Boomsday

Chapter 28

Allen Snyder, looking un-upbeat and definitely lacking spring in his step, arrived at the offices of Tucker for the meeting he had hastily called with Terry and Cass.

“I’ve got some good news and less good news,” he said, trying to smile through resisting facial muscles. “Which would you like to have first?”

“The good news,” Cass said.

“The bad news,” Terry said simultaneously.

“The good news: There’s nothing on the computer linking you to Arthur Clumm. Legally, for the time being, you would seem to be in the clear on that one. Though it remains a bit of a public relations…”

“The word you’re looking for is ‘nightmare,’” Terry said.

“Then what’s the bad news?” Cass said.

“They found those files relating to your North Korean project. Some golf tournament?”

Terry said to Cass, “I thought you deleted those.”

“I did,” Cass said.

“They found them,” Allen said. “I’ll explain the technology later.”

“Why not save it-for our arraignment?” Terry said. “Oh, great.”

“It’s typically the deleted files that interest them. Let me ask you-did the North Koreans approach you, or did you approach them?”

“No, no-they approached us. Absolutely,” Terry said.

“Were you in direct contact with their government?”

“No way. There’s this NGO here in town, the-what’s it called, Cass?”

“Association of Totalitarian Asian Tyrants?”

“Cass. Could we be helpful, please?”

“It’s called the U.S.-Korea Mutual Understanding and Promotion Society.”

“Right,” Terry said. “Not a big office. Just one guy who chain-smokes. Mung Park. Mr. Mung Park.”

“And they wanted you to do what, exactly?”

“The way they put it was like, ‘To promote harmony and understanding between North Korea and the community of world nations’ by putting on a pro-am golf tournament. In North Korea. They have a golf course, apparently. A really challenging course. Over there, a bunker’s really a bunker. Our job was to put it on. You know, wrangle celebrities.”

“Celebrities?” Allen Snyder said.

“There wasn’t exactly a groundswell of enthusiasm. But O. J. Simpson indicated some interest.”

“Real A-list,” Cass said to Allen.

Allen digested this information. He said, “You’re aware that North Korea is on the State Department list of sponsors of international terrorism. American citizens are prohibited from doing business with North Korea.”

Terry, rallying to his own defense, said, “We were more just exploring a theoretical…you might say, avenue of convergence. Nothing…specifically…definite?”

Allen stared.

“Terry,” Cass said. “We’re surrounded. Give it up.”

“What has it come to,” Terry said, “when your own government turns into Big Brother, knocks down your doors, seizes your computers, and comes after you with all its formidable resources for trying to contribute something-just something-a gesture, to…to…” He looked at Cass. “I forgot. What was it?”

“Harmony and understanding.”

“Right.”

“Let me deal with the FBI,” Allen said. “I imagine we’ll be hearing from them soon.” Just then, Terry’s secretary buzzed him to say that two agents from the FBI were outside wanting to speak with him and Cass.

Allen went out to run interference.

“I’m thinking we should have a separate reception area,” Terry said. “One for clients and one for the FBI. We’ll make it nice for them. Potted cactuses. Copies of American Rifleman. A TV showing America’s Most Wanted.”

“About the computer,” Cass said to Randy. He was scribbling notes for a speech on a legal pad.

“Um?”

“There’s good news. And other news. Which do you want to hear first?”

“Given my druthers, I’d only ever want to hear good news. I thus gather your news is something less than good.”

“They didn’t find anything about your mother being a c-u-next-Tuesday. Or what we do with cherries.”

“Well, what a relief,” Randy said with a miffed air, looking up from his legal pad. His glasses were perched on the end of his nose, giving him a supercilious WASPy air. “So if you Google ‘Senator Randolph Jepperson’ and ‘cunt,’ you won’t get two thousand matches. Quel joie.”

“So, you want to hear the other news?”

“Not particularly,” he said, going back to his legal pad. “But I have a feeling I’m going to anyway.”

“Terry and I were sort of in discussion with…it was this business deal…really, no big deal.”

“Um?”

“Probably never would have even gotten to that. Deals like that fall through all the time.”

Randy continued scribbling his announcement speech.

“Tell you what, Cass,” he said. “I won’t look at you, and you tell me what you need to tell me. How would that be? On the count of three. Ready? What was it you said about truth telling being just like riding a bicycle? One…two…three.”

“The FBI found some files on the computer that make it seem like Terry and I were”-Cass made a dismissive sound-“working with an NGO trying to facilitate one of those, you know, hands-across-the-seas type of deals where you, you know, adopt a private sector, bilateral, really more multilateral…”

Randy looked up. “Did you just have a stroke?”

“Huh?”

“Because you’re making no sense. Why don’t you just tell me what it is?”

“Okay,” Cass said, using her best casual, matter-of-fact tone. “They’re curious about some files pertaining to a golf tournament Terry and I were discussing with a foreign government. That’s it.”

“What government?”

“Korea.”

“Well? I don’t see the problem.”

“Technically speaking, North Korea. How’s the speech going?”

