Hazardous Duty

[ONE]

“Don Fernando’s House,” as the main residence of Hacienda Santa Maria was known, was a sprawling, red-tile-roofed house with a wide shaded veranda all around it sitting on a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

“I hate to mention this, Gringo,” Don Fernando Lopez, great-grandson of the man for whom the house was named, a heavyset, almost massive olive-skinned man in his late thirties, said from the wicker lounge on which he was sprawled on the veranda, “but the magic moment of ten hundred has come and gone.”

His cousin, Carlos Guillermo Castillo, gave him the finger.

“Fernando,” their grandmother, Doña Alicia Castillo, a trim woman who appeared to be in her fifties but was actually the far side of seventy, said, “don’t call Carlos ‘Gringo.’” And then she said, in awe, “Oh, my God!” and pointed out to sea.

Juan Carlos Pena, who was seated between Castillo and Doña Alicia, said, “I’ll be a sonofabitch!”

Doña Alicia said, “Watch your mouth, Juan Carlos. I haven’t forgotten how to wash your mouth out!”

“Sorry, Abuela,” Pena said, genuinely contrite.

“Great big son of a b— gun, isn’t she?” Castillo inquired admiringly.

The nuclear attack submarine USS San Juan (SSN-751) had just surfaced a thousand yards offshore. As the national colors were hoisted from her conning tower, hatches on her forward deck opened and lines of men in black rubber suits emerged. A davit then winched up black semi-rigid-hulled inflatable boats, which were quickly put over the side. The men in black rubber suits leapt into the sea and then climbed into the rubber boats. The hatches closed, the national colors were lowered, and the USS San Juan started to sink below the surface as the outboard-engine-powered rubber boats raced for the beach. The whole process had taken no more than four minutes.

“Fernando,” Castillo said, “I think that cheap watch of yours is running a little fast. Why don’t you get a real watch?”

Then he turned to Gunnery Sergeant Lester Bradley, USMC, and said, “Bradley, as the senior naval person on my staff — once a Marine, always a Marine — why don’t you go with Comandante Pena’s men to welcome our naval guests ashore?”

“Aye, aye, sir!”

“Carry on, Gunnery Sergeant,” Castillo ordered.

About five minutes later, a very large man in a rubber suit and carrying a CAR-4 got out of one of the Policía Federal Suburbans and, looking more than a little uncomfortable, walked onto the veranda.

“Welcome to Hacienda Santa Maria,” Doña Alicia said.

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am. I’m looking for Colonel C. G. Castillo.”

“Congratulations, you have found Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo, Retired. And you are?”

The man in the black rubber suit came to attention and saluted.

“Sir, Lieutenant Commander Edwin Bitter, SEAL Team Five, reporting as ordered to the colonel for hazardous duty.”

“Hello, Eddie,” Major H. Richard Miller, Junior, said. “Long time no see. How are you?”

“I will be goddamned!” Commander Bitter said.

“Probably,” Castillo said. “I have heard some really terrible things about you SEALs. But I must warn you, if you keep talking like that, my grandmother will wash your mouth out with soap.”

“And I know who you are, too!” Commander Bitter said excitedly.

“Indeed?”

“When Dick Miller dumped his Black Hawk in Afghanistan, with me and some other SEALs on it, you’re the crazy sonofabitch who stole another Black Hawk and came and got us off that mountain in the middle of a blizzard. The last I heard they were either going to court-martial you or give you the Medal of Honor.”

“In the end, wiser heads prevailed and they did neither,” Castillo said.

Sweaty came onto the veranda.

Commander Bitter’s face showed great surprise.

“Good morning,” Sweaty said, and offered Bitter her hand.

He took it and said, “A great honor, Miss Ravisher. I’m one of your biggest fans!”

Commander Bitter suddenly found himself flying through the air.

Castillo walked to the edge of the veranda and looked down at Bitter, who was now lying on his back on the hood of one of the Policía Federal Suburbans with his feet on the roof.

“If you think you can ever get off there, and make it back up here, Commander,” Castillo said, “and apologize nicely, I will ask the Widow Alekseeva to give you back your CAR-4, and then I will attempt to answer any questions you might have.”

“What he didn’t tell you, Commander,” Juan Carlos Pena said ten minutes later when Castillo had finished explaining the problem and what the role of the SEALs was to be in dealing with it, “is what at least three of the drug cartels want to do with him.”

“Which is?”

Pena looked uncomfortably at Doña Alicia.

“How do I say this delicately?” he asked.

“What they have announced they are going to do to Carlos, Commander,” Doña Alicia said, “is behead him, and then hang his head from a bridge over the highway in Acapulco.”

Juan Carlos Pena nodded. “They seem to feel Carlos had something to do with the untimely deaths of about a dozen of the drug cartel people who murdered—”

“Danny Salazar?” Bitter interrupted, and when Pena nodded again, said, “We heard about that.”

“He also didn’t tell you we are going to be married in Cozumel,” Sweaty said. “We would be pleased if you and your men were to come.”

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Bitter said very respectfully, “but neither you nor this lady seem to be very concerned with this threat to Colonel Castillo.”

“You’ve heard of Pancho Villa, Commander?” Doña Alicia asked. “The famous Mexican bandito?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Villa announced to the world that after he cut the throat of Carlos’s great-grandfather Marcos Castillo — who was, of course, also Fernando’s great-grand-uncle Marcos — he intended to drag his corpse through the streets of Tampico behind his horse until there was nothing left but the rope.”

“Why did he want to do that, ma’am?” Bitter asked.

“In those days, this was a cattle ranch. Now we grow grapefruit, but in those days we raised cattle. Well, Señor Villa decided he needed some of our cattle, and helped himself. Great-grandfather Marcos did the only thing he could — he applied Texas law.”

