news I can’t get here, but my late husband, Otto, may he rest in peace, was a Krauthammer and of Viennese ancestry, and he taught me to get it from the online edition of the Vienna Tages Zeitung.”
“Hackensack, you know about this newspaper?”
“That’s Hoboken, Mr. President,” Robin replied. “Yes, sir. It’s a daily, three hundred and sixty-five thousand circulation, four hundred and forty-five thousand on Sunday. It is a member of the Tages Zeitung chain, which is a wholly owned subsidiary of Gossinger Beteiligungsgesellschaft, G.m.b.H. It has a very good reputation.”
“And this newspaper says the Somalian pirates are illiterate teenagers?”
“So they do,” Mother Krauthammer said. “And they suggest that one of the reasons the piracy can’t be stopped is that so far no one has been heartless enough to start shooting illiterate teenagers.”
“My God, I’d be known as the Heartless Butcher of Somalia!” the President said. “Every Somalian-American in the country would vote for my opponent! I’d never get reelected! Is there nothing I can do?”
“One wild thought running through my mind,” Mother Krauthammer offered, “is that you turn this Colonel Castillo of yours to other things.”
“Hoboken—” the President began.
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Robin interrupted.
“For what?”
“Getting my name right.”
“Right. You’re welcome. What I want you to do, Hackensack, is get DCI Lammelle on the phone.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President. May I ask why?”
“Because I told you to, you moron. By now you should understand that I’m the President and you’re the flunky, and that means I give the orders and you obey them. Got it?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“When you finally get around to obeying your orders and get Lammelle on the phone, I’m going to order him . . . which I can do because I’m the President and he’s another flunky . . . to immediately get on his airplane and fly to Cozumel, where he will order Colonel Castillo to immediately cease and desist any outrageous plans he may have in mind to slaughter innocent and illiterate Somalian teenagers.”
Penthouse A
The Royal Aztec Table Tennis and Golf Resort and Casino
Cozumel, Mexico
1830 21 June 2007
“Well, we seem to have been swept away on Cupid’s wings, don’t we, my dear Agrafina?” General Sergei Murov said as he reached for the bottle of Stolichnaya on the bedside table.
“Either on Cupid’s wings, or on a wave of lust,” she replied. “Stolichnaya tends to arouse that in me.”
“In that regard, my darling, vis-à-vis lust, I have a confession to make.”
“If you’re about to confess it was the smell of the borscht, I would advise you not to.”
“I won’t deny the smell of the borscht had something to do with what happened just now . . .”
“Careful, my love!”
“What the smell of the borscht did was first make me think of my mother, may she rest in peace, and then of my first love. Her name was Svetlana.”
“And this Svetlana smelled of borscht?”
“Sometimes. But what I was trying to say was that the smell of the borscht reminded me of my lost love, Svetlana. At that point, I lost control, moved the mirrored vanity onto my patio, climbed up on it, and looked over the glass barrier.”
“Now that this has happened to us, I’m glad I missed with the bottle of Dos Equis I threw at you.”
“And what I saw made my heart beat even faster. For a moment, I thought I was going to faint.”
“When you peeped over the glass barrier, I was modestly clothed in my itsy-bitsy tiny polka-dot bikini. If seeing me in that almost made you faint, how come you didn’t faint later after you ripped it off me?”
“What made me nearly faint was seeing you, seeing the remarkable resemblance you bear, my darling, to my lost love Svetlana.”
“Really? I gather you saw this Svetlana dame when she was not wearing her whatever they call itsy-bitsy tiny polka-dot bikinis in Russia?”
“No. Our love was not only one-sided—she never really liked me—but pure. I never saw her less than fully clothed.”
“And that’s why you didn’t marry this broad? She didn’t like you and wouldn’t take her clothes off?”
“I am sure that my beloved Svetlana never took her clothing off in the presence of any man—with the possible exception, of course, of her gynecologist—until she went to her marriage bed.”
