Hazardous Duty

[ONE]

When her CaseyBerry vibrated and she looked at it and saw that Charley Castillo was calling, Secretary Cohen’s first reactions were relief and pleasure.

He’s calling to tell me he’s on his way to Fort Bragg.

But even as she pushed the TALK button and put the cellular to her ear, she had second, worrisome thoughts.

If there is one absolutely predictable facet of dealing with Lieutenant Colonel Castillo it is that he is absolutely unpredictable.

“Hello, Charley. I gather you got off all right?”

“Goddamn it, Max! Give Sweaty her shoe back!”

“And that Miss Alekseeva and your adorable dog are with you,” Secretary Cohen added.

“Technically, that’s Mrs. Alekseeva, Madam Secretary. Or the Widow Alekseeva.”

“Yes, of course. Where are you, Charley?”

“According to the Garmin GPS monitor on the wall, thirty-five thousand feet over Aberdeen, Scotland, making nearly seven hundred and fifty knots.”

“And when do you think you’ll be at Fort Bragg?”

“That’s what I called to talk to you about, ma’am.”

I knew it. I knew it. I knew it.

“What’s on your mind, Charley?”

“Well, in the car on the way to Hersfeld, I called General McNab…”

I should have known he would do that.

“… and he told me about You Know Who’s Commandos, and the kilts and so on. And he also said that since You Know Who’s visit is now known all over Bragg and Pope, my going there is not likely to pass unnoticed. If we land the Gulfstream at Pope, the Air Force band there will be ready to play ‘Hail to the Chief’ as I come down the door stairs.”

Why do I know this is going to get worse?

“So where do you think you should go?”

“Sweaty also picked up on what you said to Frank and the others about you doing what You Know Who wants to do himself.”

“What was that, Charley?”

“Getting somebody else who will be thinking out of the box to evaluate the problem.”

“And who would that be, Charley?”

“And, no offense, Madam Secretary, but Sweaty also picked up on what you said about you having no authority to order me to do anything.”

I am not surprised.

“All of which means what, Charley?”

“I’m not going to Fort Bragg—”

“We’re not going to Fort Bragg,” the Widow Alekseeva’s voice came over the connection.

“Sweaty had some thoughts about that, too, Madam Secretary. She said, and I think we have to agree with her, that if you don’t know where we’ll be, you won’t have to lie to You Know Who if he asks where we are.”

“So you’re not going to tell me where you’re going or what you’re going to do when you get there?”

“That about sums it up, Madam Secretary. As soon as I have anything, I will of course let you know.”

Presuming, of course, that your beloved red-haired beauty thinks that’s the thing to do. You’re putty in her hands, Charley.

Probably not as much as Mortimer is in mine, but putty nonetheless.

Why couldn’t you, Widow Alekseeva, be ugly with stainless steel teeth?

“In that case, there’s not much point in further conversation, is there?”

“I suppose not. Wait! Sweaty wants to know if you saw Shawn Ohio glued to the CIA’s door. We saw it on Wolf World Wide News. Sweaty said it was the funniest thing she’s seen since Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin took off his shirt and showed the world his biceps.”

“I saw it,” the secretary said. “But speaking of Wolf News: May I ask if Mr. Danton is with you?”

“Yes, of course you may, Madam Secretary,” Castillo said, and the green LEDs on the secretary’s CaseyBerry ceased to glow.

[TWO]

It was said, probably accurately, that there were more television monitors in the Wolf News newsroom than there were in the Sony and Sanyo warehouses combined. It was here that Wolf News not only maintained contact with its journalists worldwide but kept its eye on what the competition was up to.

This latter task was normally assigned to the most junior of the newsroom staff, the reason offered being that watching the competition broadened their journalistic horizons. Cynics said it was because somebody had to do it, and better that someone on the payroll who couldn’t find his or her buttocks with either or both hands do it than someone who could be put to laboring on more useful tasks.

And so it was that Miss Sarah Ward, who was twenty-two, a year out of Vassar, and the niece of the Wolf News Corporation’s senior vice president — real estate, was charged to see what the Continental Broadcasting Corporation was up to at midnight.

Specifically, she was tasked to watch Continental’s midnight news telecast, which was called Hockey Puck with Matthew Christian.

The show opened, as it always did, with a hockey player taking a healthy swipe at a hockey puck. The camera followed the puck down the ice as the puck went airborne and then struck a goalkeeper right in his mask, which knocked him off his feet and onto his rear end.

A basso profundo voice, while this was going on, solemnly announced, “It’s midnight, and time for Hockey Puck with Matthew Christian. Let the puck strike where it may!”

The camera then closed in on Mr. Christian, who his detractors said looked like a middle-aged chubby choirboy, sitting behind a desk.

“Good evening,” Mr. Christian said. “Welcome to Hockey Puck!

“My friends, I confess I don’t know what I’m talking about here. You watch, you decide!

“This just in from Sin City, otherwise known as Las Vegas, Nevada.”

The camera showed a crowd of journalists watching a Gulfstream V taxi to the tarmac before a hangar.

“Las Vegas is hosting the fifteenth annual award ceremonies of the adult motion picture business,” Mr. Christian said. “And the word going around is that Red Ravisher is the leading candidate for the best actress award. That much we know. And here she is arriving in Las Vegas in her private jet.”

The camera showed the stair door of the airplane rotating downward as it opened. A huge dog came down the stairs, and then a man started down the steps. The video image went into “freeze-frame mode” and a superimposed flashing arrow pointed to the man.

“Now, and I’m willing to stake my reputation on this,” Mr. Christian said. “That is Roscoe J. Danton, the syndicated columnist who is also employed by another, here unnamed, television news organization. One understandably wonders what Mr. Danton is doing on Red Ravisher’s private jet, but one also recalls that other networks boast that they will go anywhere and do anything to get a story.”

The video image began moving again and the camera followed the man on the stairs to the ground and then as he went to the crowd of journalists. Then the camera went back to the door of the Gulfstream.

“And here is Red Ravisher,” Mr. Christian announced. “One cannot help but note that magnificent head of red hair and… other physical attributes… that make her, so to speak, the Ethel Barrymore of the adult film industry.”

The camera closed in on the redhead’s physical attributes, and then went into freeze-frame mode again.

