Mad Mouse

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Shall we cut to the chase, gentlemen?”

Weese leans forward, brings his hands together.

“My father and his Chamber Of Commerce cronies must immediately transfer ten million dollars to an offshore bank account, the number of which I will provide to you. Their deadline is two P.M. When certain friends of ours, certain-oh, how shall I put this? Certain Russian mobsters? When these gentlemen advise me that the transfer is complete, I will instruct them to contact Natalia on her secure satellite phone with orders not to shoot a single sunbather.

“Once the money matter is taken care of, you, Officer Ceepak, you will escort me to the airport, where I will board Aeroflot flight fifteen to Moscow. Tomorrow, when I have arrived safely and have no Russian police or KGB or CIA following me-and we'll know if they are because, as I said, we have several financially interested, high-powered friends-when I reach my undisclosed location in the motherland, Natalia will lay down her weapon and depart from these shores.”

Weese has a faraway look in his eyes. Like he's been waiting ten years for this one moment. It hits me: he's the Mad Mouse. A timid, mousey guy we made so mad one day that now he's ready to wipe out an entire boardwalk full of innocent kids like maybe he used to be.

“By the way, you will never catch Natalia before she slips out of the country. She will not book passage on Aeroflot, so don't waste your time with amateur airport theatrics. Just know that she and I will one day reunite on a Baltic beach to split our share of the ten million dollars. Perhaps we'll even nibble caviar and sip vodka. Everything will be hor-a-show. That's Russian for hunky-dory.”

Weese sighs.

“You gentlemen should know that Natalia's sniper post is well stocked with provisions. Food. Water. She can remain hidden for quite some time now that I have kept you engaged long enough for her to properly secure her position.”

“What about your children?” asks Ceepak.

Weese shrugs. “My father wanted grandchildren so damn much, he can keep them. They're loathsome little creatures, actually. Filthy.”

The lawyer nervously twists his ear lobe. “I'm not certain the town fathers can raise ten million dollars in under two hours.”

“Of course they can,” scoffs Weese. “I'm not asking for actual cash. It's all electronic banking, counselor. We can do it online. Don't forget, my father is a mortgage broker with access to all sorts of lenders willing to provide money at very reasonable rates, or so he constantly claims in his annoying advertisements. The other merchants will surely chip in because-let's face it. If Natalia starts shooting, this town will never recover. Never. Two incidents in one summer? ‘Welcome to Sea Haven. Have a Sunny, Funderful Day-Unless You Get Shot First.’ Not a very catchy slogan. I fear it would make a dreadful bumper sticker.”

“Your wife is setting you up,” Ceepak says. “She's working for the Russians. The mobsters.”

Weese ignores him.

“Mr. Ceepak, you have heard our demands. Ten million dollars. If the transfer is not completed by two P.M., Natalia will start taking out targets. Scores of them. Hundreds! Why, she might even break Lyudmila Pavlichenko's world record. Trust me. My little wife packed a great deal of ammunition.”

The lawyer looks like he's lost all his tan, like it all drained down to his underpants. His face is pale and white.

“Ten million dollars?”

Weese shrugs again.

“It's what the D.C. snipers asked for. Who knows-perhaps we should ask for more. The town fathers can certainly afford it. Besides, Natalia and I? We're much more lethal than those two Negroes down in D.C. Much smarter, too.”