He also couldn’t forget the man’s excellent British-accented English, and his utter embarrassment when Morrison’s investigation had revealed the lead counterfeiter to be a senior policeman on Zinoviev’s own stuff.
After a rather unenthusiastic greeting, Zinoviev escorted them into a vacant conference room. Not bothering to offer any refreshments, he walked over to a display board and pulled back the white sheet that had been draped over it. This revealed a detailed topographic map covering the southern half of the Crimean Peninsula.
“The primary motorcade route that we decided upon remains unchanged,” said Zinoviev while using his bony index finger to point out a roadway that was highlighted in red and stretched from Simferopol Airport southeast to the Black Sea coast.
“Our public-works personnel worked tirelessly these last few weeks, and I’m proud to report that the road project has been successfully completed. The President of the United States shall have a freshly paved, two-lane highway for his exclusive use, as his motorcade initiates the nineteen-and-a-half-kilometer drive to our President’s dacha outside Alushta.”
For the past month, Morrison had extensively studied this same route, and even though he knew it almost as well as the way from his home in Chevy Chase to the White House, he approached the map and questioned, “What about the new bridge over the Salgir River? As of three days ago, my survey team indicated that the span was still incomplete.”
“It’s apparent you haven’t spoken with them since,” said Zinoviev, trying his best not to boast.
“Regardless of the unseasonable late-spring rains, and the worst flooding in a century, your President shall have nothing but new pavement to travel upon during his drive to the coast.”
Morrison had yet to contact his pre placed security forces for a final update, and ever hopeful that he now had one less potential problem area to worry about, the SAIC addressed his Russian colleague.
“Alexi, I don’t suppose that your boss has gone and altered his travel plans any.”
“The old man’s at sea even as we speak,” answered Kosygin.
“He left Odessa at daybreak, and at last report, his destroyer was passing Yalta. I can only thank my lucky stars that I wasn’t picked to accompany him. After what we went through last fall aboard the QE2. I plan to make good my promise never to sail a body of water bigger than my bathtub.”
Morrison issued forth a laugh that would have done James Earl Jones proud.
“Tell me about it, my friend. I think I would have gone and retired if they had decided to hold this secret negotiating session at sea. I never was a good sailor to begin with, and now I get seasick just driving over the Potomac!”
Zinoviev loudly cleared his throat and once more pointed to the map.
“I have two hundred of my best men patrolling the roadway. Our Army has over twice that many soldiers spread out in the forest and hills surrounding the highway. I must admit that, for efficiency’s sake, I wish we could have better coordinated their efforts with the numerous Secret Service Counter Assault Teams that are presently covering these same areas.”
“Your concerns have already been noted,” said Morrison with a grunt.
“Our policy has always been to do our work independent of local law enforcement agencies, including our operations inside the United States.”
Alexi Kosygin looked at Morrison and nodded.
“I’m afraid that not even the Ukraine National Police Force is going to be able to change official U.S. Secret Service policy. Comrade Zinoviev.
Now, since our time is extremely limited, I suggest we go over the exact composition of the motorcade.”
“I was just about to get to that,” said Zinoviev with a hint of resentment. The skinny Ukrainian flipped over the map, revealing a hand-drawn diagram displaying a long column of vehicles.
He pointed to the three small vehicles leading the column and began speaking rapidly.
“The motorcade shall be led by three motorcycles driven by a trio of my most decorated patrolmen. They will be followed by a pair of Zil police sedans, the second of which I shall be stationed in. Following me will be a BTR-60 armored personnel carrier, with fourteen heavily armed members of SWAT team Alpha inside.
I thought it appropriate that two Secret Service Suburbans should precede the limousines. The other Suburban will follow ahead of the communications van, the ambulance, yet another BTR-60, and a trailing police sedan.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to put those two Suburbans behind the limo carrying Two Putt, with a single Suburban in the lead,” said Morrison.
“Two Putt?” Zinoviev repeated.
“Two Putt is the Secret Service code name for the American President, Nikolai,” explained Kosygin.
A sharp electronic tone sounded, and Morrison took out a hand-sized two-way radio from his breast pocket.
“SAIC here,” he said.
Whatever he was hearing caused a scowl to pull ridges across his forehead, and he addressed the two-way oblivious to the curious stares of his audience.
“I don’t give a damn about any frigging excuses. Special Agent Moreno. This motorcade’s not going anywhere if you can’t get that ambulance running. Hell, use some initiative, son. Between all those Air Force jet jockeys and our people, there’s gotta be someone who can get that frigging engine started. Hell, you drove the damn thing in there, now drive that sucker out, or your frigging ass is history!”
As the SAIC angrily lowered his two-way, Zinoviev met his glance and wryly commented, “Our hospitals may not be as modern as yours in the U.S.” but at least our ambulances can get our patients to them.”
Chapter 3
Vince Kellogg stood on the muddy riverbank, his gaze locked on the swiftly moving waters. The ghostly blanket of fog that had veiled the Eleven Point all morning was at long last lifting. It had been much too long since he had been in such an isolated setting, over a hundred miles away from the nearest sizable city, and Vince scanned the cascading current while filling his lungs with a deep breath of clean Missouri Ozark air.
“Special Agent Kellogg,” sounded a voice from behind.
Vince turned and set his eyes on the heavily furrowed, weathered face of the man responsible for this interruption. Ron Wyatt was a native of these woods and, as a thirty-two-year veteran of the U.S. Forest Service, was one of Vince’s current hosts.
“I’m sorry to disturb you. Special Agent,” said Wyatt, his accent flavored by a slight country drawl.
“Ranger Eberly just called. They’re climbing out of the springs right now, and should be down here within the next fifteen minutes.”
“I sure hope this late start doesn’t mean that the VP will miss out on all the good fishing,” Vince replied.
“The trophy management area starts a stone’s throw downstream from here,” said Wyatt.
“And this late start don’t mean much to those fat lunker trout that live down there. What’s gonna make a difference is the Vice President’s savvy with a fishin’ pole.”
“Though I’ve yet to see him fish, the regulars on his detail swear he’s got an almost uncanny knack to catch his fair share of big ones.”
“I wonder if it’s true that he always releases ‘em, like the papers say,” pondered Wyatt.
Vince grinned.
“What else do you expect from America’s number one environmentalist?”
A green Forest Service truck pulling a trailer filled with canoes backed onto the boat ramp and Wyatt excused himself to help unload it. With a practiced glance, Vince surveyed the rest of the site. The immediate area was reserved for official vehicles and security personnel. The general public was confined to the adjoining campground, behind a temporary sawhorse barricade manned by a half-dozen members of the Oregon County Sheriff’s Department.