“Now watch this carefully,” Mr. Christian said, “for we’re about to lose the picture!”

The camera now showed the redhead walking up to a photographer, exchanging a few words with him, and then punching him so hard he fell down. The redhead then kicked him in what sometimes were referred to as a man’s “private parts,” and then picked him up. Next, Mr. Christian’s viewers saw him flying through the air toward the camera.

And then the picture was lost.

Miss Sarah Ward said, “Oh, my!”

And then she saved a digital file of the story to a portable hard drive and took it across the room to the desk of the senior producer.

“What have you got, honey?” he asked.

“Red Ravisher, the porn star, and Roscoe J. Danton,” Miss Ward said. “Miss Ravisher threw a photographer at Mr. Danton.”

[THREE]

When the elevator door opened and Hotelier, Annapolis, and Radio & TV Stations walked off onto the upper-foyer level of the duplex penthouse suite, Max, who had been sampling the steak and eggs of the breakfast buffet on the lower floor, took the stairs of the curved staircase three at a time, put his paws on Radio & TV Stations’ shoulders — standing on his hind paws, Max was taller than Radio & TV Stations — and affectionately licked his face.

Radio & TV Stations didn’t look very happy about it, but Charley Castillo was delighted.

If that’s any indication, coming here was one of my very few good ideas. Max is an excellent judge of character.

Hotelier and Annapolis, and finally Radio & TV Stations and Max, came down the stairs.

“Thanks for meeting with us on such short notice,” Charley said, as he offered his hand to Annapolis.

“You said it was important, Colonel,” Annapolis said.

Castillo turned to Hotelier.

“Good to see you,” he said. “And before I forget it, make sure I get the bill for all this.” He gestured around the suite, which he had been reliably informed was available only to those who could afford fifteen thousand dollars a night or who had been unlucky enough to lose five hundred thousand or more playing blackjack or some other innocent game of chance.

“I told you, Colonel, your money’s no good in Las Vegas,” Hotelier said.

“How about the CIA’s money?” Castillo asked. “I am about the Commander in Chief’s business, and on the CIA’s dime.”

“If that’s the case, I’ll have the fellow who owns this place get me a bill, and forward it to you.”

“Thanks.”

“How’d things go at the airport?” Radio & TV Stations asked. “Any problems? The cars I sent were waiting for you when you got there?”

“Your cars and… some other cars,” Castillo said, and visibly fought laughter.

“What other cars?”

“You had better be very careful, my darling, when you answer that question,” the Widow Alekseeva said.

“Something happen at the airport?”

“Yes, you could say that, I suppose,” Castillo said.

“What?” Radio & TV Stations asked.

“You have been warned, my darling,” Sweaty said menacingly.

“Sweetheart, I have to tell them. I’ll be as discreet as I can.”

“You had better be,” she said, “or the problems I will cause you will make the problems your demented President is causing you seem less than insignificant.”

“Our demented President is causing you more problems, Charley?” Hotelier asked.

“Yes, he is. That’s why we’re here.”

“What happened at the airport?”

“As well as I have been able to put this all together,” Charley said, “Las Vegas is hosting some sort of award ceremonies dealing with the adult motion picture business.”

“The fifteenth annual Hard-On Awards,” Hotelier said. “At the Streets of San Francisco Hotel, Resort and Casino.”

“What do they call them?” the Widow Alekseeva asked.

“The Hard-On Awards, Svetlana,” Hotelier said. “You know, like the Oscars? The winners get golden — or at least gold-plated — little statues, called Hard-Ons.”

“What’s a hard-on?” the Widow Alekseeva asked.

“Moving right along,” Castillo said quickly. “Apparently one of the contenders for the… top award… is a lady professionally known as ‘Red Ravisher.’”

“Yeah, she won last year, too,” Hotelier said. “I think she’s got five, maybe six, Hard-Ons total.”

“I asked what a hard-on is,” the Widow Alekseeva pursued.

Charley went on: “… and the, what do you call those photographers who chase celebrities around?”

“Paparazzi,” Annapolis furnished.

“Right. Paparazzi. Well, the paparazzi apparently heard Miss Red Ravisher was flying into Vegas in her personal Gulfstream…”

“I hear there’s almost no limit to how much money those people with Hard-Ons can make,” Radio & TV Stations said.

“… so when we landed and taxied to the Casey hangars in our Gulfstream,” Castillo went on, “the paparazzi apparently decided that it was Miss Red Ravisher, and that she was trying to escape their attentions.”

“Some of the really big Hard-On stars are like that,” Hotelier said. “They forget their humble beginnings.”

“In any event, when we got to the Casey hangars on the far side of the field, all we knew when we looked out the window was that there were three lines of limousines, and maybe fifty paparazzi waiting for us.”

“Three lines of limousines?” Annapolis asked.

“I didn’t know Hotelier was going to send limos,” Aloysius Casey, Ph.D., said. “So I sent five of ours. Then there was Hotelier’s line, and then the line that the dirty movie awards people sent.”

“They were spectacular,” Castillo said. “All white, and with lines of flashing lights around the doors and windows.”

“They call that ‘the Bride’s Carriage Model,’” Hotelier explained. “The Elvis Presley Wedding Chapel and Casino Incorporated has a fleet of them. They charge fifty dollars extra for turning on the flashing lights around the windows.”

“I don’t want to hear anything about the Elvis Presley Wedding Chapel, thank you very much,” the Widow Alekseeva said. “I’ve gone through enough tonight.”

“Aloysius,” Hotelier said, “the adult film industry people don’t like the term ‘dirty movies.’ They would prefer for you to call them ‘adult films.’”

“You ever heard that ‘once a Green Beret, always a Green Beret’?” Dr. Casey asked.

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Well, I’m a Green Beret and I know a dirty movie when I see one. An adult movie is one like that Anna Karen—whatever, where the Russian broad jumps under a train at the end. That adult movie made me cry.”

“I cried, too, Aloysius,” the Widow Alekseeva said. “That’s very sweet of you to admit it. My Carlito said she was a damned fool.”

“Don’t mention it, Sweaty,” Dr. Casey said.