“Which was?”

“He hung twenty-seven of Señor Villa’s banditos,” she said. “So, Señor Villa — he was something of a blowhard, truth to tell — announced he was going to drag Great-grandfather Marcos behind his horse. That didn’t happen. But it was necessary for Great-grandfather Marcos to hang another thirty-four banditos before Señor Villa understood that those sorts of threats were unacceptable.

“And when, in 1923, Señor Villa met his untimely death, in a manner similar to the deaths of those drug people near here — that is to say, he was shot multiple times while riding in his automobile — the same sort of scurrilous allegations were made that Great-grandfather Marcos was responsible. Until his death, at ninety-two, he refused to comment publicly on them.”

“My Carlito’s beloved ancestor, Commander,” Sweaty said, “was — as my Carlito is — what they call a Texican. That means an American of Mexican blood. There’s a phrase, ‘Don’t mess with a Texican.’ You might want to write that down.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Commander Bitter said. “And may I take the liberty of saying, ma’am, that I think I understand why you and Colonel Castillo were attracted to one another?”

“Yes, you may,” Sweaty said. “Actually, it was love at first sight.”

“Oh, really? Where did you meet?”

“In the charming ancient university town of Marburg an der Lahn in Germany. Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin had sent my brother and me there — we were at the time SVR officers — to whack him. Circumstances didn’t permit that to happen. And the next day, we met for the first time. One glance and — well, here we are.”

[TWO]

The producer held up his hand with four fingers extended and began to count downward, “Five, four, three…”

Where he would have said “two” he balled his fist, extended his index finger upward, and, where he would have said “one,” pointed it toward Pastor Jones, who was wearing a wing-collared boiled shirt and a tuxedo.

“Good evening, it’s twelve o’clock in Montpelier and nine o’clock here in Sin City, and this is Pastor Jones.”

He stopped suddenly and put his finger on what looked like a hearing aid. His face showed either chagrin or annoyance and then he went on. “Excuse me, I’ve just been informed it’s ten o’clock here in Sin City, where we have Wolf News World Wide cameras set up at the fabled Streets of San Francisco Hotel, Resort and Casino, where Miss Red Ravisher just moments ago won the distinguished actress award in the fifteenth annual Climax Awards of the Adult Motion Picture Industry Association.

“And that means, Mommies and Daddies across the world, that it’s time to send the wee ones off to bed, as we expect Miss Ravisher to be with us momentarily, and if we’re lucky, we hope to have a clip from her epic film Catherine and the Household Cavalry.

“And here she is,” Pastor Jones said, as Red Ravisher walked up to him. She was wearing a gold lamé frock that clung closely to her body and carrying against her bosom the gold — probably gold-plated — sculpture the AMPIA had just awarded her.

“Thank you for finding time for us,” Pastor Jones said.

“My pleasure, Reverend.”

“I’m not a reverend. Pastor is my first name.”

“How odd!”

“Red isn’t exactly an ordinary name, if I may say so.”

“Red Ravisher is my professional name,” she said. “My birth certificate says ‘Agrafina Bogdanovich.’ Agrafina means ‘born feet first.’ What’s your real name?”

“Pastor Jones is my real name.”

“How odd! Have you ever thought of taking a professional name? If you did, you wouldn’t be mistaken for a man of the cloth.”

“Your name sounds Russian,” Pastor said.

“I am of Russian heritage.”

“Well, let me congratulate you on your award. There aren’t very many women who have earned so many Hard-Ons as you have. How many is it that you have?”

“I have six Best Actress Hard-Ons, plus this one, which is for best film of the year. I wrote, produced, and directed Catherine and the Household Cavalry. That’s seven, altogether.”

“So tell me, who is Catherine?”

“You’re kidding, right? You don’t know who Catherine was?”

“You tell me.”

“She was Empress of Russia.”

“And she liked the cavalry, I take it.”

“She liked cavalrymen. I make adult films, not documentaries.”

“And you played Catherine?”

“No. I played one of the horses. Are you for real?”

“So tell me, Miss Bog— Bogdo—”

“Bogdanovich. Agrafina Bogdanovich.”

“Now that you’ve walked off the stage with a Hard-On—”

“Two Hard-Ons. For a total of seven. I just told you that.”

“What are your plans?”

“A little vacation. In Mexico. To get away from my fans, to tell you the truth.”

“Where in Mexico?”

“If I told you where in Mexico, then my fans would know where to find me, wouldn’t they?”

“Well, can you tell me why you’re going to this place you won’t tell me where it is?”

Red Ravisher shook her head, but answered the question.

“Two reasons. They make great borscht.”

“That’s unusual for Mexico, isn’t it?”

“Well, the resort makes it for the security staff, all of whom are Russian émigrés. They’re all ex-Spetsnaz, which is like our Special Forces, but Russian. There’s nobody better at security, except maybe our Special Forces or SEALs, than ex-Spetsnaz.”

“So you’re going to this place so these Russian ex-Spetsnaz émigrés can protect you from the attention of your millions of fans?”

“Not exactly. The last time I was there, they said if I ever came back, they would show me how to slowly and painfully kill people by breaking their bones one at a time.”

“You want to break the bones of your fans?”

“Not of my fans, stupid. I want to break Matthew Christian’s bones. If I ever run into that miserable twerp, I intend to be ready for him.”

[THREE]

The President of the United States knocked softly on the door and politely inquired, “May I — or more specifically, may I and Robin Hoboken — intrude?”

When there was no reply, President Clendennen slowly and carefully opened the door.

The First Lady and the First Mother-in-Law were seated on identical red-leather-upholstered reclining armchairs, which were in the reclined position, watching a wall-mounted flat-screen television.

