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“My darling Agrafina Bogdanovich, will you do me the great honor of becoming my bride?”

“Before I answer that, darling Sergei, I have a little confession of my own to make.”

“Which is?”

“My latest film, Catherine and the Household Cavalry, to which I referred is not actually a documentary.”

“I know, I know. I’ve watched it a hundred times. Another reason, my precious, that my heart was beating so wildly when I first saw you in the flesh.”

* * *

Thirty minutes later:

“Well, that’s the end of the Stolichnaya, my darling, and almost the end of me,” General Murov said somewhat breathlessly. “What should we do now?”

“Actually, I’ve been giving that some serious thought, my precious.”

“What occurred to me was getting into the Jacuzzi — they say that restores vigor — and then ordering up another bottle of the Stolichnaya and a couple dozen oysters. How does that sound?”

“I was thinking of our future. Since you agree that your only option is to defect and become — once you’re finished with the CIA debriefing — chairman of the board of Red Ravisher Films, Inc.”

“I look forward to that. I’ve always had a secret yearning to be a capitalist.”

“And you told me, right, that to defect and not find yourself playing soccer with a bunch of crazy Arabs in Guantánamo, you’ll have to defect through the director of the CIA, A. Franklin Lampoon.”

“That’s Lammelle, my darling, A. Franklin Lammelle. Frank and I, professional differences aside, of course, always got along very well.”

“And you said that getting in touch with him might be difficult—”

“What I said, my precious, is that if I just called the CIA in Langley and asked to speak with him, they would ask who was calling, and if I replied I was General Sergei Murov of the SVR, they would laugh hysterically and hang up on me.”

“I think I see a way around that, my darling. You also said that Mr. Lammelle and the officer who is about to marry your beloved Svetlana are friends.”

“They’re as tight as ticks,” Murov said.

“I’ve always wondered what that means. It brings to my mind an image of intoxicated insects.”

“Well, that’s what people are always saying.”

“What I think we should do, my darling, striking while the iron is hot, so to speak, is go over to the Grand Cozumel and speak with Colonel Costello—”

“That’s Castillo, my precious.”

“And ask him to get Mr. Lammelle on the line for you.”

“Darling, I don’t know—”

“Going to the Grand Cozumel, my darling, would also give you the opportunity to not only see your beloved Svetlana but to offer her your best wishes on her upcoming nuptials.”

“My precious, I don’t think—”

“Not closing the door on your relationship with your beloved Svetlana would be a deal breaker, my darling, on our own upcoming nuptials.”

“Well, viewed from that perspective, the idea of going over to the Grand Cozumel does have great appeal.”

“Well then, my precious, put your trousers on. The last time I saw them they were hanging from the chandelier.”

“There’s something I didn’t tell you about Colonel Castillo, my precious.”

“Which is?”

“There are twenty-four members of the Cuban DGI — the Cuban version of the SVR — here in Cozumel under orders to whack Castillo.”

“And these people are likely to be at the Grand Cozumel? Is that what you’re saying?”

“At the moment, they’re engaged in cleaning the ladies’ rooms on the Czarina of the Gulf, the cruise ship. But they should be about finished, and when they are, they’ll go looking for Castillo.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, my darling. Now go put your pants on while I repair my makeup.”

“You’re going with me to the Grand Cozumel?”

“I want to be there, my precious, when you finally close the door on your Svetlana. To be sure there’s no mistake, no misunderstanding.”

[FOUR]

The Grand Lobby and Reception Hall
The Grand Cozumel Beach & Golf Resort
Cozumel, Mexico
2110 21 June 2007

Hiding behind two of the larger potted palms in the lobby when the Archbishop Valentin and the Archimandrite Boris made their spectacular — one might even say regal — entrance were Mr. C. Harry Whelan and Mr. Matthew “Hockey Puck” Christian.

They had been traveling together since they had met at the White House gate earlier in the day, immediately after Mr. Roscoe J. Danton had been pushed out of the Yukon in which he had traveled from the Old Ebbitt to meet with President Clendennen.

Although they normally loathed one another, the situation here dictated a truce between them. C. Harry was determined to find out, and damn the cost of finding out, what Roscoe was doing with the President and the reason behind the porn queen throwing the French paparazzo at Danton in Las Vegas.

Mr. Christian had been told by his superiors at the Continental Broadcasting Corporation that unless he got them out from under the fifty-million-dollar libel suit brought by Miss Red Ravisher for mis-identifying Miss Ravisher as the person who had thrown the French paparazzo at Mr. Danton, he could not only expect to lose the Hockey Puck show, but would work out the balance of his contract doing the midnight weather broadcast over the Continental station in Dry River, North Dakota, where he would have to write his own copy, do without the company-furnished chauffeur-driven Mercedes he had grown used to, and learn to live without an expense account.

C. Harry and Hockey Puck quickly agreed to share whatever information they acquired from their highly placed confidential sources within the White House, no matter how many folded hundred-dollar bills they would have to pass out to these people.

Their plan succeeded. A third assistant botanical superintendent, who was bitter at his low pay of only $96,500 per annum, and happy to get the tax-free C-note, informed C. Harry that while he had been rearranging the white roses on the dining room table in the Very, Very Important Person guest room, he had accidentally happened to overhear the President’s conversation with DCI Lammelle.

He reported that the President had ordered DCI Lammelle to immediately get his ass out to Andrews and get his airplane warmed up. As soon as he could get Roscoe J. Danton sobered up and out there they were to get their asses on the DCI’s airplane and fly to the Grand Cozumel Beach and Golf Resort in Cozumel, Mexico, where they were to make it perfectly clear to Colonel Castillo that the Clendennen administration was not in the business of slaughtering innocent and illiterate Somali teenagers and that he was to immediately cease and desist carrying out any nefarious and criminal plans he had made to do so.

On hearing this, C. Harry told Hockey Puck that he had a line on a Learjet at Baltimore International and was going to fly to Cozumel. He asked Hockey Puck if he wanted to share the ride and the cost.

“Absolutely,” Hockey Puck had immediately replied. “Just make sure you get two original copies of the bill, so that we can both get our respective employers to reimburse us.”

When they got to the Cozumel Beach & Golf Resort, they were told there were no rooms at the inn, unfortunately, as all accommodations were reserved for the upcoming nuptials of the owner’s cousin.

At first this was disappointing, but then they saw a silver lining in the black cloud. For one thing, they were going to have to hang around the lobby anyway as the only thing they could see in their rooms was Mexican television, and for another, another folded C-note got them spurious bills for deluxe suites so they might be later reimbursed by their respective employers.