“Well, when we saw all this activity,” Charley went on, “and knew it couldn’t possibly be for us, I sent Roscoe J. Danton down the stairs to find out what was going on. One journalist to other journalists, so to speak. Then Sweaty—”

“I’ll take it from here, my darling, if you don’t mind,” the Widow Alekseeva interrupted. “I thought perhaps I would have a chance to see a movie star, maybe Antonio Bandana, or Clint Eastwood, so I followed Roscoe out the door. Actually, Roscoe and I followed Max out the door. Max always gets out first to attend to his calls of nature.

“I didn’t get halfway down the stairs when this despicable little pervert started aiming his camera at me and screaming vulgar things. I’m sure he was French; they always have their minds in the gutter.”

“I have to ask this, Mrs. Alekseeva,” Annapolis said. “What exactly did he scream at you?”

The Widow Alekseeva blushed.

“Go on, Sweaty, you started the story, now you have to finish it,” Charley said.

She looked at him for a moment, and then said, “If you insist. What this miserable French pervert screamed at me—”

“In the belief, of course, that Sweaty was Miss Red Ravisher,” Castillo injected.

“… was ‘Show us your teats, Red!’” the Widow Alekseeva furnished.

“How awful for you,” Annapolis said. “May I ask what happened then?”

“I asked him what he had said, and he repeated it, adding, ‘I don’t have all night, and you came here prepared to show the whole world your’… you know whats… ‘so out with your boobs, baby!’”

“And then what happened?”

“I demonstrated with him.”

“Sweetheart, I think you mean ‘remonstrated,’” Charley said.

“What she did,” Dr. Casey furnished, “was coldcock this clown with a one-two jab, and then when he went down, she kicked him in the… you can guess, and then she picked him up and threw him into the other bums, taking out four of them. Actually, three of them and Roscoe, who was standing there with them.”

“And then Max got into the act,” Castillo said. “Max loves Sweaty, and it is not wise to threaten anyone a Bouvier des Flandres is fond of.”

“And then my Carlito came to my defense,” the Widow Alekseeva said. “My knight in shining armor.”

“And then Lester and Peg-Leg came to help,” Castillo said. “Peg-Leg hopped around on his good leg and used his titanium one like a club.”

“By the time the cops stopped it—” Dr. Casey said.

“And you, too, Aloysius,” the Widow Alekseeva said. “You were just as quick to rush to my side as the others were.”

“… there were a lot fewer paparazzi standing up than there were before,” Dr. Casey concluded.

“Aloysius,” Annapolis asked, “you said the police stopped it. Are there going to be any problems in that area, with the law?”

“I don’t think so,” Dr. Casey replied. “Terence McGonagall?”

“Captain Terry McGonagall, chief of the Las Vegas Police Department’s Celebrity Affairs Bureau?”

“Yeah. Well, when we got to the jail, Terry was there to see who got out of the paddy wagon.”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to use the term ‘paddy wagon,’ Aloysius,” Annapolis said. “It’s considered offensive to those of Irish heritage.”

“I’m a Boston Irishman, Swab Jockey,” Dr. Casey replied, somewhat impatiently. “And I’ve been in paddy wagons often enough to know a paddy wagon when I’m in one. As I was saying, when we got out of the police prisoner transport vehicle, Terry was there and he talked to the cops who had busted us, and eventually they let us go.”

“And why did they do that?”

“Well, Terry — he and I are fellow Grand Exalted Oracles in the Knights of Columbus — pointed out that if they charged Sweaty and us with assault and battery and destruction of property, such as their movie cameras, I could charge them with criminal trespass. Charley’s airplane was parked on my property. And so far as the camera guy Sweaty took out with a right cross, Terry asked him what judge was going to believe a good-looking redheaded lady weighing maybe a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet had broken the nose of a six-foot-five two-hundred-and-fifty-pound male. So it turned out to be a wash.”

“All’s well that ends well, as they say,” Annapolis said.

“That’s what I just said,” Dr. Casey said.

“So tell me, Colonel,” Annapolis said. “What brings you to Las Vegas? How may we be of assistance to the Merry Outlaws?”

“Well, we are having a small problem with the Commander in Chief,” Castillo said.

“Tell us about it.”

Castillo did.

“Interesting,” Annapolis said. “Why don’t you start by telling us the major problem vis-à-vis the Somalia pirates?”

“Insurance companies,” Castillo said.

“Insurance companies?” Annapolis parroted incredulously. “I happen to own a couple of them, and I find that hard to understand.”

“I just spent a couple days floating down the Rhine talking to a group of journalists very familiar with the situation. That’s what they told me.”

“No offense, Colonel,” Annapolis said, “but two things occur to me. One, we all know how far we can trust journalists, and two, why should they confide in you?”

“My Carlito owns the newspaper chain they work for,” Sweaty said, “and then I dropped into the conversation that I was formerly associated with the SVR.”

“I’m sure they were telling us the truth,” Castillo said.

“Under those circumstances, I’m sure they were,” Annapolis said. “So, what exactly did they have to say?”

“The way I understand the situation,” Castillo replied, “is that the shipowners take out insurance on their vessels operating in those waters, on the ships themselves, and the cargoes.”

“As well they should,” Annapolis said, more than a little piously. “Insurance is the sturdy fence protecting industry from the hazards of a very dangerous world.”

“I don’t know what a supertanker loaded to the gills with crude oil is worth, but a bundle, since oil has been averaging about one hundred dollars a barrel. And then there’s the replacement cost of the ship itself, another—”

“I saw some figures,” Annapolis said. “For the sake of this discussion, why not work with fifty million?”

“The figure I got was close to one hundred million,” Charley said. “Maybe you’re thinking of what insurance companies are willing to pay out on a hundred mil policy.”

“Far be it from me to argue,” Annapolis said, ignoring the shot. “Work with one hundred million dollars.”

“So,” Castillo then said, “the shipowners take out insurance for the ship and her cargo. They don’t really care what the insurance costs, because they just add that cost to what they charge for moving the oil.”

“Standard business practice,” Annapolis said.

“So it adds about a nickel to a gallon of gas at the pump,” Charley said. “So what?”

“So what indeed. The owners are protected. The oil flows. Or is transported. In any event, the gasoline is there at the pump when you fill up.”