“Mommy, dearest,” the First Lady inquired, “what do they call that gold-plated thing Miss Ravisher is cradling so lovingly in her arms?”

“I don’t know what they call it, Belinda-Sue,” the First Mother-in-Law replied, her voice coarsened by cigarettes from what once had been a three-pack-a-day habit, “and as a Southern lady, I’m certainly not going to say what it looks like.”

“Getting settled in comfortably, are you, Mother Krauthammer?” President Clendennen inquired politely.

“Shut up, Joshua,” the First Mother-in-Law snapped. “Can’t you see that Belinda-Sue and I are watching Pastor Jones interview Red Ravisher live from the Climax Awards at the Streets of San Francisco in Las Vegas?”

“Mommy, dearest,” the First Lady inquired, “what’s ‘borscht’?”

“I think that’s what the Russians call grits, darling.”

“Actually, Madam First Mother-in-Law,” Robin Hoboken offered, “borscht is a soup made with fresh red beets, beef shank, onions, carrots, potatoes, cabbage, dill, and sour cream.”

“Belinda-Sue, darling,” Mother Krauthammer said, “guess who Whatsisname has with him? The talking encyclopedia.”

“Is there any chance, girls,” the President asked, “that you’d be willing to turn Wolf News off for a minute or two—”

“Not a chance in hell until Pastor Jones is finished interviewing Red Ravisher,” Mother Krauthammer said.

“I gather you’re a fan of Miss Ravisher, Madam First Mother-in-Law?” Robin Hoboken asked.

“Yes, I am. On several levels. I was deeply touched by her portrayal of Catherine the Great. It brought on a flood of memories of my time as the Magnolia Queen of the University of Mississippi. The Ole Miss Rebels weren’t cavalry, of course, they were football players, but they sure knew how to ride, so to speak.

“And then I certainly admire her for throwing that French pervert at the other one. I refer, of course, Joshua, to your dear friend Roscoe J. Danton.”

“Actually, Madam First Mother-in-Law,” Robin Hoboken said, “that might be a slight mischaracterization vis-à-vis Mr. Danton’s relationship with the nation’s Commander in Chief and that incident in general as reported by Mr. Matthew Christian.”

“Joshua, do you have any idea what the hell he’s talking about?” Mother Krauthammer asked.

“Miss Ravisher,” the First Lady said, “just said she wants to break Mr. Christian’s bones.”

“I’d like to break his bones,” the President said. “Roscoe J. Danton’s bones, I mean. He’s supposed to be in Europe trying to get into Somalia, not in Las Vegas having French perverts thrown at him by the Ethel Barrymore of the dirty movie business.”

“People who keep a box full of adult films in the James Earl Carter historical presidential desk in the Oval Office are in no position—”

“What Robin and I were hoping to talk to you and Belinda-Sue about, Mother Krauthammer,” the President said, “is my library… actually Belinda-Sue’s and my library and last resting place.”

“And the necessity for you, Madam First Mother-in-Law,” Robin Hoboken amplified, “to make a real effort, as we start to raise money for the foregoing, to avoid as much as possible doing anything, such as your recent difficulties with the Public Drunkenness Squad of the Pascagoula Police Department, that might be in the newspapers or, God forbid, on Wolf News, as that might impede our fund-raising efforts.”

“This I have to hear,” Mother Krauthammer said. “But make it quick. Belinda-Sue and I want to watch the rerun of the Pastor Jones show.”

[FOUR]

“Good morning, Alek,” Charley Castillo called cheerfully as he got off the elevator. “Tom and I understand you need a little cheering up.”

He pointed to Tom Barlow, formerly Colonel Dmitri Berezovsky of the SVR, who had followed him off the elevator. Both Dmitri and Charley, who looked so much alike they could have been mistaken for brothers, were wearing polo shirts and tennis shorts and carrying rackets and cans of balls.

Aleksandr Pevsner, attired in a terry-cloth bathrobe, darted his large, blue, and extraordinarily bright eyes coldly at them but didn’t reply.

“So, what’s bothering you on this sunny morning in sunny Cozumel?” Castillo pursued.

Again Pevsner didn’t reply. But the look in his eyes, which previously had been chilly, changed to one that would have frozen Mount Vesuvius.

“I guess he didn’t see that sign in the lobby, Tom,” Castillo said.

“What sign in the lobby?” Barlow asked.

“The one that says, ‘Abandon Despair, All Ye Who Enter Here! Welcome to the Grand Cozumel Beach and Golf Resort!’”

“I guess not,” Tom agreed.

“Tell us why you haven’t abandoned despair, Alek,” Castillo said. “Perhaps we can help.”

“I knew I should have killed you on the Cobenzl,” Pevsner said.

The Battle of Vienna in 1693, which saw the troops of the Ottoman Empire flee the battlefield leaving only bags of coffee beans behind, was directed from the Cobenzl, a high point in the fabled Vienna Woods.

Castillo had first met Pevsner there after Pevsner had had him abducted at pistol point from the men’s room of the Sacher Hotel.

“You told us God stayed your murderous intentions,” Castillo said. “You remember him saying that, Tom, right?”

“I remember him saying just that,” Barlow replied. “‘I was just about to kill Charley when God stayed my hand’ is exactly what he said.”

“Well, that wasn’t the first mistake God’s made,” Pevsner said. “Staying my hand like that.”

“We’re back to what’s troubling you, Alek,” Castillo said. “You can tell us. Tom is family, and I soon will be. What’s bothering you?”

“Do you have any idea how much money that stupid sonofabitch has cost me?”

“It would help, Cousin Alek, if you told us to which stupid sonofabitch you’re referring. Then we could guess.”

“Nicolai Nicolaiovitch Putin.”

