Hazardous Duty (Presidential Agent 8)

“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]

Penthouse B

The Royal Aztec Table Tennis and Golf Resort and Casino

Cozumel, Mexico

0900 19 June 2007

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.”