“And then the Somali pirates seize the tanker. My sources told me, incidentally, that the typical pirate is illiterate and eighteen years old.

“Then, I was told, the insurance companies send an adjuster to Somalia, where he establishes contact with these eighteen-year-old illiterate pirates and negotiates with them. For example, the pirates start out asking for five million dollars for the tanker. The adjuster tries — and usually succeeds — in negotiating them down to two million. Or even less, if he throws in a Mercedes convertible and a Sony DVD player and a dozen triple-X adult DVDs starring the Red Ravisher.”

“Watch it, my darling,” the Widow Alekseeva hissed warningly.

“That’s what adjusters are paid to do, Colonel,” Annapolis said.

“And the insurance company, with a smile, hands over a briefcase full of money — cashier’s checks have yet to become known in Somalia — to the pirates, and a smaller check to the ship’s owner for the additional expenses incurred while the ship has been in the hands of the pirates. Say for half a million.”

“That’s the proud tradition of the insurance industry,” Annapolis said, “handing the check over with a smile.”

“I understand,” Castillo said, “that they are smiling from ear to ear and meaning it when they finally write the check.”

“Well, I’m not sure how much they mean it,” Annapolis said. “I mean, the smile is sort of public relations.”

“Here, it’s a smile of intense personal pleasure,” Castillo said.

“What’s your point, Charley?” Radio & TV Stations asked.

“Take a wild guess, Chopper Jockey, what the premium is to insure a one-hundred-million-dollar supertanker loaded with two million barrels of oil at a hundred dollars a barrel.”

“I can’t do numbers that big in my head,” Radio & TV Stations admitted.

“Based on my experience in the insurance industry, I would estimate twenty-five million,” Annapolis said pontifically.

“Well, you’re the expert, you should know. So twenty-five million it is. Now, take two million, plus the price of a Mercedes convertible, a dozen dirty movies, and a Sony DVD player from that twenty-five million and what would you say is left?”

“Oh, those goddamn Swedes,” Annapolis said after a moment, his voice heavy with admiration. “They’re worse than even the goddamn Dutchmen and the goddamn Swiss! Why didn’t I think of this?”

“What have the goddamn Swedes, Dutchmen, and Swiss got to do with anything?” Hotelier asked.

“Ninety-point-seven percent of maritime insurance like this is underwritten by those clever sonsofbitches,” Annapolis said.

“And everybody is happy,” Castillo said. “The pirates, they have their ransom and the Mercedes and the dirty movies; the shipowners, who have their tanker back; and, of course, the smiling maritime insurance companies of whatever nationality who have a profit of, say, twenty-two million.”

“Pure genius!” Annapolis said. “My hat’s off to them.”

“Is there no way to stop the piracy, Charley?” Radio & TV Stations asked.

“President Clendennen could send Delta Force teams into Somalia with orders to shoot every illiterate eighteen-year-old,” Castillo said. “That’d stop it.”

“Do you think he’d do that, Colonel?” Annapolis said, worry evident in his tone.

“I think he might order it,” Castillo said. “But I don’t think Delta Force would go. I don’t know anyone in Delta who likes shooting illiterate eighteen-year-olds. Unless they shoot first.”

“If he did and they did,” Radio & TV Stations said, “he’d have a hell of a public relations problem with his legacy.”

“With his what?” the Widow Alekseeva inquired.

“Let’s move to the airfield, Drug Cartel International,” Annapolis said. “How about that, Charley? How difficult would that be to seize?”

“Not hard at all,” Castillo said. “The only problem would be keeping all the Delta Force guys who wanted to go off the C-130.”

“Delta Force would want to go, is that what you’re saying?” Radio & TV Stations asked.

“That’s what I’m saying. They’re still smarting after the drug cartel guys whacked Danny Salazar. They’d all love to go to Mexico and whack as many drug guys as they could find.”

“You mean as vigilantes?” Radio & TV Stations asked.

“No. If Clendennen sends them down there, the people they would whack would be whacked as they carry out their official duties. They would have a license to whack, in other words.” He paused, chuckled, and added, “I think most of them would even wear the kilts of Clan Clendennen if that’s what they had to do.”

“And Clendennen doesn’t know this? Or at least suspect it?” Radio & TV Stations asked.

“I don’t think he would care if he did.”

“That’s surprising. I would have thought — he’s big in the ego department — that he’d really be concerned with his legacy.”

“There’s that word again,” the Widow Alekseeva said. “What are you talking about?”

“You used the word, Chopper Jockey, you explain it to the lady,” Charley said, chuckling.

“The way that works, Mrs. Alekseeva—”

“My Carlito likes you,” she interrupted. “You may call me Sweaty.”

“The way that works, Sweaty,” Radio & TV Stations said, “is that the minute someone gets elected President — and I mean someone of whatever political party and sexual preference — he starts thinking of how he’ll be remembered twenty, fifty, a hundred years from now. He starts thinking of his legacy.”

“I don’t think I understand,” Sweaty admitted.

“Let me have another shot at it. I guess it started with Roosevelt, Franklin D. What they do is have a presidential library. Roosevelt’s was built in Hyde Park, New York, where he’s buried. Ronald Reagan’s is in California. So is the Richard Nixon library. And they’re buried at their libraries.”

“They’re buried in their libraries?” the Widow Alekseeva asked incredulously.

“Usually, my darling, in sort of a garden just outside their libraries,” Charley qualified.

“Even Jimmy Carter has a presidential library,” Radio & TV Stations said. “With, I suppose, a lot of empty shelves.”

Charley and Hotelier chuckled.

“That’s unkind,” Annapolis said.

“You’re only saying that because you both went to that school for sailors,” Castillo said. “You’ll have to admit that Carter’s library has to have a lot of empty shelves.”

“The Harry S Truman Library is in Missouri,” Radio & TV Stations said. “One of the better libraries, really.”

“They all have libraries?” the Widow Alekseeva asked. “What’s that about?”

“Their legacies, Sweaty,” Radio & TV Stations explained. “They appoint some guy to run their libraries, and he spends his time filling them with books and newspaper stories and other material proving their guy was the best President since George Washington.”

“And collecting and then burning books and newspaper stories and other material proving their guy was the worst President since Millard G. Fillmore,” Charley contributed.