“Nicolai Nicolaiovitch Putin? Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin’s cousin?” Tom Barlow asked. “I thought he’d joined the Bolshoi Corps de Ballet after they threw him and his boyfriend out of the Navy.”

“No, stupid. Not that stupid Nicolai Nicolaiovitch Putin. The other one. The one who’s captain of the Czarina of the Gulf and before that captain of the atomic submarine Blue September. The submarine the Americans stole. No wonder we lost the Cold War.”

“So, what has Captain Putin done to so annoy you, Alek?” Castillo asked.

“He’s cost me a fortune, that’s what he’s done. And ruined the reputation of Imperial Cruise Lines, Incorporated. People will now be laughing at Imperial, instead of at Cavalcade Cruise Lines.”

“Refresh my memory, Cousin Alek,” Tom Barlow said. “Why were people laughing at Cavalcade Cruise Lines?”

“Some people thought it was amusing when the helmsman of the Cavalcade Carnival became distracted by the sight of bare-breasted maidens in grass skirts and ran the ship aground on the island of Bali.”

“I remember now,” Castillo said. “It turned over and they had to cut holes in her bottom to get the passengers off. So what has Captain Putin done that’s worse than that?”

“When I gave him command of the Czarina of the Gulf, Charley,” Pevsner said, suddenly far more calm than he had been just moments before, “I counseled him. I’m sure both you and Dmitri — excuse me, Tom—have yourselves counseled your subordinates before giving them an important command, so you’ll understand what I’m saying here, right?”

Both Tom and Charley nodded.

“What I said was, ‘Nicolai Nicolaiovitch, you are an experienced officer and seaman. You’re an honors graduate of the Potemkin Naval Academy. In the glorious days of Communism, you rose to command the nuclear-powered submarine Blue September, in which you prowled under the seas for years trying to scare the Americans. I wouldn’t dream of telling someone of your experience and reputation how to command the Czarina of the Gulf. But, as I’m sure you know, there is always an exception to every rule. And here’s that exception: The Czarina of the Gulf will be calling at ports in Mexico. When that happens, whatever you do, don’t take on any water. Not for the boilers. Not for the water system. Not even water in plastic bottles.’

“That’s what I told Captain Putin. So I ask you, does that order seem clear enough?”

“Sounds clear enough to me,” Tom Barlow said.

“Maybe you should have added, ‘under any circumstances,’” Castillo said. “That would have cleared up any possible misunderstanding.”

“Maybe I could have, but I didn’t,” Pevsner said. “I thought I was making myself perfectly clear.”

“I gather Captain Putin didn’t obey your order,” Barlow said.

“Let me tell you what that sonofabitch did,” Pevsner said. “He sailed from Miami on schedule. The Czarina of the Gulf had the AEA Single Women’s Sabbatical Educational Tour aboard. Sixteen hundred and six of them. It should have been a pleasant voyage for him and his officers, and a really profitable voyage for Imperial Cruise Lines, Incorporated.”

“And who are they?”

“Schoolteachers from Alabama. Single women schoolteachers, either ones who never got married or are divorced. When school is out, they get a vacation — that’s what ‘sabbatical’ means — paid for by the taxpayers. It’s supposed to broaden their horizons. Anyway, since they do this every year, we know how to handle them. They get on the Czarina of the Gulf in Miami. There’s a captain’s dinner with free champagne to get things started, and they start either romancing the ship’s officers — those schoolteachers really go for those blue uniforms with all the gold braid — or they head for the slot machines or the blackjack tables.

“The next day, when they wake up about noon, they’re in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. There’s a captain’s luncheon, with more free champagne and more romancing of the officers, presuming the officers have any strength left. Some of the schoolteachers, especially some of the divorcées, are surprisingly… how do I say this?…”

“Frisky?” Castillo proposed.

“I was going to say ‘insatiable,’ but okay, ‘frisky.’ And then back to the casino as the Czarina of the Gulf makes for Tampico. They dock there and spend the night. Some of the teachers actually get off the ship to mail postcards home, things like that, but most of them stay aboard sucking up the free champagne and fooling around with the officers.

“In the morning, the Czarina of the Gulf heads here to Cozumel. Another captain’s brunch, more free champagne… getting the picture?”

“Getting it,” Castillo and Barlow chorused.

“And they finally dock here in Cozumel. They disembark, get on the buses waiting for them, drive to Cozumel International, get on the planes waiting for them, and two hours later they’re back in Mobile, Alabama, wearing smiles.”

“So what went wrong?” Barlow asked.

“When the Czarina of the Gulf docked at Tampico, Captain Putin went to bed in his cabin. He says alone, but I’m not sure I believe that. It doesn’t matter. He went to bed, and in the morning, when he didn’t answer a knock at his cabin door, the Czarina of the Gulf’s first mate took her to sea.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Castillo asked.

“While they were tied up, and while Captain Putin was asleep, supplies were taken aboard. The officer who was supposed to be watching wasn’t. He was tied up with an English teacher from Decatur. Or maybe the English teacher had him tied up.

“Anyway, he wasn’t where he was supposed to be, doing what he was supposed to be doing, so Mexican water was taken aboard. Some went into the ship’s tanks, some went to the boilers, and there were five hundred cases of Mexican water, in twelve-ounce bottles, twenty-four bottles to the case. They call it ‘Aqua Mexicana,’ whatever the hell that means. It’s got a picture of a cactus on the label.”

“So what happened?” Barlow asked.

“About four hours out of Tampico, in other words about ten a.m., the air-conditioning went out. Now, I’m willing to accept some small responsibility for that—”

“You got here last night, right?” Barlow interrupted.

“Correct.”

“Which means before that, you were in Argentina, right?”

“Correct.”

“So how could you be responsible for an air-conditioning system failing in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico?”

