"Which was?"
"An involvement with a young woman named Savina."
"I'm not sure I understand."
"Your young associate had a rather voracious appetite for women, Mr. Ambassadorso they arranged a liaison with the woman called Savina as his payoff. Apparently there was only one problem. Young Gurin believed he was in love with the woman.. and when she wouldn't go away with him, he threatened to expose her friends for the political threat they were."
"And…"
"They killed him rather than have their position revealed. It seems these young people share the opinion that Mother Russia should return to the ways of Lenin."
Frank Wilson shook his head. He had spent eleven years in Russia and he still did not understand the workings of the Russian mind. Finally he asked, "Is there anything I can do, Inspector?"
"Actually there isn't," Nijinsky said. "When you contacted my department and expressed your concern about the missing young man this morning, we had already discovered the body."
"How did he die?"
Nijinsky could not suppress the smile small that played with the corners of his mouth. "He died in bed, Mr. Ambassadormaking love." Then he sobered. "The signs are hard to ignore. At perhaps the critical moment in their lovemaking, his partner put the barrel of a gun to his temple and pulled the trigger."
Wilson closed his eyes against the image.
Nijinsky started for the door, then looked back. "My condolences, Mr. Ambassador. If you have any further questions, please call me."
Chapter Sixteen
Robert Miller had made it a habit for the last five years. Every Wednesday, he left work a half hour early and dropped into the Riverside Club on Potomac. Luke Bailey of United Press and Reese Webster of First Bank made Wednesdays a habit along with Miller. The three had been friends since their graduate days at Capital.
Miller bought the first round of beers and lit one of his infrequent cigars. "So Reese, my man, tell me what the hell the Fed's gonna do about the interest rate. My investment club meets this Friday, and they think since I work for the government I've got inside information."
Webster started to laugh. "Tell them that if they wanna make more money they need to get a second job like Luke and me."
Luke Bailey raised his glass in a mock toast and started to take a drink. At the same time, out of the corner of his eye, he was watching the television over the bar. The camera was panning across the scene of an airline crash. He nudged Miller. "Hey, look at that."
Robert Miller sobered and put down his glass. "Hey, Sam," he shouted at the Riverside's bartender, "will you turn it up?"
As the volume came up, Miller recognized Reed Barkley. The CNN anchor was to his generation what Walter Cronkite was to Miller's father's generation. Barkley's voice was somber as the scene again reverted to the crash site.
"Once again, confirming our main story this hour: A Tupolev Tu-16 Badger was shot down by what has been described as "friendly fire" from an unidentified Russian aircraft over the Gulf of Tonkin earlier today. "The incident occurred some fifty nautical miles due east of Haiphong.
"Observers on the scene report no known survivors."
Barkley turned to his "on-camera" colleague.
"This is interesting, Blake. According to what we have been able to learn so far, the Tupolev's flight originated in Huangliu on the Chinese island of Hainan…"
Blake Harold was nodding his head. "Indeed, and it was just a few days ago that we received word that Han Ki Po, a man many believed would succeed Hong Ho, the current Chairman of the People's Republic, as the supreme Party leader in the PRC, had been assassinated as part of the ongoing political turmoil in that area."
Barkley was nodding. "The irony of this situation, Blake, is that the first reports received here at the CNN newsroom in Atlanta indicated that the Tupolev was said to be carrying a General Han, son of Han Ki Po, and the man some sources close to the situation believe was destined to take over the Fifth Academy faction of the Red Army."
"Has that been confirmed?" Blake Harold asked. Miller regarded him as a good journalist.
Barkley shook his head. "At this point we are unable to confirm the identity of anyone aboard the aircraft, nor, as a matter of record, have we even been informed of any fatalities…"
Miller elbowed his way out of the booth and raced for the telephone. By the time he got through to his office, Packer was the only one still there.
"Pack," Miller huffed, "CNN is carrying a story about a plane crash in the Gulf of Tonkin. Apparently a Russian Tupolev was shot down… and they also have an unconfirmed report that Han Ki Po's son, General Han Xihui, was aboard that plane."
Packer was silent for a moment. Then he repeated what Miller had told him as though he was trying to get his hands around it. He concluded with a question. "Any idea when Bogner's coming in?"
"I think he's probably already in town," Miller said. "He indicated he was staying overnight in Washington, but he was very adamant that he wouldn't be in the office until tomorrow morning."
Bogner had expected Miller and Packer to be there. He had not expected Lattimere Spitz.
Still sporting a brace of black eyes, a broken nose, and an assortment of cuts and bruises from his encounter with Driver on Anxi, he looked worse after this gambit than at any time either Miller or Packer could remember.
"How are you feeling, Toby?" Packer asked.
"Like I look." Bogner headed straight for the coffee and poured himself a cup. "I got the first good look at myself in a mirror last night, Pack. It occurs to me that I may be getting a little too old for this sort of thing."
Spitz sat down at the table and loosened his tie. "Colchin wants a full report about what happened out there."
"I wish I knew," Bogner admitted. "I was there, and it's still all bits and pieces."
"Start with the Covert," Spitz said. "Colchin still has to button that up with President Aprihinen."
"I saw Driver fly it out of Danjia and twentyfour hours later I actually saw it buried in about twenty to thirty feet of water in an Anxi atoll…"
"And you're certain it was the same plane?" Spitz pressed.
"If you're asking me if I'm one hundred percent certain that the plane I saw Driver crawl into is the one I saw in that atoll, I'd have to say no. The only time I saw the Covert, it was sitting in a dark hanger with damn little in the way of lighting. The next time I saw it, it was mostly submerged in water and it was at night."
"Let me put it another way, T.C. Could Quan have switched planes on you?"
"What the hell is this, Lattimere? Are you trying to tell me you don't think that plane I saw was the Covert?"
"Take it easy, T.C., the boys over at Naval Intelligence have merely pointed out that it's a possibility. They point out that you weren't there when the plane went down. And they also point out that Quan would have had the opportunity to switch aircraft."
"What the hell kind of aircraft does NI think Quan dumped on Anxi?"
"Look, Toby, have you got any proofsolid proof?" Spitz demanded. "Something I can take to Colchinsomething he can hang his hat on when he's talking to Aprihinen?"
"I saw Harry Driver cram Dr. Schubatis into the cockpit of that aircraft just moments before he took off. I saw what was left of Schubatis twenty-four hours later. He was dead and floating in the cockpit of the aircraft."