This time all of them chuckled.

“Either that,” Annapolis chimed in, “or they send the non-flattering stuff to the Library of Congress.”

“Where it will be misfiled,” Radio & TV Stations said.

“And absolutely will never again be read by anyone,” Charley concluded for him.

All the men were now chuckling, visibly pleased with their own humor.

“Before you all grow hysterical and incoherent,” the Widow Alekseeva said, “tell me where President Clendennen has his legacy library.”

“He doesn’t have one yet,” Charley said. “But he’ll get around to preserving his legacy, Sweaty, sooner or later. His ego — and Belinda-Sue’s ego — will demand it.”

“Not later, my darling,” the Widow Alekseeva said. “Sooner. Now.”

“Excuse me?”

“Now. Right now,” she said.

“I don’t understand,” Charley confessed.

“I’m not surprised. Tell me, my darling, what do you think just might take President Clendennen’s mind off putting your beloved Delta Force into Clan Clendennen kilts?”

There was silence.

All the men shrugged.

“I will be damned,” Radio & TV Stations said finally.

“She’s a genius!” Hotelier said.

“Supervising the design and construction of the Clendennen presidential library,” Aloysius Casey said.

“The Joshua Ezekiel and Belinda-Sue Clendennen Presidential Library and Last Resting Place,” Annapolis corrected him.

“Sweaty, I love you,” Charley said.

“I figure we start off with initial anonymous contributions of ten million dollars,” Casey said.

“Where are you going to get ten million dollars?” Annapolis said.

“Well, I’ll throw in a million,” Casey said. “It’s worth that much to me to keep Delta Force from having to wear skirts. The rest we get a million a pop from other public-minded citizens like an insurance tycoon I know.”

“I’m in,” Radio & TV Stations said.

“Me, too,” Hotelier said.

“The other people in Las Vegas will, I’m sure, be willing to contribute to such a noble cause,” Annapolis said. “But I have to ask, isn’t the President going to be suspicious that this suddenly popped up? You said he was paranoid, that he even suspected Secretary Cohen wasn’t really playing golf when she went to the Greenbrier.”

Castillo took out his CaseyBerry and punched the ON button. When the green LEDs glowed, he punched the loudspeaker and one of the autodial buttons.

“Charley, thank God!” Secretary Cohen’s voice bounced back from space.

“Good morning, Madam Secretary.”

“I’ve been trying to get you for hours!”

“Sorry. My CaseyBerry was turned off. I just turned it on a moment ago.”

“Why did you turn it off?”

“Truth to tell, I didn’t. I guess one of the jailers turned it off when they took my personal property from me.”

“Jailers? What jailers?”

“The ones at the Clark County Detention Center.”

“Clark County, Nevada?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So you are in Las Vegas with Roscoe J. Danton?”

“Who told you I was?”

“What were you doing in the Las Vegas jail?”

“It was a misunderstanding. We were released two hours ago.” He paused and then asked, “Who told you I was out here?”

“President Clendennen told me. The First Lady told the President and he told me.”

“How did she find out?”

“Does it matter?”

“I’m a little curious, that’s all.”

“The First Lady was watching television with the First Mother-in-Law, watching Hockey Puck with Matthew Christian, and there was Roscoe in a brawl with a porn queen.”

“Actually, it wasn’t a porn queen in that brawl. It was my fiancée, Mrs. Alekseeva, not Red Ravisher.”

“And it wasn’t a brawl,” the Widow Alekseeva objected. “My Carlito and the others were defending my honor.”

“Excuse me?”

“What would you do, Madam Secretary,” the Widow Alekseeva demanded, “if some pimply-faced French pervert pointed his television camera at you and demanded that you show him your… you-know-whats? Wouldn’t you expect Mr. Cohen to defend your honor?”

The secretary of State considered the question for a long moment, and then, in the finest traditions of diplomacy, decided a reply could be put off until there was more time for consideration of the question and all its ramifications.

“Let me put a question to you,” she said instead. “The last time I spoke with the President, just a few moments ago, in a conference call in which DCI Lammelle, Generals Naylor and McNab, and DNI Ellsworth participated, the President had some interesting things to say. I recorded the conversation. Listen to it, please, Charley, and then tell me what you think I should do.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

President Clendennen’s voice came over the loudspeaker:

“I told you all last night, after Belinda-Sue told me she and the First Mother-in-Law saw Roscoe J. Danton on Hockey Puck cavorting with a porn queen in Las Vegas, and I’m telling you for the last time now. Danton is supposed to be with Castillo and Castillo is supposed to be in Hungary getting ready to go to Somalia. I want to know where they are and what they’re doing and I want to know now. Unless I get a satisfactory answer within the hour, I shall have to presume what I have suspected all along, that there is a coup to drive me from office under way, and I will take appropriate action. By that I mean I will have you all arrested pending trial for high treason.”

Castillo didn’t say anything.

“Well, Charley?” Secretary Cohen asked finally.

“He does sound a little annoyed, doesn’t he? Not to mention paranoid?”

“He’s not kidding, Charley,” Cohen said. “There are four Secret Service agents in my outer office waiting for the order to arrest me.”

“Don’t worry, Charley,” another female voice bounced back from space. “Nobody’s going to arrest the secretary on my watch.”

“Hey, Brünnhilde,” Castillo replied. “How goes it? We could have used you here last night.”

“Why am I not surprised that you two are pals?” Secretary Cohen mused aloud.

“You didn’t need me,” Charlene Stevens replied. “Whoever that redhead was, she knows what she’s doing. I don’t think I could have thrown that clown so far myself.”

“She’s my fiancée, Charlene. Her name is Sweaty.”

“Actually, since I met my Carlito I’ve gotten a little out of shape,” the Widow Alekseeva said. “In my prime, I could have thrown that French pervert a lot farther.”

“Frank said you were a real looker,” Charlene said. “But he says that about everything in a skirt. I can’t wait to meet you.”

“You’ll have to come to our wedding,” Sweaty said.

“When and where?”

“There are four Secret Service agents in my outer office,” Secretary Cohen repeated. “What do I do about them?”