“Because, when I was in Korea having them build the Czarina of the Gulf I naively believed a Korean swindler when he told me his Korean Karrier air conditioners were just as good as American Carrier air conditioners and he could let me have them for half of what Carrier was asking. Okay? Curiosity satisfied?”

“You say the air conditioners went out?” Castillo asked. “So what?”

“So it gets pretty warm in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico on a sunny day.”

“So you open the portholes,” Charley said. “And let the cool sea air breezes in.”

“Unfortunately, that is not possible on the Czarina of the Gulf,” Pevsner said.

“You can’t open the portholes on the Czarina of the Gulf?”

“The way that miserable Korean con man sold me his Korean Karrier air conditioners was to tell me that since I would have air-conditioning I wouldn’t have to open any portholes; that I could save all the money it would have cost me to install all those fancy and expensive brass porthole hinges and locks. And that the money I was going to save by not installing openable portholes was going to just about pay for his Korean Karrier air-conditioning. At the time, I considered it a cogent argument. So there you are.”

“Well, what happened when the air-conditioning went out in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico?” Barlow asked.

“Well, the Alabama schoolteachers, most of whom were a little hungover anyway, naturally got pretty thirsty and started drinking that goddamned bottled Aqua Mexicana. And thirty minutes after they did — whammo!”

“Montezuma’s revenge,” Castillo said sympathetically.

“In spades,” Pevsner said. “In spades!”

“What does that mean?” Barlow asked.

“Try to picture this, Dmitri,” Pevsner said. “Try to imagine sixteen hundred and six hungover schoolteachers afflicted with Montezuma’s revenge—”

“What’s Montezuma’s revenge?” Barlow asked.

“Think urgent needs, Tom,” Castillo explained.

“Oh!”

“… all trying to get into the Czarina of the Gulf’s four hundred ladies’ restrooms at the same time. That averages out to four schoolteachers per restroom. It was chaos, absolute chaos, and that’s an understatement if there ever was one.”

“What finally happened?” Barlow asked.

“Well, and I’ll admit that at this point Captain Putin had no choice, he managed to get most of the crew into the engine room.”

“Why did he do that?” Barlow asked.

“Unless he had there would have been a massacre. The schoolteachers were roaming the ship with fire axes they were going to use to behead — or maybe castrate — the crew. Captain Putin had to use fire hoses to restrain them. And when he finally got everybody he could into the engine room — the Karrier a/c shorted out the engines — he battened the hatches and sent out an SOS. And the rest is history.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The Mexican Coast Guard sent a tugboat out to the Czarina of the Gulf and towed her here. Where the world’s press was waiting. The whole world saw Captain Putin being taken off in chains to face charges of crimes against humanity. The Mexicans had a hard time protecting him from the schoolteachers and their union representatives.”

“And the schoolteachers will sue for damages,” Barlow said. “That’s really going to cost you a fortune, Alek.”

“Actually, no,” Pevsner said.

“No?” Castillo said. “You underestimate tort attorneys.”

“You underestimate me,” Pevsner retorted. “Of course I thought of those miserable parasites. I hired the best one I could find. Which of course cost me a small fortune.”

“Whatever it cost,” Castillo said, “it was money well spent to have the best of the parasites defending you in court.”

“What my legal counsel did, Friend Charley,” Pevsner said, “was compose the small print on the back of the tickets. When my passengers sign the back of their tickets, acknowledging receipt of same, they also acknowledge the hazards of the sea, and agree that if something unpleasant happens, a one-time payment of seven dollars and fifty cents will provide full and adequate compensation for any and all inconveniences they may have experienced.”

“You’re an evil man, Alek,” Castillo said.

“No more or less than any other cruise ship operator,” Pevsner said.

“I guess the Czarina of the Gulf will be out of service for some time,” Castillo said.

“I’ll have it cleaned up by the time your wedding guests arrive, if that’s what you mean.”

“No, it’s not. Before I heard what had happened to it, I was hoping I could charter her for twenty-four hours.”

“Why on earth would you want to do that?”

“So that I can run the C. G. Castillo Pirated Ship Recovery Training Program on her.”

“And what in hell is that?”

Castillo told him, concluding, “My plan was that cameras would be rolling as the SEALs take the ship back from Delta Force. I would then have loaded Roscoe J. Danton into my birthday present and Dick Miller would have flown him to Washington, where he would have shown the video to the President, which would have convinced ol’ Joshua Ezekiel Clendennen I’m working hard to carry out his orders.”

“Several questions, Charley,” Pevsner said. “Starting with what birthday present?”

“The Cessna Mustang Sweaty gave me for my birthday.”

“I’d momentarily — probably due to the disaster on the Czarina of the Gulf—forgotten that,” Pevsner said. “But now that it’s come up — if you don’t mind a little advice. Once you marry Svetlana, Charley, you’re going to have to get her spending under control. That’s the key to a happy marriage. That and never saying ‘yes’ or even ‘maybe’ to your wife when she asks you if you don’t agree she’s putting on a little weight where she sits.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Castillo said. “What other questions did you have?”

“How much of the ship will you require for your movie for President Clendennen?”

“Enough cabins for the Delta Force people and the SEALs. About twenty of the former, and a few more than that many SEALs. Plus the photographers and some of my people. Not much, on a ship that large.”

“And when is this going to happen?”

“As soon as possible after Delta and the SEALs get here. The SEALs are coming, bringing their boats and telephone poles, by bus from my grapefruit farm in Oaxaca Province. The Delta people will be flying in here this afternoon. They’re coming as the Fayetteville Blood Alley Ping-Pong Wizards.”

“As the what?”

“The Fayetteville Blood Alley Ping-Pong Wizards. While they’re here, they hope to challenge the Greater Sverdlovsk Table Tennis Association to a demonstration match.”