“What did the guy she married have that you didn’t?”
“Evgeny Alekseev was an SVR polkovnik.”
“A what?”
“A colonel in the SVR, which is sort of like your Department of Homeland Security.”
“I know what the SVR is,” Agrafina said. “So you’re confessing that you’re not really the coach of the Greater Sverdlovsk Table Tennis Association?”
“I was going to get to that, my precious,” Murov said. “I want no secrets between us. I am General Sergei Murov of the SVR. At the time my beloved Svetlana married Evgeny Alekseev, I was a junior captain. He was a colonel, and she was a lieutenant colonel, so what chance did a lowly junior captain have?”
“Wait just a minute! I find this insulting, Sergei. You’re telling me I bear a remarkable resemblance to some short-haired two-hundred-and-fifty-pound female with stainless steel teeth?”
“I’m saying you bear a remarkable resemblance to an astonishingly beautiful female.”
“I thought you said she was an SVR lieutenant colonel?”
“She is. Or was when she married Evgeny. Oh, I see where you’re coming from. Let us say that my beloved Svetlana is the rare exception to that rule vis-à-vis female SVR lieutenant colonels.”
“Well, if you put it that way, Sergei, darling. So, what happened to her after she married Colonel Whatsisname?”
“The marriage didn’t last long, and then she defected. Evgeny chased her to Argentina, where he got himself whacked by some Irish cop.”
“So she’s a widow?”
“Yes, she is. The Widow Alekseeva. That’s what I’m really doing here, my love. I’m supposed to get my darling Svetlana, her brother, former SVR Polkovnik Dmitri Berezovsky, and this goddamned American, Colonel C. G. Castillo, onto an airplane and fly them to Moscow.”
“I have to tell you, my darling, that I’m tempted to break both your legs for profanely referring to an American officer like that, but my female curiosity seems to have overwhelmed me. Why do you want to take these people to Moscow?”
“Well, I think Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin wants to start by turning them into ice statues.”
“You want to help Putin turn them into ice statues? How’s he going to do that?”
General Murov explained the process to her.
“I’m shocked,” Agrafina said, “as I got the distinct impression you still have feelings about this lady.”
“Yes, my love, I do. Not as much, of course, as I did before you came into my life, my precious. But I will love her to my dying day—or hers, whichever comes first—and the thought of turning her into an ice statue, immediately before—or immediately after, whichever comes first—she marries is giving me a good deal of personal pain.”
“Who is she going to marry?”
“The godd— the American gentleman.”
“At the Grand Cozumel Beach and Golf Resort, down the beach?”
“Yes. But how could you possibly know that?”
“They told me when I was there earlier.”
She handed him the liter bottle of Stolichnaya.
“Tell me, Sergei, are we to be just two ships that passed in the night, or would you like to see how this relationship develops?”
“I realized about an hour or so ago, my precious, that I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
“Well, there are several problems that I can see with that. Starting with I have my career to think of.”
“I can understand that.”
“Which means I cannot move to Russia.”
“I can understand that, too.”
“When you said you want to spend the rest of your life with me, did you mean it? Was that a proposal of marriage, or did you mean you would like to continue to take sexual advantage of my naiveté and innocence?”
General Murov got off the bed and onto his knees.
“My darling Agrafina Bogdanovich, will you do me the great honor of becoming my bride?”
“Before I answer that, darling Sergei, I have a little confession of my own to make.”
“Which is?”
“My latest film, Catherine and the Household Cavalry, to which I referred is not actually a documentary.”
“I know, I know. I’ve watched it a hundred times. Another reason, my precious, that my heart was beating so wildly when I first saw you in the flesh.”
—
Thirty minutes later:
“Well, that’s the end of the Stolichnaya, my darling, and almost the end of me,” General Murov said somewhat breathlessly. “What should we do now?”
“Actually, I’ve been giving that some serious thought, my precious.”
