They took up positions behind potted palms.
The first thing they saw was truly shocking. Both deeply regretted not having charged their cell phones in order to have cameras to record it.
DCI Lammelle came into the lobby, followed by two burly CIA operatives supporting Roscoe J. Danton between them.
Then Lieutenant Colonel C. G. Castillo appeared, accompanied by a spectacular redheaded female.
There was an excited conversation between the two men. Seated as far away as they were behind the potted palms, they could only hear parts of the conversation. But they did hear that the President was ordering Castillo to immediately cancel any plans he had with Somalian teenagers, including slaughtering them.
Castillo then asked, “And he has no other nutty orders for me?”
“Just that you are to fall off the edge of the earth again, and never be seen by anyone.”
Castillo had then grabbed DCI Lammelle and kissed him wetly on both cheeks. And then the spectacular redhead had grabbed Lammelle and kissed him. Wetly. On the mouth.
“I love you, Frank,” she cried. “I don’t care what everyone says about you!”
Both men, fully aware of the news value of films of CIA directors being kissed by females to whom they were not married, not to mention their being bussed by men, groaned with the regret that this kissing session was lost to posterity.
They had then disappeared, only to appear fifteen minutes later with large numbers of other people dressed to the nines.
It was at this point that the Archbishop Valentin and the Archimandrite Boris marched into the lobby attired in their finest vestments.
A man whom neither Hockey Puck nor C. Harry recognized — Aleksandr Pevsner — then advanced on the clergymen, dropped to his knees, and kissed their rings.
Then Castillo and the spectacular redhead did the same.
“That redhead looks somehow familiar,” Hockey Puck whispered to C. Harry.
“What the hell are you doing here?” A. Franklin Lammelle demanded to know.
“We’re here to unite Carlos and Svetlana in holy matrimony,” Archbishop Valentin said.
“Not you, Your Grace,” Lammelle said. “Him.”
He pointed to General Sergei Murov, who, with Agrafina Bogdanovich, had just come through the revolving door into the lobby.
“Actually, Frank, old buddy, this is a delightful surprise. I want to defect.”
“My God, there’s two of them!” Hockey Puck cried loudly, as he came out from behind his potted palm to demand, “Which one of you redheads threw the Frenchman at Roscoe J. Danton and ruined my television career?”
“I don’t know who that is,” Aleksandr Pevsner ordered. “But grab him.”
Two burly ex-Spetsnaz instantly complied. And then two more went after C. Harry Whelan.
“I know who that ugly man is, Sergei, my precious,” Agrafina said. “He’s the pervert who made all those awful allegations about me!”
“I hate to say this with these distinguished Russian Orthodox clergymen standing here,” Murov said, “but you’re a dead man, sir. No one insults the woman General Sergei Murov loves. Not and lives.”
“As a distinguished Russian Orthodox clergyman, my son, I must forbid you from killing anyone.”
“Excuse me, miss,” Svetlana said. “Did Sergei say he loves you?”
“That’s what he says, Svetlana,” Agrafina said.
“Your Grace,” Murov asked, “if you say I can’t, I won’t kill the pervert. But how does Your Grace feel about me sending him to Moscow and turning him into an ice sculpture?”
“I have a confession to make,” Svetlana said. “It was I who threw the French pervert into the paparazzi. I wasn’t aiming at Roscoe; he was just collateral damage. And this lady was in no way involved.”
“Why, my daughter, would you do something like that?” the archbishop asked.
“Can I whisper why in your ear?”
“Of course.”
She did so.
“I understand your anger, my daughter,” the archbishop said. “But that doesn’t excuse the violence.”
“I guess that means I can’t turn the pervert into an ice sculpture, either,” Murov said.
“No, you can’t,” the archbishop said.
“Your Grace,” Agrafina said, “I confess that I am a FAMOTORC—”
“What the hell is that?” Castillo asked.
“Fallen Away Member of the Orthodox Russian Church,” Sweaty said. “Now shut up, my beloved heathen, while we Christians deal with this.”
“But I seem to recall, Your Grace, that bearing false witness is a sin,” Agrafina went on.
“Yes, my daughter, it is.”
“Well, that sonofabitch certainly bore — beared? — false witness against me. I just have to swallow that?”
“What would you suggest, my daughter? Since I’m not going to permit you, no matter how far you’ve fallen from Holy Mother Church, to either kill him or turn him into an ice sculpture.”
“I have a suggestion,” Aleksandr Pevsner said. “First thing in the morning, I’ll take him out on the Czarina of the Gulf and put him with the Cubans.”
“What Cubans are those, my son?” the archbishop asked.
“The ones the Cuban DGI doesn’t know that I know they sneaked onto my ship.”
“I don’t understand, my son,” the archbishop said.
“What I plan to do, Your Grace,” Pevsner said, “when we’re five or ten miles offshore, and they have finished restoring the ladies’ restrooms to a suitably pristine condition, is gather the Cubans on the fantail, tell them I know who they are, and ask them how well they can swim.”
“That’s okay with me insofar as ol’ Hockey Puck is concerned,” Agrafina said. “But it seems a little tough on the Cubans.”
“Not to worry, my daughter,” the archbishop said, “I am not going to permit my son Aleksandr to drown twenty-four Cubans.”
“What if I put them in lifeboats, give them plenty of Aqua Mexicana to drink, and make them row back here?”
The archbishop considered that thoughtfully for a moment, and then said, “That’d work for me.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Pevsner said. “Take both those clowns down to the Czarina of the Gulf.”
“You’re an evil man, Aleksandr Pevsner,” Charley Castillo said.
“Thank you. I like to think so,” Pevsner replied.
AFTERWORD
For those who may be wondering why this story sounds like M*A*S*H, an explanation:
Years ago, when I was writing the dozen sequels to M*A*S*H by “Richard Hooker”—the pen name for the distinguished surgeon H. Richard Hornberger, M.D., F.A.C.S. — I got to know Dick well enough to ask why he wrote the original book.
In essence, he said that humor can wash out bad memories. And that he wasn’t trying to remember our time in Korea — he was trying to forget it.
I had just begun this book when my son and I went to the annual OSS Society dinner at which former CIA director Robert Gates — whom I regard as a great patriot — was given the William J. Donovan Award.
Also at the banquet were a number of old pals who I also regard as great patriots. Some of them were general officers and some were the spook business equivalent of junior officers and PFCs.
And also at the banquet was a former general officer and soon-to-be former DCI, who attended with his girlfriend, a fellow alumnus of West Point.
So much for Duty, Honor and Country, I thought. Not to mention how not to keep a sweetie on the side a secret.