Inasmuch as few would accept Russian credit cards, they had to dig into their hard currency reserves at several stops.
This left them with seriously reduced operating expenses by the time the wheels touched down at Kennedy International Airport, chosen not only for its geographical proximity to the operations field but because it was more open to illegal entry than the Texas border.
"We must pool funds," Batenin told the captain in charge of the operation, whose name was Igor Gerkoff.
"It is for me to say these things; you are merely osnaz."
Which confirmed to Yuli Batenin the suspicion that had been growing since he had left the motherland. These men were not ex-KGB. Not all of them. They were Spetsnaz-spetsiadnoye nazhacheniye. Special purpose soldiers of the GRU, military intelligence. They were the shock troops of the former Red Army General Staff.
By osnaz, they were mocking him as a mere secret policeman, which is what he had been in his KGB days, albeit a glorified one.
Whatever this "Shield" was, it was comprised of the most hard-core members of pre-Gorbachev forces. Every man was an athlete of Olympic caliber. This was good. It was also very intimidating to Yuli Batenin, whose background was in intelligence, not operations.
"I have forty American dollars and three kopecks," Yuli said, showing Captain Gerkoff the contents of his pockets.
"Give me dollars, and save kopeks for after next Revolution. When they will be valuable once again."
Reluctantly, Batenin did as he was told. He did not think kopecks would ever be worth anything. Even in good times, they were valueless. But he had no choice.
Others chipped in. Soon, nearly two hundred dollars had been amassed.
"Should be enough to obtain us each fine room in best American hotel," the captain said confidently.
As it turned out, when they presented themselves at the front desk of the Rumpp Regis Hotel, the two hundred dollars was barely enough to get them a single room in the back.
When Yuli Batenin broke the bad news to his Shield unit, few of whom spoke passable English, Captain Gerkoff said, "Is no problem. Take room, Batenin. We come back."
Less than a hour later, there was a knock at Batenin's hotel room door.
He called through the door cautiously. "Who is it?"
"Gerkoff. Shchit."
Batenin opened the door. They were all standing there, in open-neck shirts whose pointed collars overlapped their suit coats. Gold chains festooned hairy necks.
"We have registered, and are prepared to go among Americans undetected by them," Gerkoff said, stepping in.
"How did you register?" Batenin asked, marveling at their clothes.
"Credit cards. We strangle tourists and take theirs. Is no problem."
"Did you steal clothes, too?"
"No. Clothes foolishly donated by Americans to Russia through Project Provide Hope packages. They are latest fashion, no?"
"They are latest fashion, twenty years ago," Batenin said unhappily.
This assertion caused the Shield unit to huddle and converse worriedly. When they broke their huddle, Captain Gerkoff said, "We have decided clothes too fine to abandon. We will keep them."
And Yuli Batenin, looking at the only hope of reviving the Soviet Union assembled before him like extras from Saturday Night Fever, could only smile weakly and hope for the best.
After all, these were the finest killers produced by the Soviet Union. What matter their wardrobe, when it came time to make moist red spots on the carpets of America?
Chapter 25
Randal Rumpp watched the sun come up through his magnificent office window.
The night had passed peacefully. Oh, there had been a few minor problems, such as the attempt by the mob below to storm his office.
Fortunately, Randal Rumpp had had anti-creditor doors installed on all access routes to the twenty-fourth floor. They were modeled on the waterproof sliding doors used to seal off flooded submarine bulkheads.
When his executive assistant burst in to warn him of the impending assault, he coolly reached into an open desk drawer and hit a switch.
A red light should have come on. None did. Then he remembered that the tower electricity was still offline.
Rumpp came out from behind his desk, screaming, "Man the manual controls!"
They jumped on levers and turned big iron wheels concealed all over the floor, sealing off the two main points of invasion and later the remaining fire exits.
Randal Rumpp, not satisfied with having saved his own skin, hurled abuse through the thick doors.
"Go home, losers!"
That only made the pounding grow more heated.
The pounding continued for an hour or so. Then, their rage expended, the mob had apparently withdrawn.
Now, with the sun up, and Randal Rumpp's enthusiasm, fortified by a wide assortment of candy bars ranging from a Skybar to a USA, restored, he was working his cellular phone. The USA company had gone out of business in the early seventies, and Rumpp, who had claimed in print that he hadn't really begun making money until he had tripled his sugar intake, had had a lifetime supply put into deep freeze for his personal use.
"Hello, Mr. Mayor," he said cheerfully, picking nougat out from between his front teeth with a monogrammed ivory toothpick, "have you given any further thought to Rumpp Tower II?"
"The plan is unworkable. Your FAR won't allow for two hundred stories."
"That's what the previous administration said about Rumpp Tower I," Rumpp countered. "The jerks said our permissible height was too much for our floor-area ratio. But I bargained for and got the max-21.6 FAR. And I didn't have an eyesore like this mess to cover up."
"According to some news reports, this mess, as you call it, is a haunting, not your responsibility," the mayor said.
"Hey! That's Cheeta Ching's version of events. She's got one in the oven. You know how that messes up those high-estrogen types. This has my fingerprints all over it."
"What on earth are you up to, Rumpp?"
Rumpp shrugged. "Hey, I do it to do it. I think that's what I'm gonna call my next autobiography. So what's the deal? Do I draw up a letter of intent, or what?"
"I have a nine o'clock with the planning commission."
"Listen, you tell those slobs if I don't get what I want, all city property tax payments stop!" Randal Rumpp warned. "You're not dealing with just any chump here. You're dealing with a Rumpp."
"I know," said the mayor bitterly, hanging up.
"Hmmm. That didn't come out right. Dorma!"
Dorma Wormser raced in, her eyes expectant.
"Take a memo," said Randal Rumpp.
Her face fell. "Yes, Mr. Rumpp."
"I want a reminder in my personal reminder book never to use the phrase, 'You're dealing with a Rumpp.' It's bad for the image. Doesn't sound right, somehow."
"Yes, Mr. Rumpp," sighed Dorma, who had been hired because her boss was an "ass man."
The cellular phone rang.
Randal Rumpp reached for the handset. But his attention was distracted by his executive assistant's headlong leap under a glass coffee table. She huddled under it, in plain view.
"Get out of there! What's with you? You've been jumpy all night."
"I can't help it, Mr. Rumpp. Ever since that . . . thing jumped out of the phone, I've been a wreck."
"Be a wreck on your own time," said Randal Rumpp.
The phone continued to ring.
Dorma shrieked, "Please answer that thing!"
Randal Rumpp lifted the handset. Instantly, his assistant stopped trying to shrivel up into a cowering ball.
"Go ahead," Rumpp said into the mouthpiece. His scowl fled when he heard the tight voice on the other end. He brightened.