“What occurred to me was getting into the Jacuzzi—they say that restores vigor—and then ordering up another bottle of the Stolichnaya and a couple dozen oysters. How does that sound?”
“I was thinking of our future. Since you agree that your only option is to defect and become—once you’re finished with the CIA debriefing—chairman of the board of Red Ravisher Films, Inc.”
“I look forward to that. I’ve always had a secret yearning to be a capitalist.”
“And you told me, right, that to defect and not find yourself playing soccer with a bunch of crazy Arabs in Guantánamo, you’ll have to defect through the director of the CIA, A. Franklin Lampoon.”
“That’s Lammelle, my darling, A. Franklin Lammelle. Frank and I, professional differences aside, of course, always got along very well.”
“And you said that getting in touch with him might be difficult—”
“What I said, my precious, is that if I just called the CIA in Langley and asked to speak with him, they would ask who was calling, and if I replied I was General Sergei Murov of the SVR, they would laugh hysterically and hang up on me.”
“I think I see a way around that, my darling. You also said that Mr. Lammelle and the officer who is about to marry your beloved Svetlana are friends.”
“They’re as tight as ticks,” Murov said.
“I’ve always wondered what that means. It brings to my mind an image of intoxicated insects.”
“Well, that’s what people are always saying.”
“What I think we should do, my darling, striking while the iron is hot, so to speak, is go over to the Grand Cozumel and speak with Colonel Costello—”
“That’s Castillo, my precious.”
“And ask him to get Mr. Lammelle on the line for you.”
“Darling, I don’t know—”
“Going to the Grand Cozumel, my darling, would also give you the opportunity to not only see your beloved Svetlana but to offer her your best wishes on her upcoming nuptials.”
“My precious, I don’t think—”
“Not closing the door on your relationship with your beloved Svetlana would be a deal breaker, my darling, on our own upcoming nuptials.”
“Well, viewed from that perspective, the idea of going over to the Grand Cozumel does have great appeal.”
“Well then, my precious, put your trousers on. The last time I saw them they were hanging from the chandelier.”
“There’s something I didn’t tell you about Colonel Castillo, my precious.”
“Which is?”
“There are twenty-four members of the Cuban DGI—the Cuban version of the SVR—here in Cozumel under orders to whack Castillo.”
“And these people are likely to be at the Grand Cozumel? Is that what you’re saying?”
“At the moment, they’re engaged in cleaning the ladies’ rooms on the Czarina of the Gulf, the cruise ship. But they should be about finished, and when they are, they’ll go looking for Castillo.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, my darling. Now go put your pants on while I repair my makeup.”
“You’re going with me to the Grand Cozumel?”
“I want to be there, my precious, when you finally close the door on your Svetlana. To be sure there’s no mistake, no misunderstanding.”
The Grand Lobby and Reception Hall
The Grand Cozumel Beach & Golf Resort
Cozumel, Mexico
2110 21 June 2007
Hiding behind two of the larger potted palms in the lobby when the Archbishop Valentin and the Archimandrite Boris made their spectacular—one might even say regal—entrance were Mr. C. Harry Whelan and Mr. Matthew “Hockey Puck” Christian.
They had been traveling together since they had met at the White House gate earlier in the day, immediately after Mr. Roscoe J. Danton had been pushed out of the Yukon in which he had traveled from the Old Ebbitt to meet with President Clendennen.
Although they normally loathed one another, the situation here dictated a truce between them. C. Harry was determined to find out, and damn the cost of finding out, what Roscoe was doing with the President and the reason behind the porn queen throwing the French paparazzo at Danton in Las Vegas.