Gideon Payne groaned and attempted, very slowly, to rise to his feet. “Merciful Jesus…”

Monsignor Montefeltro, looking like Torquemada about to issue a death sentence at the Inquisition, sat in the chair facing Gideon. He had moved it back in case Gideon vomited again.

“What…happened?” Gideon said woozily.

“Very much happened,” Monsignor Montefeltro said in a clipped tone of voice. “Would you like first to hear about my evening? And then I will tell you about your evening?”

Gideon was now on two feet, listing to and fro. He patted his vest pockets, sensing even in his distress that something was amiss. He began patting all his pockets.

“My watch. My fob. They’re gone.” He looked at the monsignor more alertly. His brain was like a mastodon struggling to free itself of a tar pit.

“Where’s my watch and fob?” he said accusingly.

“You don’t remember?”

“I don’t remember anything,” Gideon said, turning his pants pockets inside out.

An old Italian proverb suddenly came to Montefeltro: “Si non и vero, и molto ben trovato.” If it isn’t true, it is a happy invention. He said, “You gave it to your friend. Miss Tolstoy.”

Gideon scrunched his cheeks; his eyes peeped out through fatty slits. “What are you talking about? Give away my watch? That watch has been in my family since 1864!”

“Why don’t you sit down, Geedeon. And now I will tell you your confession.”

By the time Monsignor Montefeltro finished his recitation of the evening’s events, changing one or two details, Gideon looked ready for a funeral parlor. His skin had gone the color of waxworks.

“But…but…I don’t remember any of that,” he moaned.

“Consider that a blessing. Of course you don’t,” Montefeltro said, not unkindly. “You were drunk. Extremely drunk. Four bottles. Very good wine. Expensive.”

“But why would I give my watch, my precious watch and fob, to a-Russian who-re?”

“Two Russian who-res. Perhaps to avoid being beaten to death by two very large Russian pimps.”

“Did I…” Gideon now looked frantic. “Did I…consummate?”

“Do you mean were you intimate with her? No-God be thanked. To think of the disease you could catch from such a woman. The bubonical plague, probably.”

Gideon shuddered. “I have to get my watch back. You have no idea. It’s precious. Family heirloom. They gave it to my ancestor for superlative marksmanship-”

“Geedeon, were I you, I would give thanks to God that I am still alive today. And buy another watch!”

“What was the name of this, this escort service, you called it?”

“How should I know?” the monsignor said heatedly. “I am not familiar with escort services! I am in the kitchen, making you black coffee to make you conscious, because you are vomiting all over my house and destroying my family treasures-look, the table, eight thousand dollars-and when I return, you are in here, on my telephone, making phone calls to prostitutes!”

“Well, I’m sorry, Massimo, if I was overserved.”

“Overserved! You drank my entire cellar!”

“I’ll make it up to you,” Gideon said edgily. “Meanwhile, I would appreciate it if you would assist me in the matter of my watch.”

“Geedeon! Forget the fucking watch! We are lucky to be alive, I tell you! The madam-the keeper of this brothel that you telephoned on my telephone-she called to inform that she is going to send people named Ivan and Vladimir to break the legs of us both! You should be having high mass offered in every cathedral in America to give thanks. You should get down on your knees and pray.”

Gideon surveyed the carpet. It did not look suitable for kneeling. “There’s a problem.”

“Of course there’s a problem! This brothel now has my phone number! Do you understand the scandal that could happen?”

“Oh…” Gideon put his hand to his eyes. “It’s worse than you think. The watch has my name on it.”

“Porca miseria.” Monsignor Montefeltro considered. “My conclusion is that it is not a wonderful situation for either of us.”

“I’ll report it stolen,” Gideon said. “That’s what. I’ll call the police and say it was stolen.” He reached for the phone.

“Geedeon. Not. That. Telephone!”

Gideon rummaged for his cell phone.

Montefeltro said, “Wait. Think a moment. If you report to the police the watch is stolen and for some reason the Russian whores are found with the watch, what then? They will tell them everything. Including that you gave it to her. You can deny all this to the police, but they will produce their phone records with the call from my phone. Can you imagine the headlines? Can you imagine the scandal, Geedeon? For both of us? You can get a new watch, you cannot get a new reputation!”

Gideon looked defeated. He moaned, “Pray with me, Massimo. I have sinned.” He started to kneel, but then, after surveying the detritus of the lost night, said, “Is there some…other room where we might make our rogations?”

“That depends if you have finished with the throwing up,” Montefeltro said a bit testily. “All night I am cleaning. It’s not pleasant.”

“I’m sorry, Massimo,” Gideon said, summoning from deep within the remnants of his dignity. “I was not myself.”

The phone rang. Montefeltro picked it up without saying hello. He heard:

“Is residence of Montefeltro?” said the familiar, horrid, foreign-accented voice. Montefeltro tried to formulate some response, but nothing came.

The voice said, “This is escort service from last night. You owe nine hundred dollars. You want to give me credit card number, or am I sending Ivan and Vladimir?”