“Sorry to rain on your parade, Charley, but I don’t think those Russians know how to play Ping-Pong,” Pevsner said.

“I thought that might be the case,” Castillo said. “Roscoe J. Danton is arranging for the match to be televised on the Wolf Sports International channel.”

“You’re an evil man, Charley Castillo,” Pevsner said.

“No more or less than any other former Delta Force operator,” Castillo said. “Endeavoring to win the hearts and minds of people by whatever non-lethal means one has available.”

“What were the SEALs doing at your grapefruit farm in wherever you said?”

“They were aboard the nuclear submarine USS San Juan returning to California from Venezuela when General Naylor ordered them to report to me for hazardous duty. Because I was at the grapefruit farm, that’s where they went. When they got there, the sub surfaced, they loaded their telephone poles into their rubber boats, and headed for shore. You should have been there, Alek. The sight of twenty-four large SEALs and six telephone poles jammed into two small rubber boats racing across the waves is one I won’t soon forget.”

“A couple of questions, Charley. What’s with the telephone poles? And what was the nuclear submarine doing off the coast of Venezuela?”

“So far as the telephone poles are concerned — the SEALs are touchy on the subject — the best I’ve been able to figure out is that the SEALs train with them. Like when I went through the Q course—”

“The what?”

“Q for Special Forces qualification. When I went through the Q course at Camp Mackall, they issued us a rifle, a pistol, and a knife. We had to keep all three with us around the clock. I don’t know that I buy it, but I’ve been told that the SEALs do the same thing with telephone poles. Makes one think about it. Did you ever see a picture of SEALs training without a telephone pole in it?”

“Now that you mention it, no.”

“So, what was suggested to me is they become emotionally involved with their telephone poles. They become, so to speak, their security blankets. They just don’t feel comfortable unless they have a telephone pole — the bigger the better, I was told — around.”

“Makes sense,” Pevsner said. “And what was the sub doing off the coast of Venezuela?”

“Just between us? I wouldn’t want this to get around.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Well, you remember when the Venezuelans nationalized the American oil companies, seizing them, so to speak, for the workers and peasants?”

“Indeed, I do. And I confess that I was surprised when you didn’t send your Marines to take them back from the workers and peasants. That’s what we would have done. In the bad old days, I mean.”

“We’ve learned subtlety, Alek,” Castillo said. “What we did was refuse to sell them any more parts for the oil well drilling equipment and refineries they seized.”

“Whereupon we — I mean the Russian Federation — leapt to their aid in the interest of internal peace and cooperation, and sent them the parts they needed.”

“Which you — I mean the Russian Federation — since they don’t make those parts themselves, bought from us, doubled the price, and then sold to the Venezuelans. Correct?”

“You’re not saying there’s anything wrong with turning a little profit on a business deal, are you?”

“Absolutely not! So when we found out what the Russians were doing, we had several options. We could stop selling the parts to the Russians, which would have meant our parts people wouldn’t have made their normal profit. That was unacceptable, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Or we could have sunk the Russian Federation ships either as they were leaving the U.S. or — after the parts had been put ashore in Russia, where they were reloaded into crates marked ‘More Fine Products of Russian Federation Craftsmen’—when the ships carrying the parts were en route to Venezuela. That would have been an act of war, so we didn’t do that, either.”

“So, what did you do?”

“We made some parts that wouldn’t quite fit, or would wear out in a week or so, or would cause the drilling strings to break, or all three, and put them into crates marked ‘More Fine Products of Russian Federation Craftsmen.’ Then we loaded them and some SEALs onto nuclear submarines.”

“I know what’s coming,” Pevsner said. “Genius! No wonder we — I mean the USSR — lost the Cold War!”

“When the crates were off-loaded from the Russian ships onto docks in Venezuela, that same night the SEALs exchanged our crates for their crates. The parts the Russians bought from us were taken back to the U.S., put on shelves, and sold. They’re good parts. The — excuse the expression — bad parts no doubt now are installed in Venezuelan drilling rigs and refinery equipment. It’s only a matter of time before that equipment promptly breaks down or blows up — or both. The Venezuelans then will say unkind things to the Russians, and the Russians, who know they haven’t done anything wrong, will say unkind things to the Venezuelans.”

“When I changed sides, I knew it was time for us to change sides,” Pevsner said. “Didn’t I say that, Dmitri?”

“I remember you saying exactly that,” Tom Barlow said. “And you were right.”

“I’m always right. Or almost always. I have to admit that I did place my trust in that Korean sonofabitch who sold me those lousy air conditioners.”

He turned to Castillo.

“So when are you going to start the C. G. Castillo Pirated Ship Recovery Training Program?”

“After what you’ve just told me, how can I?” Castillo asked. “Won’t it take days to… how do I say this delicately?… restore the ladies’ rooms to their normal pristine and functioning condition?”

“This is another of those times when I wonder both how you got to be an intelligence officer and whether or not you’re intelligent enough to be let into the family. The last I heard there are zero females in your Delta Force and zero in your SEALs. That suggests there will not be a requirement for ladies’ restrooms, whether functioning and pristine or not.”

“You have a point,” Castillo admitted. “Does that mean I can charter the Czarina of the Gulf?”

“Absolutely!”

[FIVE]

“Roscoe,” Major Dick Miller, USA, Retired, said to Roscoe J. Danton, who was sitting beside him in the co-pilot’s seat of the aircraft, “I’m about to begin our descent into John Foster Dulles International Airport. Should I call ahead and get a limousine for you?”

“You mean a limousine for us?”

“No, I mean a limousine for you.”

“You’re not going to the White House with me?”

