A nondescript man awaited the rats.
“Bring these filthy vermin back tomorrow night at ten,” instructed the maître d’, “and you’re welcome to them.”
Simon Templar took the rats and nodded compliantly.
Tretiak, looking a bit flushed, emerged refreshed from the rest room and stumbled happily toward his table.
“General Sklarov,” called out Tretiak, “have I proved to you my brilliant theory that two singles don’t make a double?”
“What theory is this?” The uniformed lecher laughed as he squeezed the Georgian’s proprietary padding. “K it involves alcohol, it must be very important.”
It was, as theories go, an easily demonstrated lesson in modem marketing. Tretiak had been drinking doubles, Sklarov had been downing singles while matching Tretiak drink for drink. Both men were thoroughly polluted in body as well as in morals.
Tretiak tossed his bottom down into the chair and wagged one finger at the glasses in front of him.
“You just watch and see,” he slurred with authority and summoned a waiter.
“Pour two singles into that double’s glass!”
The waiter complied, and the excess liquid ran down the side of the glass and soaked into the tablecloth.
“See!” Tretiak laughed and pointed. “Two singles don’t make a double!”
Confused, Sklarov insisted the experiment be repeated.
It was, several more times for everyone at the table. Each round, Tretiak’s party drained their glasses before the waiter renewed the experiment. Soon, everything was soaked and everyone was sloshed.
“C’mon, my little latka,” called the drunken would-be dictator to his sozzled female companion. “Now I will show you a very special rat!” He laughed as if obscenity and wit were synonymous.
She giggled her most obligatory giggle and, gathering up her imported purse, joined her powerful lover. Sklarov, unconscious in his chair, did not even wave good-bye. His date was in the ladies’ room hugging a toilet.
Tretiak steered his young lovely through the crowd, out the door, and toward his black BMW. They crawled inside, shut the door, and sat back to await their driver.
A large gray rat leaped into Tretiak’s lap as two more yellow-toothed rodents jumped on his screeching and screaming girlfriend. Rats were everywhere, swarming over the seats and headrests, scampering over their bodies, and sniffing at their private parts.
Tretiak gasped and flailed his arms wildly. His panic-stricken date violently kicked her high heels at the swarming vermin.
Kicking, screaming, stomping, shouting humans and squealing rats rebelled at one another’s behavior in a moment of madness and mayhem. The street-side door was suddenly thrown open, and the two terrified passengers erupted into the street.
Immediately upon exiting the BMW, Tretiak was slammed against the vehicle by Simon Templar.
The Saint thrust a cellular phone in front of Ivan’s face.
“Your accountant’s on the line,” hissed Templar. “Have him deposit my three million in Geneva.”
Tretiak’s first impulse was to balk, but a pointed pressure between his ribs altered his reluctant attitude.
“I’ll cut you into sticky little bits with my carbon steel machete,” Templar threatened.
Ivan swallowed his rage. Watching his girlfriend and several rats running off into the distance, he began barking instructions into the phone.
Templar smiled.
“Oh, yes, and tell him to add two days’ interest at current mutual fund rates, estimated travel expenses from London to Moscow, and funeral costs for the two innocent people your stooges killed this morning.”
Ivan glared. Templar pressed the blade harder. Tretiak complied.
“Thank you so much,” said the Saint pleasantly. “Now I will be able to treasure my memories of Moscow. Get back in the car.”
Not wishing to be impaled on Templar’s machete, and unaware that it was nothing more than a pocket-knife, Tretiak slid into the BMW. He was immediately welcomed by an exceptionally large and ill-tempered rodent.
He angrily slammed his fist into the vermin’s twitching little face and burst back out of the car. The rodent, unconscious, did not pursue the relationship. The Saint was gone.
Templar’s taxi arrived predawn at a remarkably shabby inner-city hotel. Even at this odd hour a ragtag band of women stood by the front door. They offered to sell either themselves or their possessions.
Templar approached the front desk. “Mr. Farrar, checking out.”
They began to prepare his bill amid numerous distractions. Sensing it would be a while, Templar crossed the lobby toward the bar. He peered inside and was dissuaded from entering by the cluster of Party hacks turned dealmakers, pimps, and miniskirted “models.”
He opted for the coffee shop. After escaping from Ilya, tracking down Tretiak, and playing with numerous rats, Simon Templar had a headache that would only increase if exposed to more mindless mayhem.
He ordered a cup of something resembling coffee and pulled a small aspirin bottle out of his pocket. He dumped two tiny pills into his hand.
“Aspirin and caffeine,” said the female behind him. “A heady combination.”
Emma.
Templar whirled to face her.
There was one moment of penetrating silence, followed by the unmistakable sound of a woman’s hand slapping a man’s face. Emma’s hand, Simon’s face.
Somewhere, in the distance, a Doberman barked.
He tried to pretend the slap never occurred, speaking to her as if they were at a church social. “I’m rather surprised that you found me, or bothered to.”
“It wasn’t difficult,” enunciated Emma precisely. “Two men with Saint’s names flew from London to Moscow yesterday — one was named Isadore Bakanja. He was short, bald, and African. Not even you could manage that disguise.”
Templar seemed to give the concept careful consideration.
“Vincent Farrar,” continued Emma with set jaw and iron eyes, “seemed far more likely to be your current ahas.”
Templar offered a rueful grin. “Named after a saint who betrayed his best friend. You’re right. So what?”
“I want my cards back. The ones you stole.”
“Oh, those.” He turned unconcerned back to his coffee.
She slapped the cup and saucer away with the back of her hand and slapped his face again on the upswing.
“Bastard!”
The waitress pretended not to notice anything.
“I’m a thief, Emma, I steal things,” explained Templar. “If it makes you feel better, you can slap me again.”
He didn’t actually expect her to, but she did. Harder.
None of this was helping his headache.
They stood there then at the coffee counter. His face red, her hand sore, the counter wet with spilled coffee and littered with pieces of cracked saucer.
“I’ll pick up the tab for this,” said Templar to the waitress. She hurriedly brought him a can of Tab and a glass of ice. Both he and Emma involuntarily laughed.
“Who the hell are you anyway?” asked Emma, and the question seemed not the least bit rhetorical.
“Nobody has a clue — least of all me,” Templar answered.
“Why did you steal cold fusion when it was free? If you would have simply asked me, I would have given it to you! You are so damn stupid.”
Simon did not bother formulating a witty rejoinder. She was absolutely accurate and correct. He had been stupid and cruel.
“Whoever the hell you are, I saw something good in you. I felt happy when I was with you,” insisted Emma as if attempting to process her disappointment and dismay, “and you are a liar and a fraud. Give me one good reason why you should steal from me!”