“Unless you’ve got a better idea, Charley,” Charlene said, “what I’m going to do is pepper-spray them, then drag them into the ladies’ room, strip them down to their undershorts, and then handcuff them to that automatic flush sensor thing on the toilets. That should hold them until Frank can get You Know Who into a straitjacket and over to the Washington Psychiatric Institute.”

“Oh, my God!” Secretary Cohen moaned.

“That’d work, Charlene,” Charley said, “but before you do that, let’s see if the Joshua Ezekiel and Belinda-Sue Clendennen Presidential Library and Last Resting Place doesn’t take the Commander in Chief’s mind off throwing the secretary of State into the slam.”

“What?” Charlene asked, obviously confused.

“Now what the hell are you talking about, Charley?” Secretary Cohen asked.

Her use of the word “hell” was the third time in two years that she had used a term that could possibly be interpreted to be profane, vulgar, or indecent.

“Sweaty came up with this,” Charley said. “Everyone agrees it’s brilliant.”

And then he explained the Joshua Ezekiel and Belinda-Sue Clendennen Presidential Library and Last Resting Place to her.

“That’s what you were really doing at the Greenbrier, Madam Secretary, meeting with the public-spirited citizens who are going to fund the library. And what Roscoe was doing here was getting the story for his millions of readers and of course Wolf News.”

“And that’s why your fiancée threw the French gentleman at him, right? President Clendennen isn’t going to believe this, Charley.”

“He will when Dr. Aloysius Casey shows him the cashier’s check for ten million dollars.”

Dr. Casey said, “I’ll throw in a million, two million if I have to, but I’m not going anywhere near that craz — the President. No way, Charley.”

“You have been running at the mouth, Aloysius, about once a Green Beret, always a Green Beret,” Castillo said. “Now it’s time to put up. This Green Beanie needs your help.”

“Well, if you put it that way,” Dr. Casey said reluctantly. “I guess I do hear the bugler sounding ‘Boots and Saddles.’”

“Into the valley of madness, so to speak,” Annapolis said, chuckling, “rides the Merry Irish Outlaw.”

“One more word out of you, Admiral, and you’ll be on Aloysius’s Gulfstream with him,” Castillo said.

“My lips are sealed,” Annapolis said.

“And where do you plan to be, Charley,” Secretary Cohen asked, “when all this is going on?”

“I haven’t quite decided that yet—”

“Cozumel,” the Widow Alekseeva furnished.

“Suffice it to say, a considerable distance from our nation’s capital and the Commander in Chief.”

“Arranging the wedding details,” the Widow Alekseeva concluded. “You’re invited, too, of course, Madam Secretary. You and your husband, even if you’re not sure he’d defend your honor if some French pervert shouted at you to show him—”

“If You Know Who is really curious, Madam Secretary,” Castillo interrupted, “tell him that I’m somewhere in the Western Hemisphere training SEALs to defend our merchant ships from the Barbary — excuse me, Somalian pirates.”

“What SEALs?”

“The ones I’m going to tell General Naylor you said it’s all right to send to me in Mexico. I think you’d have to agree that hearing I’m training SEALs would please You Know Who more than hearing I’m going to Mexico to get married. I’m going to call General Naylor just as soon as we get off our CaseyBerrys.”

“You’re insane. This whole thing is insane,” Secretary Cohen said. “I refuse to have anything to do with it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Castillo said. “In that event, I’m all ears to hear your solution to the problem.”

There was a long, long pause, finally broken by Secretary Cohen.

“How long do you think it will take for Dr. Casey to come to Washington?” she asked.

“Flight time in his Gulfstream, plus however long it takes for him to go by the bank to pick up the check and get to the airport.”

“Please have him call me when he’s an hour out of Reagan National.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The green LEDs on the CaseyBerrys faded after the secretary of State broke the connection.

“May I ask, Colonel, how you plan to use the SEALs?” Annapolis asked.

“Of course you may,” Castillo replied. “I fully understand why a former naval person such as yourself would be curious.”

This was followed by sixty seconds of silence, following which Annapolis asked, “Well, are you going to tell me?”

“Frankly, I’m still considering my options,” Castillo admitted.

“In other words, you don’t know.”

“Don’t be cruel, Admiral. You know that in time I’ll think of something.”

“The Czarina of the Gulf,” the Widow Alekseeva said.

“Isn’t it amazing how great minds march down similar paths?” Castillo asked. “I was just thinking of her.”

“Our marriage will be much happier, my darling,” the Widow Alekseeva said, “if you remember I always know when you’re lying to me.”

“Female intuition?”

“Actually, I think it’s more a course I took — Advanced Interrogation Techniques 204/2—at the SVR Staff College.”

“Who the hell is the Czarina of the Gulf?” Annapolis inquired.

“Not a ‘who,’ Admiral. A ‘she.’ The Czarina of the Gulf is the flagship of the Imperial Cruise Lines, Incorporated.”

“My darling,” the Widow Alekseeva interrupted, “get it right. That’s the Imperial Cruise Lines and Floating Casinos, Incorporated.”

“And a great operation that is,” Hotelier said admiringly. “They pack more people per square foot onto their vessels than any other cruise ship line and their food cost per passenger is the lowest in the industry. And from what I hear, their take from their casinos is just as good as mine, maybe a little better.”

“My cousin Aleksandr tells me the way he does that is to give his passengers all the free vodka they can drink,” the Widow Alekseeva explained. “Starting with a shot in their breakfast orange juice. That way they’re not as hungry or as particular when the food is served, and they tend to take greater chances at the crap tables.”

“Whatever he’s doing, Sweaty, he’s doing it right,” Hotelier said.

“Which vessel has been taken temporarily out of service so she may be used to accommodate the guests at our wedding,” Castillo went on. “Which frees her for use in the ‘C. G. Castillo Pirated Ship Recovery Training Program.’”

“How does that involve the SEALs?” Annapolis asked.

“What we’re going to do is have a couple of Delta Force A Teams simulate seizing the Czarina of the Gulf, and then the SEALs will try to take it back. All of this, of course, will be captured on motion cameras, so that we can send the video to President Clendennen to show him how hard we’re working.”

“How are you going to keep the SEALs and the Delta Force people from killing each other?” Radio & TV Stations asked.

