The Outlaws (Presidential Agent 6)

There were three Mercedes-Benz automobiles lined up in the circular drive before the three-story brick mansion: a CLS 550 sedan—the pilot car—then an elegant twin-turbo V12 CL600—obviously the ambassador’s vehicle—and then another CLS 550—the chase car.

The precautions are necessary, Lammelle thought, not to protect the ambassador from the Americans, but from his fellow Russians.

Chechen rebel leader Doku Umarov would be delighted to sacrifice a half-dozen of his associates if that was the price for taking out the ambassador.

“It looks as if the boss is about to go to work,” Murov said. “Why don’t we say hello?”

This is not a coincidence, Lammelle decided. The ambassador probably waited until the gate reported their arrival before he came out of the house.

Obviously, he wants me to know that he knows I’m here, and, as important, to know that he knows Murov invited me.

“What a pleasure to see you, Mr. Lammelle,” the ambassador said, offering his hand.

He was a ruddy-faced, somewhat chubby fifty-five-year-old.

“It’s always a pleasure to see you, Mr. Ambassador,” Lammelle said.

“Sergei tells me you’re going boating,” the ambassador said.

“That’s not exactly true, Mr. Ambassador. Going out on the river in February may be sport for a Siberian, but for an American it’s insanity.”

The ambassador laughed.

“What I thought I would do, Mr. Ambassador, is look through a window in the hunting lodge and watch Sergei turn to ice.”

“I’m not a Siberian, Frank. I was born and raised in Saint Petersburg,” Murov said.

Which at the time was called Leningrad, wasn’t it, Sergei?

“In that case, I suggest we both look out the windows of the hunting lodge at the frigid waters.”

The ambassador laughed again, and laid his hand on Lammelle’s arm.

“If I have to say this, the door here is always open to you.”

“That’s very gracious of you, Mr. Ambassador.”

“Perhaps if you’re still here when I get back, we can have a drink,” the ambassador said, and then gestured for his chauffeur to open the door of the Mercedes.

“I don’t think that’s likely, but thank you, Mr. Ambassador.”

“Give my best regards to the President and Mr. Powell when you see them, please.”

“I’ll be happy to do so, Mr. Ambassador.”

And say “Hi!” to Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin for me, please, Mr. Ambassador, when you get the chance.

“I thought we’d have breakfast in the hunting lodge, rather than in the house, if that’s all right with you, Frank,” Murov said as they watched the ambassadorial convoy of three luxury cars roll away.

“Fine with me, Sergei,” Lammelle said.

Murov waved him back into the Caravan for the short ride to the hunting lodge, which was a small outbuilding that had been converted into a party room. There was a table that could seat a dozen people. A small kitchen was hidden behind a half-wall on which was a mural of two old-time sailors—one Russian and the other American—smiling warmly at each other as they tapped foam-topped beer mugs with one another.

Lammelle thought: In the professional judgment of our best counterintelligence people, somewhere on that mural and on that oh-so-charmingly-rustic chandelier with the beer mugs overhead and God only knows where else are skillfully concealed motion picture camera lenses and state-of-the-Russian-art microphones. All recording for later analysis every syllable I utter and every movement and facial expression I make.

And as much as I would love to roll my eyes and grimace for the cameras before giving them the international signal for “Up yours, Ivan,” I can’t do that.

Doing so would violate the rules of proper spook deportment, and we can’t have that!