Mr. Christian had been told by his superiors at the Continental Broadcasting Corporation that unless he got them out from under the fifty-million-dollar libel suit brought by Miss Red Ravisher for mis-identifying Miss Ravisher as the person who had thrown the French paparazzo at Mr. Danton, he could not only expect to lose the Hockey Puck show, but would work out the balance of his contract doing the midnight weather broadcast over the Continental station in Dry River, North Dakota, where he would have to write his own copy, do without the company-furnished chauffeur-driven Mercedes he had grown used to, and learn to live without an expense account.
C. Harry and Hockey Puck quickly agreed to share whatever information they acquired from their highly placed confidential sources within the White House, no matter how many folded hundred-dollar bills they would have to pass out to these people.
Their plan succeeded. A third assistant botanical superintendent, who was bitter at his low pay of only $96,500 per annum, and happy to get the tax-free C-note, informed C. Harry that while he had been rearranging the white roses on the dining room table in the Very, Very Important Person guest room, he had accidentally happened to overhear the President’s conversation with DCI Lammelle.
He reported that the President had ordered DCI Lammelle to immediately get his ass out to Andrews and get his airplane warmed up. As soon as he could get Roscoe J. Danton sobered up and out there they were to get their asses on the DCI’s airplane and fly to the Grand Cozumel Beach and Golf Resort in Cozumel, Mexico, where they were to make it perfectly clear to Colonel Castillo that the Clendennen administration was not in the business of slaughtering innocent and illiterate Somali teenagers and that he was to immediately cease and desist carrying out any nefarious and criminal plans he had made to do so.
On hearing this, C. Harry told Hockey Puck that he had a line on a Learjet at Baltimore International and was going to fly to Cozumel. He asked Hockey Puck if he wanted to share the ride and the cost.
“Absolutely,” Hockey Puck had immediately replied. “Just make sure you get two original copies of the bill, so that we can both get our respective employers to reimburse us.”
When they got to the Cozumel Beach & Golf Resort, they were told there were no rooms at the inn, unfortunately, as all accommodations were reserved for the upcoming nuptials of the owner’s cousin.
At first this was disappointing, but then they saw a silver lining in the black cloud. For one thing, they were going to have to hang around the lobby anyway as the only thing they could see in their rooms was Mexican television, and for another, another folded C-note got them spurious bills for deluxe suites so they might be later reimbursed by their respective employers.
They took up positions behind potted palms.
The first thing they saw was truly shocking. Both deeply regretted not having charged their cell phones in order to have cameras to record it.
DCI Lammelle came into the lobby, followed by two burly CIA operatives supporting Roscoe J. Danton between them.
Then Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo appeared, accompanied by a spectacular redheaded female.
There was an excited conversation between the two men. Seated as far away as they were behind the potted palms, they could only hear parts of the conversation. But they did hear that the President was ordering Castillo to immediately cancel any plans he had with Somalian teenagers, including slaughtering them.
Castillo then asked, “And he has no other nutty orders for me?”
“Just that you are to fall off the edge of the earth again, and never be seen by anyone.”
Castillo had then grabbed DCI Lammelle and kissed him wetly on both cheeks. And then the spectacular redhead had grabbed Lammelle and kissed him. Wetly. On the mouth.
“I love you, Frank,” she cried. “I don’t care what everyone says about you!”
Both men, fully aware of the news value of films of CIA directors being kissed by females to whom they were not married, not to mention their being bussed by men, groaned with the regret that this kissing session was lost to posterity.
They had then disappeared, only to appear fifteen minutes later with large numbers of other people dressed to the nines.
It was at this point that the Archbishop Valentin and the Archimandrite Boris marched into the lobby attired in their finest vestments.
A man whom neither Hockey Puck nor C. Harry recognized—Aleksandr Pevsner—then advanced on the clergymen, dropped to his knees, and kissed their rings.
Then Castillo and the spectacular redhead did the same.
“That redhead looks somehow familiar,” Hockey Puck whispered to C. Harry.
“What the hell are you doing here?” A. Franklin Lammelle demanded to know.
“We’re here to unite Carlos and Svetlana in holy matrimony,” Archbishop Valentin said.