“I’m still working on that,” Castillo replied. “The first thing that pops into my mind is taking their knives and other lethal weapons away from them and giving them paintball guns.”

[FOUR]

“I thought I made it perfectly clear, Madam Secretary,” the President said, not at all pleasantly, “that I wanted to see Colonel Castillo and Roscoe J. Danton so they can explain to me what they were doing with the porn queen in Las Vegas.”

“You certainly made that perfectly clear, Mr. President,” Robin Hoboken said. “Didn’t you think he made that perfectly clear, Supervisory Special Agent Mulligan?”

“It was perfectly clear to me,” Mulligan said.

“And this fat Irishman doesn’t look like either of them,” the President said.

“Mr. President,” Secretary Cohen said, “this is Dr. Aloysius Casey.”

“If he’s a doctor, where’s his white coat and that thing that goes in his ears that every doctor I’ve ever seen has hanging around his neck?”

“Good question, Mr. President,” Robin Hoboken said. “How can he possibly be a doctor without that thing that goes in his ears?”

“I’m not a medical doctor, Mr. President,” Aloysius said.

“Then why did she say you were?”

“What I am, Mr. President,” Aloysius announced, “is temporary chairman of the Citizens Committee to Build the Joshua Ezekiel and Belinda-Sue Clendennen Presidential Library and Last Resting Place.”

“Watch it, Mr. President,” Mulligan said. “That sounds pretty fishy to me.”

“And I have with me a cashier’s check in the amount of ten million dollars to get things rolling,” Aloysius said.

He handed the check to the President.

“That’s hard to believe,” Robin Hoboken said.

The President examined the check and then said, “Shut up, Hackensack, I want to hear what ideas Dr. Casey has for my library and last resting place.”

[FIVE]

The screens of television sets tuned to Wolf News were, accompanied by a trumpet blast, suddenly filled with the Arabic numbers 3, 4, and 5 swirling around the globe like satellites.

“Hello there, again,” the voice of Andy McClarren boomed, as his image appeared in a corner of the screen. “This is Andy McClarren, and it’s five o’clock in New York.”

“And this is C. Harry Whelan,” Mr. Whelan intoned, “and it’s four o’clock in Chicago.”

His image, standing on a Chicago street, came onto the screen.

“And this is Bridget O’Shaugnessy,” Miss O’Shaugnessy proclaimed, “and it’s three o’clock in Sin City.”

Her image, showing her sitting with a good deal of shapely thigh showing on the fender of a shiny black Bentley, came onto the screen. The Bentley was parked on the street outside the Elvis Presley Wedding Chapel and Casino, Incorporated.

“And it’s time for Three, Four, and Five,” Mr. McClarren announced. “The big story today is the fifty-million-dollar defamation of character suit filed against Continental Broadcasting and Matthew Christian by adult film star Red Ravisher for this sequence on Hockey Puck. Roll the tape!”

Mr. Christian’s show of very early that morning was replayed for the edification of Wolf News viewers worldwide.

“Now, what’s wrong with that?” Andy asked. “Can you tell us, Bridget? Over to you in Sin City!”

“Why don’t I let Miss Ravisher herself explain that to you, Andy?” Miss O’Shaugnessy replied. “She’s right here with me. Welcome to Three, Four, and Five, Miss Ravisher.”

Miss Ravisher appeared wearing a dress the side slits of which exposed even more thigh than Miss O’Shaugnessy was displaying.

“Thank you for having me.”

“And exactly what is it, Miss Ravisher, about that video recording showing you punching the paparazzo and then throwing him at Wolf News’s distinguished correspondent Roscoe J. Danton that you find offensive? That you think defames your character?”

“There are those kind enough to refer to me as the Ethel Barrymore of the adult film industry. I have been honored with five Hard-Ons, plus the Lifelong Hard-On Achievement Award. I’m proud of that.”

“Perhaps you should have thought of that before you punched that paparazzo gentleman and threw him at Mr. Danton. You should have known that might, as indeed it happened, see you arrested and taken to jail.”

“That wasn’t me, you stupid [BLEEEEP]ing broad! I never met Mr. Danton, and I never threw anybody at him.”

“That wasn’t you?”

“You’re [BLEEP BLEEP]ed right it wasn’t. I wasn’t anywhere near the [BLEEP]ing airport last night.”

“Then how do you explain what happened?”

“I guess that [BLEEP]ing Matthew Christian was into the sauce again. Like he was when he said just looking at the First Lady made him tingle all over.”

“So what do you think happened at the airport?”

“I’ll be [BLEEP BLEEP]ed if I know. All I know is that if I get my hands on that [BLEEP]ing Matthew Christian, I’m going to [BLEE—]”

“Over to you, Andy,” Miss O’Shaugnessy said.

“Thank you, Bridget,” Andy McClarren said. “C. Harry, can you shed any light on this?”

“I’ve checked into this, and my sources tell me that Roscoe J. Danton is in Europe on a story for Wolf News.”

“Well, there was an airplane at the airfield out there, and someone who looks something like Miss Ravisher threw a cameraman at someone who looks something like Roscoe. How do you explain that?”

“Well, it could be a publicity stunt to gain attention for the Hard-On Awards. That’s possible. So far as the airplane is concerned, I checked into that and learned it belongs to a charter operation in Panama City, Panama. I also learned that it left American airspace sometime this afternoon. When I called the charter company in Panama City, I couldn’t get anyone on the line who spoke English.”

“Well, that’s not surprising in that part of the world. Have you ever tried to call Miami International and been able to get someone on the phone who speaks English? And now for a word from our sponsors.”

[SIX]

When General Jesus Manuel Cosada of the Cuban DGI walked onto the balcony of the suite in which General Sergei Murov of the SVR had installed himself, he found the general in shorts and a T-shirt sitting in a lounge chair. Murov was sipping at a cup of clear liquid.

“Good morning, General,” Cosada said.

Murov raised somewhat glazed eyes to him and replied, in a cloud of essence d’alcool, “Jesus, Jesus, try to remember my cover. I’m supposed to be Grigori Slobozhanin of the Greater Sverdlovsk Table Tennis Association.”

“Why couldn’t you have picked a cover name people can pronounce?”

General Murov gave General Cosada the finger.