“What I’m going to do is drop you off and then fly to Chicago to pick up Archbishop Valentin and Archimandrite Boris and take them to Cozumel.”

“Who the hell are they?”

“The clergymen who are going to unite Sweaty and Charley in holy matrimony.”

After a moment’s thought, Roscoe said, “Thank you, Dick, but no. I’ll just get a taxi.”

“Why not a limousine? We’re living high on the CIA’s dime. If Charley can charter a Gulfstream Five, the Rhine River cruiser Die Stadt Köln, and now the two-thousand-plus-passenger Czarina of the Gulf, why can’t you ride to the White House in a limousine?”

“Frankly, Dick, I’m shocked at the suggestion. Here you are marching along in the Great Gray Line of West Pointers and suggesting that I waste the taxpayers’ hard-earned money by taking a limousine.”

“And now that I think of it, Charley’s going to bill the CIA five thousand dollars an hour for flying you here in his thirty-eighth birthday present.”

“Be that as it may, I will take a cab.”

“Suit yourself. And that’s the Long Gray Line of West Pointers, not the Great Gray Line.”

“Thank you. I’ll make a note of that. As a journalist I pride myself on making accurate statements.”

“If that’s the case, since my leg is still pretty well fucked up, you should have said, ‘Here you are limping along in the Long Gray Line.’”

“I’ll make a note of that, too. Accuracy and truth in all things has long been the creed of Roscoe J. Danton.”

The truth of the matter here was that Mr. Danton not only did not wish to go to the White House in a limousine, he had no intention of going to the White House at all.

He had made that decision while Castillo was still on his CaseyBerry speaking with Secretary of State Cohen and DCI Lammelle. She had called to say that the First Lady wanted Danton’s version — in person — of why Red Ravisher had thrown the paparazzo at him, and the President wanted to hear — in person — what he was doing in Las Vegas with Miss Ravisher when he was supposed to be in Budapest trying to sneak into Somalia.

The moment Castillo had said, “Well, okay. If you two are agreed it’s that important, I’ll have Dick Miller fly him up there in the morning,” Roscoe had had an epiphany, the first he could ever recall having, and which he had previously believed was a religious holiday, falling somewhere during Lent.

I’m not going, his epiphany had told him. I don’t know how I’m not going, but I am not going to try to explain to the President or the First Lady what happened at the airport in Las Vegas. Cohen and Lammelle and Castillo want to throw me at them — like a chunk of raw meat thrown to a starving tiger — to get the pressure off themselves, and I am just not going to permit that to happen.

He had had no idea how he was just not going to permit that to happen until Miller had brought up the subject of a limousine to take him from Dulles to the White House. Then, in an instant, he had another epiphany: He would get in a taxi, go directly to Union Station, take the train to New York, and seek asylum in the embassy of the People’s Democratic Republic of Burundi.

Several months before, while driving home from a party at the Peruvian embassy, he had come across a sea of flashing lights on patrol cars and police prisoner transport vehicles, and stopped to investigate. He had quickly learned what was going on.

The police were in the process of raiding the K Street Stress Relief Center, as the stress relief techniques offered apparently violated the District’s ordinances vis-à-vis the operation of what were known as disorderly houses.

Roscoe, in the hope that he would see, which seemed to be a distinct possibility, in the lines of now stress-free customers being led in handcuffs to the police prisoner transport vehicles, one or more distinguished members of Congress, had gotten out of his car for a better look.

Surprising him, he hadn’t seen any congressmen, but he had recognized someone who had been at the Peruvian embassy party. He recognized him because he was about seven feet tall and weighed probably 350 pounds, and wore a zebra-striped robe and an alligator-tooth necklace.

He saw, too, that the Burundian ambassador had recognized him.

He hadn’t written anything about the incident for a number of reasons. For one thing, diplomats being hauled off by the cops from establishments like the K Street Stress Relief Center was hardly news. For another, the ambassador had a name that could be pronounced and spelled only by fellow Burundians.

Roscoe had not been surprised to see the ambassador’s photo in the society section of the next day’s edition of the Washington Times-Post. He was pictured with his wife, who was even larger and more formidable-appearing than he. That explained why he had sought stress relief.

But he was surprised when that same afternoon a messenger delivered a burlap bag containing twenty-five pounds of Burundian coffee beans and a note from the ambassador, in which the ambassador expressed his profound gratitude for Roscoe’s discretion when they had met the previous evening. Roscoe correctly interpreted that to mean the ambassador was grateful his picture had appeared in the society section only.

The ambassador’s note had gone on to say that if there was any way, any way at all, that he could be of service to Roscoe, all Roscoe had to do was ask.

Under these circumstances, Roscoe decided, the ambassador would be happy to conceal him for a few days, a week, however long it took until the situation was resolved. And he doubted very much that the President would look for him in the Burundian embassy.

Roscoe’s good feelings lasted until he came out of Immigration into the Arriving Passengers area of the airport.

“Welcome to our nation’s capital, Roscoe,” David W. Yung greeted him. “Let me help you with your bag.”

“You look a little green around the gills, Roscoe, if you don’t mind my saying so,” Edgar Delchamps said. “Would you like to stop at the Old Ebbitt Grill for a Bloody Mary, or would you prefer to go directly to the White House?”

[SIX]

“Words cannot express my chagrin and remorse, Miss Bogdanovich,” the general manager of the Grand Cozumel said.

“There’s some sort of problem?”

“Indeed there is,” he said. “I’m afraid there is no room at this inn.”

“Why not?”

“The owner’s cousin is to be married here. The entire establishment will be required to accommodate the guests.”

“But you told me I would always be welcome here.”

“And you always will be, except, of course, when the owner’s cousin is to be married, which unfortunately changes things.”

