Bullseye (Michael Bennett 9)

“Honestly, Paul. You ask me, the whole thing—Putin being here, all of it—is a distraction, a head fake,” I said. “He wants to be as close to Buckland as possible if something goes down. ‘But, Officer, how could I be responsible? I was right beside him. It wasn’t me.’”

“Well, we can’t let that happen, then, can we?” Paul said. “We bag the Brit beforehand, Putin loses.”

“If it even is Putin,” I said with an exasperated sigh. “Do you really think it is? That it is actually Putin, and this is all some Deep Blue chess move he’s making that only Garry Kasparov could figure out?”

“I don’t know,” Paul said. “As usual, we have lots of questions but, unfortunately also as usual, no answers.”

“I’m getting sick of those.”

“The questions or the fact that there are no answers?” Paul said.

“Yep,” I said as I started counting windows again.

Chapter 76

Several hours later, coming on seven that evening, after Putin was in for the night upstairs at the Waldorf, we were downstairs in a back room off its ornate lobby, in one of its conference rooms.

The beautiful varnished boardroom table we were sitting at was done up with the Waldorf’s signature A1 high style. There were sumptuous flower arrangements running down the middle of the table, and tissues in intricately carved decorative boxes. At each of the twenty or so seats were china coffee cups and water bottles and crystal water glasses set up on little doilies.

We were there to have our own little international summit between us and Putin’s Russian security forces.

“This spread is fit for a king, isn’t it, Paul?” I said to Agent Ernenwein as a pleasant middle-aged waitress filled my coffee cup for the third time. “So this is what it feels like to be a central banker. I must say, I’m impressed.”

“Now, Mike, it’s not fair to denigrate the wizards behind the curtain,” Paul said. “They deserve every luxury we can provide for them. Do you actually think it’s easy to conjure up trillions of dollars of global debt with a wave of your manicured fingers over a keyboard?”

I was still chuckling when the Russian security guys came in. There were six of them—six big thick-necked guys in tailored suits. Think Brute Squad by way of Savile Row.

“Enough of your lies,” the lead brute, a pale bald guy, said without preamble or sitting down. “Why do you think that Putin is out to kill your president? Do you think we are so stupid that we cannot see that this is some plot you have set up to discredit him? You wish for a premise for war? Yes? Of course you do. For without Russia, the US can just take whatever it pleases, such as Iraq. You will find very painfully we are not the Iraqis, I assure you. Russia will defy you, then defeat you faster than you will believe.”

After ten seconds of unbelievably dead silence following this verbal crowbar to the back of the head, I stood, holding a crystal water glass aloft.

“Hi. My name is Mike. Welcome to America,” I said. “Please sit down so we can

discuss how to be friends with one another.”

“You stupid American,” baldy said. “If anything happens to our president, you will not be laughing, I can assure you. The joke will be on you and the smoldering little of what’s left of your decadent country.”

“Did somebody wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning or what?” I whispered a little too loudly to Paul.

“Please, gentlemen. There’s no need to speak in such a way,” said Agent Margaret Foley, giving me a look like she wanted to turn me into something smoldering. “As you may have heard, Mr. Stasevich, our president was almost shot.”

“And we have very good reason,” Paul jumped in, “to believe that the shooter was hired by someone in Russia. But we have never stated that we thought it was your president. Not once. So I don’t know where you’re getting that from.”

“Would any of these reasons have something to do with one of our agricultural attachés, who seems to be missing?” Stasevich inquired with a roll of his eyes. “Tell us, how long did it take for your CIA interrogators to waterboard this false information out of him that we are involved?”

“Enough, please, gentlemen,” said Agent Foley. “These outrageous accusations get us nowhere. As with all visiting dignitaries, we will be doing everything we can to ensure your leader’s protection while he is in our country.”

“And to imply that we are not is a flat-out insult,” Paul said, feisty now.

“Please accept our deepest apologies,” said Stasevich. “And listen to me very closely. We deny any and all involvement. And to show you that our only wish is for global stability, like a true partner of all nations, our president is willing to appear with your president out in front of the UN as the dignitaries arrive. Vladimir Putin is willing to put himself in the line of fire.”

“I will pass along your generous offer to the president,” said Agent Foley. “Thank you for meeting with us.”

“It’s just like I told you,” I said to Paul as the Russkies left. “The Brit can shoot the nose hair out of a flying mosquito at four thousand yards. This is it. When Vlad and the president are out in front of the UN, waving to the crowd, that’s when the shooting will happen.”

Paul shook his head, then let out a breath.

“I don’t know, Mike. Maybe these guys are on the level. They look genuinely pissed off.”