“Isn’t it a little early for that?” General Cosada inquired, pointing to the nearly empty liter bottle of Stolichnaya vodka sitting on the Ping-Pong table beside the general.

“It’s always too early for that stupid game. As far as I’m concerned, whoever invented Ping-Pong should be shot in the kneecaps.”

“I was referring to the vodka.”

“The last thing Vladimir Vladimirovich said to me before I left the Kremlin was, ‘Remember, my dear Sergei, when you get to Mexico, whatever you do, don’t drink the water.’”

“Sergei — excuse me, Grigori—what I came here to tell you is that we have a problem, a morale problem.”

“I don’t want to hear about it,” Murov said. “The next to last thing Vladimir Vladimirovich said to me before I left the Kremlin was, ‘I don’t want to hear about any of your problems, Sergei. The only thing I want to hear from you is when the Aeroflot airplane with Berezovsky, Alekseeva, and Castillo neatly trussed up in the baggage compartment is going to land at Domodedovo.’”

“Where’s that? I thought he wanted them taken to Moscow.”

“Jesus Christ, Jesus! How did you get to be a general? Domodedovo is the Moscow airport.”

“There are some dissidents and counterrevolutionaries who say I got promoted because my mother is Fidel’s and Raúl’s first cousin once removed, but I think that’s just jealousy, so I don’t pay attention to it.”

“Tell me about this morale problem. What’s that all about?”

“I guess you could say it’s a family problem.”

“What is?”

“You remember when we left Havana, it was in sort of a hurry?”

“I remember. The ride to the airport in that 1958 Studebaker Hawk of yours was terrifying. It’s just too old to drive it at more than forty m.p.h., which you were dumb enough to try to do.”

“And do you remember Raúl ordering me to give you twenty-four of our best DGI people to help you get these people on the Aeroflot plane to Moscow?”

“Jesus, Jesus! To Domodedovo. Moscow is the city. Domodedovo is the airport. Why don’t you write that down?”

“Well, when we had to push my Hawk to get it to start, Raúl was looking out the window and saw us. So he decided to be helpful and called the DGI personnel officer himself and told him to get twenty-four of our best DGI agents out to the airport.”

“So?”

“The thing is, Grigori, although the People’s Democratic Republic of Cuba has absolutely done away with class distinctions, the truth is that there are two kinds of ‘best DGI agents.’”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“One group of ‘best DGI agents’ are the ones who have worked their way from the bottom.”

“And the other kind?”

“The other kind are the ones whose fathers, or uncles, are high-ranking officials of the government of the People’s Democratic Republic.”

“I think I know what’s coming,” General Murov said.

“So what the DGI personnel officer did was assume, since Raúl himself had called, that he was talking about that second group. So he took one of those buses we swapped rum for from the Bulgarians and went out to the Workers and Peasants Golf and Tennis Club and loaded twenty-four of them onto the bus and took them out to the airport.”

“They didn’t complain?”

“Not then. When I saw who they were, I told them we were going to the Cuban Mission to the UN in New York. They all knew, of course, that meant they would have diplomatic immunity so they could get in a UN stretch limousine, head for Park Avenue, find a fire hydrant, park next to it, and when the cops show up, open the sunroof and moon the cops to show their disdain for capitalist imperialism and its minions.”

“Well, I can understand that,” General Murov said. “But what happened when the plane landed here?”

“I lied to them again. I told them that before they went to New York they would have to prove they had been paying attention in Spy School, and the way they were going to do that was to pass themselves off as poor Mexicans and find menial employment at either the Grand Cozumel Beach and Golf Resort or with Imperial Cruise Lines, Incorporated. Those who did so successfully, I told them, got to go to New York. Those who didn’t would get sent back to Havana.”

“And this worked? Jesus, Jesus, I seem to have underestimated you.”

“Well, I was, you should know, trained in Moscow.”

“That would explain it, wouldn’t it?” Murov asked rhetorically. “So, what’s the problem?”

“The Czarina of the Gulf docked here this morning. I told you Aleksandr Pevsner is going to use her to house guests at the Castillo — Alekseeva nuptials.”

“No, Jesus, I told you that,” Murov said. “Is that how you got to be a general? Taking credit for intelligence developed by other people?”

“And I suppose you told me Castillo and his fiancée flew in here late yesterday?”

“No, I didn’t know that. Are you sure?”

“Would I tell you if I wasn’t sure?”

“You just told me Aleksandr Pevsner is going to use the Czarina of the Gulf to house wedding guests. If you lied about that, why wouldn’t you lie about this?”

“You’ll just have to trust me that I’m not. Do you want to hear about the Czarina of the Gulf or not?”

“If you promise on your mother’s grave to tell the truth.”

“My mother’s still alive, so that wouldn’t work. How about on my honor as a graduate of the SVR Academy for Peace, International Cooperation, and Espionage?”

“That’ll do it.”

“Consider it given. The people we infiltrated into both the Grand Cozumel Beach and Golf Resort and Imperial Cruise Lines, Incorporated, have been told there is an emergency situation aboard the Czarina of the Gulf and they are going to have to work around the clock until it is cleared up.”

“What kind of an emergency situation?”

“I spent a lot of time and money developing this intel, Grigori, so pay attention.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Somehow — and I don’t know how; I’m still working on it — Aleksandr Pevsner has really pissed off some Mexican Indian witch doctors. So they put a curse on the Czarina of the Gulf.”

“What do you mean, a curse?”

“They call it ‘Montezuma’s revenge.’”

“What does it do?”

“I’m still working on that, too, but what I have learned is the toilets have stopped working, and when the ship unloaded its passengers, a bunch of them had to be carried off on stretchers, and the rest, who had medical masks over their mouths, had to be helped off and into the buses waiting for them.”

“What’s the problem? Isn’t that good for us?”

“Quite the opposite. Our people have heard about it — actually they smelled it — and are terrified. They sent a workers’ delegation to see me, and they said everybody wants to go back to Havana now, even if that means they can’t go to New York and moon the cops from the roof window of a UN limousine. That’s what I meant when I said we have a morale problem.”

“Jesus, Jesus, don’t panic,” General Murov said. “Let me think about this. Hand me the bottle, please. We Russians always think better with a little boost from our friend Stoli.”