“But what am I to do? I was so looking forward to a huge bowl of your marvelous borscht whilst looking down from a penthouse at the white sands of the beach.”

“Let me tell you what we’re going to do. I can only hope it meets your approval.”

“It better.”

“Not far down the beach is a splendid establishment — not as splendid as this, of course, but splendid — the Royal Aztec Table Tennis and Golf Resort and Casino. The manager is a personal friend of mine. When I saw your reservation, I explained this unfortunate happenstance to him, and he has arranged an exquisite penthouse suite for you overlooking the white sands of the beach.”

“A penthouse suite seems nice, but what about the borscht?”

“As we speak, Miss Bogdanovich, two of our chefs are in the kitchen of the Royal Aztec preparing borscht — as only they can — for you.”

“That’s all very nice, but what about security? I don’t want any of my fans, and certainly no paparazzi, butting into my personal life while I’m resting to recover from an unfortunate incident in Las Vegas that I’d rather not talk about.”

“Not a problem, Miss Bogdanovich. We have trained the security staff of the Royal Aztec. You may rest assured on that score. And did I mention that the Grand Cozumel is going to pick up your bill at the Royal Aztec to make up a little for any inconvenience we may have caused?”

“How kind of you!”

[SEVEN]

When she had looked around Penthouse A, which occupied half of the twenty-second floor of the Royal Aztec, and found it satisfactory, Agrafina Bogdanovich thanked the Royal Aztec’s general manager and sent him on his way.

Then she unpacked, took a shower, and put on what she thought of as her itsy-bitsy tiny polka-dot bikini and her sunglasses and went onto the balcony of the suite. She saw that a steam table had been set up, and resting above the bubbling waters thereof was a silver bowl. She lifted the lid, sniffed appreciatively of the borscht it contained, replaced the lid, and started to pull a chair up to the table.

She was in the act of opening a bottle of Dos Equis cerveza when she sensed eyes on her. She looked and saw a head looking at her over the colored-glass partition that separated the balcony of Penthouse A from that of Penthouse B.

“That’s borscht I smell, isn’t it?” the man inquired.

“It’s none of your goddamned business what it is, you goddamned perverted Peeping Tom,” Agrafina said, and threw the bottle of Dos Equis at him.

She missed, the bottle striking the glass partition instead. It shattered. The Peeping Tom fled his balcony.

Ten minutes later, her door chime went off. The general manager stood there. So did three bellmen. One of them held two dozen long-stemmed roses. A second held a silver dish with a pound of caviar in it, resting on a bed of ice. The third held an ice-filled bucket and a two-liter bottle of Stolichnaya vodka.

“Miss Bogdanovich, I come bearing these small gifts from your neighbor…”

“Señor Peeping Tom, you mean? I was led to believe I would be left alone to recover from the unfortunate incident in Las Vegas—”

“What unfortunate incident was that, my dear Miss Bogdanovich?”

“I’d rather not talk about it. And I barely had time to settle myself when this Mexican Peeping Tom intrudes on my privacy—”

“Actually, he’s Russian, not Mexican, Miss Bogdanovich.”

“Okay. Russian Peeping Tom. What do you mean, he’s Russian?”

“He’s from Greater Sverdlovsk—”

“That’s just Sverdlovsk, not Greater Sverdlovsk,” Peeping Tom said from behind the bellman with the long-stemmed roses. “And I’m actually from Kiev, not Greater Sverdlovsk.”

“And did you have a mother in Kiev?”

“Of course I had a mother in Kiev. May she rest in peace.”

“And she didn’t teach you not to leer at strange women in itsy-bitsy tiny polka-dot bikinis while they are trying to recover from certain unpleasant things that happened to them in Las Vegas?”

“It was my nose that got me in trouble,” Peeping Tom said.

“You weren’t leering at me with your nose!”

“Your borscht smelled just like the borscht my sainted mother, may she rest in peace, used to make for me in Kiev. I got carried away.”

“It’s pretty good borscht, I’ll admit that. What did you say your name was?”

“Grigori Slobozhanin,” he said, and then: “To hell with it! My real name is Sergei Murov.”

“You’re in the theater?”

“Why do you ask that?”

“Well, I’m in the theater myself, so to speak. I know about stage names. My name as it appears in the credits is Red Ravisher. Agrafina Bogdanovich is my real, off-camera name.”

“A beautiful name for a beautiful lady,” Murov said. “It sounds Russian.”

“I am of Russian heritage.”

“So here we are, two Russians far from the motherland—”

“Actually, I’m from Cleveland, Ohio.”

“How about ‘two Russians in a strange land’?”

“It’s a strange land, all right, but I just told you, Grigori, that I’m an American.”

“The sound of my name coming from your lips is like heavenly music.”

“Thank you. I did study elocution, of course.”

“That’s obvious.”

“And you’re in the theater, too, I gather, Grigori?”

“There it is again! You don’t perhaps hear softly playing violins, my dear Agrafina?”

“What I hear actually sounds like a mariachi band. I asked if you, too, are a thespian.”

“Well, let’s say I’m playing a role.”

“All the world’s a stage, as they say.”

“Indeed it is. May I make a somewhat intimate suggestion, my dear Agrafina?”

“I sort of like the way Agrafina rolls off your lips, too, Grigori. Yes, you may, with the understanding that if I were to take offense at your somewhat intimate suggestion, I will break your legs.”

“What I was going to suggest is since you have that absolutely marvelous borscht, the kind my mother, may she rest in peace, used to make, and I have two liters of Stolichnaya and a pound of caviar, we merge our assets.”

Agrafina turned to the general manager of the Royal Aztec and the bellmen.

“After you put my roses in water,” she said, “our caviar on the table on the balcony, and hand me our Stolichnaya, you may leave me alone with this silver-tongued devil.”