“Mommy, dearest,” the First Lady inquired, “what’s ‘borscht’?”
“I think that’s what the Russians call grits, darling.”
“Actually, Madam First Mother-in-Law,” Robin Hoboken offered, “borscht is a soup made with fresh red beets, beef shank, onions, carrots, potatoes, cabbage, dill, and sour cream.”
“Belinda-Sue, darling,” Mother Krauthammer said, “guess who Whatsisname has with him? The talking encyclopedia.”
“Is there any chance, girls,” the President asked, “that you’d be willing to turn Wolf News off for a minute or two—”
“Not a chance in hell until Pastor Jones is finished interviewing Red Ravisher,” Mother Krauthammer said.
“I gather you’re a fan of Miss Ravisher, Madam First Mother-in-Law?” Robin Hoboken asked.
“Yes, I am. On several levels. I was deeply touched by her portrayal of Catherine the Great. It brought on a flood of memories of my time as the Magnolia Queen of the University of Mississippi. The Ole Miss Rebels weren’t cavalry, of course, they were football players, but they sure knew how to ride, so to speak.
“And then I certainly admire her for throwing that French pervert at the other one. I refer, of course, Joshua, to your dear friend Roscoe J. Danton.”
“Actually, Madam First Mother-in-Law,” Robin Hoboken said, “that might be a slight mischaracterization vis-à-vis Mr. Danton’s relationship with the nation’s Commander in Chief and that incident in general as reported by Mr. Matthew Christian.”
“Joshua, do you have any idea what the hell he’s talking about?” Mother Krauthammer asked.
“Miss Ravisher,” the First Lady said, “just said she wants to break Mr. Christian’s bones.”
“I’d like to break his bones,” the President said. “Roscoe J. Danton’s bones, I mean. He’s supposed to be in Europe trying to get into Somalia, not in Las Vegas having French perverts thrown at him by the Ethel Barrymore of the dirty movie business.”
“People who keep a box full of adult films in the James Earl Carter historical presidential desk in the Oval Office are in no position—”
“What Robin and I were hoping to talk to you and Belinda-Sue about, Mother Krauthammer,” the President said, “is my library… actually Belinda-Sue’s and my library and last resting place.”
“And the necessity for you, Madam First Mother-in-Law,” Robin Hoboken amplified, “to make a real effort, as we start to raise money for the foregoing, to avoid as much as possible doing anything, such as your recent difficulties with the Public Drunkenness Squad of the Pascagoula Police Department, that might be in the newspapers or, God forbid, on Wolf News, as that might impede our fund-raising efforts.”
“This I have to hear,” Mother Krauthammer said. “But make it quick. Belinda-Sue and I want to watch the rerun of the Pastor Jones show.”
[FOUR]
“Good morning, Alek,” Charley Castillo called cheerfully as he got off the elevator. “Tom and I understand you need a little cheering up.”
He pointed to Tom Barlow, formerly Colonel Dmitri Berezovsky of the SVR, who had followed him off the elevator. Both Dmitri and Charley, who looked so much alike they could have been mistaken for brothers, were wearing polo shirts and tennis shorts and carrying rackets and cans of balls.
Aleksandr Pevsner, attired in a terry-cloth bathrobe, darted his large, blue, and extraordinarily bright eyes coldly at them but didn’t reply.
“So, what’s bothering you on this sunny morning in sunny Cozumel?” Castillo pursued.
Again Pevsner didn’t reply. But the look in his eyes, which previously had been chilly, changed to one that would have frozen Mount Vesuvius.
“I guess he didn’t see that sign in the lobby, Tom,” Castillo said.
“What sign in the lobby?” Barlow asked.
“The one that says, ‘Abandon Despair, All Ye Who Enter Here! Welcome to the Grand Cozumel Beach and Golf Resort!’”
“I guess not,” Tom agreed.
“Tell us why you haven’t abandoned despair, Alek,” Castillo said. “Perhaps we can help.”
“I knew I should have killed you on the Cobenzl,” Pevsner said.
The Battle of Vienna in 1693, which saw the troops of the Ottoman Empire flee the battlefield leaving only bags of coffee beans behind, was directed from the Cobenzl, a high point in the fabled Vienna Woods.
Castillo had first met Pevsner there after Pevsner had had him abducted at pistol point from the men’s room of the Sacher Hotel.
“You told us God stayed your murderous intentions,” Castillo said. “You remember him saying that, Tom, right?”
“I remember him saying just that,” Barlow replied. “‘I was just about to kill Charley when God stayed my hand’ is exactly what he said.”
“Well, that wasn’t the first mistake God’s made,” Pevsner said. “Staying my hand like that.”
“We’re back to what’s troubling you, Alek,” Castillo said. “You can tell us. Tom is family, and I soon will be. What’s bothering you?”
“Do you have any idea how much money that stupid sonofabitch has cost me?”
“It would help, Cousin Alek, if you told us to which stupid sonofabitch you’re referring. Then we could guess.”
“Nicolai Nicolaiovitch Putin.”
“Nicolai Nicolaiovitch Putin? Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin’s cousin?” Tom Barlow asked. “I thought he’d joined the Bolshoi Corps de Ballet after they threw him and his boyfriend out of the Navy.”
“No, stupid. Not that stupid Nicolai Nicolaiovitch Putin. The other one. The one who’s captain of the Czarina of the Gulf and before that captain of the atomic submarine Blue September. The submarine the Americans stole. No wonder we lost the Cold War.”
“So, what has Captain Putin done to so annoy you, Alek?” Castillo asked.
“He’s cost me a fortune, that’s what he’s done. And ruined the reputation of Imperial Cruise Lines, Incorporated. People will now be laughing at Imperial, instead of at Cavalcade Cruise Lines.”
“Refresh my memory, Cousin Alek,” Tom Barlow said. “Why were people laughing at Cavalcade Cruise Lines?”
“Some people thought it was amusing when the helmsman of the Cavalcade Carnival became distracted by the sight of bare-breasted maidens in grass skirts and ran the ship aground on the island of Bali.”
“I remember now,” Castillo said. “It turned over and they had to cut holes in her bottom to get the passengers off. So what has Captain Putin done that’s worse than that?”
“When I gave him command of the Czarina of the Gulf, Charley,” Pevsner said, suddenly far more calm than he had been just moments before, “I counseled him. I’m sure both you and Dmitri — excuse me, Tom—have yourselves counseled your subordinates before giving them an important command, so you’ll understand what I’m saying here, right?”
Both Tom and Charley nodded.
“What I said was, ‘Nicolai Nicolaiovitch, you are an experienced officer and seaman. You’re an honors graduate of the Potemkin Naval Academy. In the glorious days of Communism, you rose to command the nuclear-powered submarine Blue September, in which you prowled under the seas for years trying to scare the Americans. I wouldn’t dream of telling someone of your experience and reputation how to command the Czarina of the Gulf. But, as I’m sure you know, there is always an exception to every rule. And here’s that exception: The Czarina of the Gulf will be calling at ports in Mexico. When that happens, whatever you do, don’t take on any water. Not for the boilers. Not for the water system. Not even water in plastic bottles.’