“Not you, Your Grace,” Lammelle said. “Him.”
He pointed to General Sergei Murov, who, with Agrafina Bogdanovich, had just come through the revolving door into the lobby.
“Actually, Frank, old buddy, this is a delightful surprise. I want to defect.”
“My God, there’s two of them!” Hockey Puck cried loudly, as he came out from behind his potted palm to demand, “Which one of you redheads threw the Frenchman at Roscoe J. Danton and ruined my television career?”
“I don’t know who that is,” Aleksandr Pevsner ordered. “But grab him.”
Two burly ex-Spetsnaz instantly complied. And then two more went after C. Harry Whelan.
“I know who that ugly man is, Sergei, my precious,” Agrafina said. “He’s the pervert who made all those awful allegations about me!”
“I hate to say this with these distinguished Russian Orthodox clergymen standing here,” Murov said, “but you’re a dead man, sir. No one insults the woman General Sergei Murov loves. Not and lives.”
“As a distinguished Russian Orthodox clergyman, my son, I must forbid you from killing anyone.”
“Excuse me, miss,” Svetlana said. “Did Sergei say he loves you?”
“That’s what he says, Svetlana,” Agrafina said.
“Your Grace,” Murov asked, “if you say I can’t, I won’t kill the pervert. But how does Your Grace feel about me sending him to Moscow and turning him into an ice sculpture?”
“I have a confession to make,” Svetlana said. “It was I who threw the French pervert into the paparazzi. I wasn’t aiming at Roscoe; he was just collateral damage. And this lady was in no way involved.”
“Why, my daughter, would you do something like that?” the archbishop asked.
“Can I whisper why in your ear?”
“Of course.”
She did so.
“I understand your anger, my daughter,” the archbishop said. “But that doesn’t excuse the violence.”
“I guess that means I can’t turn the pervert into an ice sculpture, either,” Murov said.
“No, you can’t,” the archbishop said.
“Your Grace,” Agrafina said, “I confess that I am a FAMOTORC—”
“What the hell is that?” Castillo asked.
“Fallen Away Member of the Orthodox Russian Church,” Sweaty said. “Now shut up, my beloved heathen, while we Christians deal with this.”
“But I seem to recall, Your Grace, that bearing false witness is a sin,” Agrafina went on.
“Yes, my daughter, it is.”
“Well, that sonofabitch certainly bore—beared?—false witness against me. I just have to swallow that?”
“What would you suggest, my daughter? Since I’m not going to permit you, no matter how far you’ve fallen from Holy Mother Church, to either kill him or turn him into an ice sculpture.”
“I have a suggestion,” Aleksandr Pevsner said. “First thing in the morning, I’ll take him out on the Czarina of the Gulf and put him with the Cubans.”
“What Cubans are those, my son?” the archbishop asked.
“The ones the Cuban DGI doesn’t know that I know they sneaked onto my ship.”
“I don’t understand, my son,” the archbishop said.
“What I plan to do, Your Grace,” Pevsner said, “when we’re five or ten miles offshore, and they have finished restoring the ladies’ restrooms to a suitably pristine condition, is gather the Cubans on the fantail, tell them I know who they are, and ask them how well they can swim.”
“That’s okay with me insofar as ol’ Hockey Puck is concerned,” Agrafina said. “But it seems a little tough on the Cubans.”
“Not to worry, my daughter,” the archbishop said, “I am not going to permit my son Aleksandr to drown twenty-four Cubans.”
“What if I put them in lifeboats, give them plenty of Aqua Mexicana to drink, and make them row back here?”
The archbishop considered that thoughtfully for a moment, and then said, “That’d work for me.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Pevsner said. “Take both those clowns down to the Czarina of the Gulf.”
“You’re an evil man, Aleksandr Pevsner,” Charley Castillo said.
“Thank you. I like to think so,” Pevsner replied.
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