“I could get in serious trouble,” she said.
“If you don’t let me drive,” Randy said in a serious tone of voice, “I’ll recite the whole of ‘The Cremation of Sam McGee.’ And you’ll go mad. And run off the road, and we’ll both die.”
She pulled over. They exchanged places and drove off, smoothly enough.
“Handles a bit heavier than mine,” he said.
“It’s armored,” Cass said.
“Of course. Brilliant. Are there any buttons I shouldn’t touch? Missile launchers, ejection seats, smoke machines? There’s a village.”
They were in a valley. There was smoke rising from a small town a few miles in the distance.
“They’ll have something to eat,” Randy said.
“Negative that,” Cass said. “This road we’re on is the perimeter of our area of operations. That town is outside of it. We can get something back at Turdje.”
“I bet you that village is the very epicenter of gastronomy in the region. Indeed, the Lyon of Turdje.”
“I don’t believe there is an ‘epicenter of gastronomy’ anywhere around here,” Cass said.
“See here, Corporal, I’m here to find facts. And the facts I’m most interested in right now include a bit of roast chicken, some fresh cheese, crusty bread, and a bottle of the local plonk. How’s the wine here, by the way? Pretty grim? Um…probably better off ordering beer.”
Against Cass’s protest, Randy turned the vehicle off the main road onto a smaller one that led to the village. Cass had visions of Serb snipers popping up from behind hedgerows. She reached for the radio.
“What are you doing?” he said.
“Informing them back at base that I’m being kidnapped by a U.S. congressman.”
“Good idea. You never know.”
Cass alerted the duty officer of their position. He expressed concern, but Randy was as focused as a pig intent on truffle. A few moments later, they pulled into the village.
There was something resembling a small town square and a few locals. Cass saw a sign that seemed to indicate it might have something to do with food. They went inside. It was steamy and warm inside and smelled of stale pickles. Cass exchanged a few rudimentary words with the apparent proprietor, a large elderly woman with a mole.
“What did you order?” Congressman Randy said.
“Kulen pita.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Tripe pie.”
“Oh,” Randy said. “Yum, scrum.”
It wasn’t bad. Congressman Randy drank a bottle of the local beer, which he pronounced “a bit hoppy.”
As they ate, three rough-looking men entered and sat at a table. They stared at Cass in her uniform and her congressman. Randy gave them a friendly look and wave. They returned cold scowls.
“Must be Republicans.” He shrugged. He ordered another beer.
“My great-great-et-cetera ancestor,” Randy said, suppressing a hoppy belch, “knew Thomas Jefferson. Knew him quite well. They-awkward point-used to buy their slaves from the same dealer. You won’t hear me speechifying about that on C-SPAN. There are letters between them about it. ‘I think I overpaid for Hezekiah. Didn’t much like the look of those gums.’ Wait till I run for president. How the media will feast. Sorry, I’m rambling. Tripe pie does that to me. Anyhow, to the point. In 1815, Jefferson wrote a letter to someone. I’ve had it entered it into the Congressional Record so many times I know it by heart. Don’t worry, it’s shorter than ‘Sam McGee.’ He wrote, ‘The less we have to do with the amities or enmities of Europe, the better.’ This from someone who’d been our minister to France. He wrote, ‘Not in our day, but at no distant one, we may shake a rod over the heads of all, which may make the stoutest tremble. But I hope our wisdom will grow with our power, and teach us that the less we use our power the greater it will be.’ Damn good stuff.” He leaned back, gave the brutish-looking men a glance, and said, “And here we are once again-here you are, Corporal-smack dab in the center of Europe ’s enmities.”
“Speaking of enmities,” Cass said in a low voice, “I think we ought to leave. Those men over there-they’re making me kind of uncomfortable.”
Randolph gave them an appraising look. “Not nature’s most gorgeous specimens, are they, the Bozzies? Why linger? Will you ask Madame Mole what we owe?”
He pulled out a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills. The cash did not go unnoticed by the three men. Cass winced. The men got up and left.
When they were outside, Randy said, “Care for a stroll on the Rialto? Walk off our three-star meal?”
“Get in the vehicle.”
Randy walked over to the driver’s side.
“I need to drive,” she said.
But there was no arguing. He had the key. She climbed in her side. They drove off. Cass watched nervously in her rear mirror. The three men emerged from the cafй, got into a car, and followed them.
“Shit,” she said.
“Yeah,” Randy said, “it was pretty awful.”
“Not the food. Those men. They’re following us.”
Randy glanced in the rearview mirror. “They’re probably going home. Home to their poor wives. The prospect of sex with those three…the mind boggles.…”
“They’re following,” Cass said with a trace of anger. “That wad of cash you flashed back there.”
“Sorry. Didn’t look like they took American Express.”
Cass got on the radio and reported the situation.
“Did you just call in an air strike?” Randy said. “Not very sporting.”
“They don’t screw around here. They’re tough.”
“Well, I’m tough, too,” Randy said with jutted jaw.
Wonderful, Cass thought. Bertie Wooster Goes to War.
The car was now close behind them. Suddenly Randy jammed on the brakes. The car almost slammed into them.
“What are you doing?” Cass shouted.
“Seeing if they pass.”
They didn’t. Two men got out of the car and approached the Humvee on either side. The one approaching Cass’s had something long in his hand.
In the next instant, her door window spiderwebbed from the blow of the iron pipe.
“Hang on!” Randy shouted.
Cass felt herself thrown forward against her seat restraint as Randy slammed the Humvee into reverse and floored the accelerator. The Humvee smashed into the Serb car with a loud crunch. He shifted back into forward and drove off.
“Sorry,” he said. “Bit sudden. You all right?”
Cass was already on the radio, reporting that they were now officially under attack. In her rearview, she saw the two men rushing back to get in the car. It took off, following.
“I’d have thought that would have put them out of action,” Randy said. “So, do we have any guns on board?”
“No.”
“A military vehicle with no guns?”
“We weren’t supposed to be operating in hostile territory,” Cass snapped.
“Well, I wish we had some all the same. I’m rather good at skeet.”
“That’s so reassuring.”
Randy turned the vehicle sharply off the road and onto a field.
“What are you doing?” Cass screamed.
“Let’s see them follow us through this muck!”
“Randy, there are mines! Mines all over this country!”
Congressman Randy took his foot off the accelerator.
“Aha. You may be on to something there, Corp-”
Chapter 5
U.S. CONGRESSMAN WOUNDED IN BOSNIA Military Escort Also Hospitalized in Mine Incident
Cass stared groggily at the headline. An obliging nurse had brought her USA Today’s foreign edition. She’d been in and out of consciousness for the last two days, so the paper was indeed bringing her news. At some point-was it this morning?-she had opened her eyes to find her bed surrounded by uniforms, uniforms of impressive rank. She dealt with the unwelcome discovery by closing her eyes and feigning a coma.