She laughed, crinkling her eyes in a devilish smile.
“We’ll see what we can find from royalty formerly known as Prince. As for Madonna, Madonna costs a bit extra—”
“That’s fine,” he replied seriously. “But she’s gotta be wearing the cone-shaped bra.”
Frankie blinked in disbelief, then took a good look at the customer.
“Hey. Mr. Bulgari Chronograph. Real funny. Didn’t you make it out?”
“Almost, but I decided to stay.”
She squinted suspiciously. “Then, why’re you back, Bulgari?”
It was time for some truth telling. “My name is Templar, Simon Templar.”
He put out his hand in friendship, but Frankie didn’t take it. She glanced dubiously from his hand to his face.
“The men looking for you were crawling all over the tunnels like rats. They roughed me up, but I laughed in their faces. I said I didn’t know anything...”
Templar started to smile in appreciation, but it was cut short by her next remark.
“... so they shot Toli.”
Simon put his hand down. “I’m sorry, really. In a way, it’s partially my fault...”
“No, Tretiak’s fault,” insisted Frankie. “They would have killed you and your girlfriend, too. Where is she?”
“The American Embassy. She’s safe, for now, but this entire country is in danger.”
Frankie forced a rueful laugh. “No surprise. No justice.”
“ ‘The best beloved of all things in my sight is justice,’ ” said Templar, and he meant it.
“Wrong time, wrong town.”
Templar took a breath.
“I need your help to stop Tretiak.”
She stepped back defensively.
“Hey, it’s a big country — big country — and you’re saying I’m your best friend here?”
“I’m saying you’re my only friend.”
She looked away, pretending to examine a cardboard replica of the Kremlin. She was, in reality, reexamining her own personal commitment to an ethical standard above and beyond the selfishness, corruption, and materialism devouring her homeland.
“Sometimes a person has to look the other way,” she said softly, “and other times a person can’t look away at all.”
She turned back toward him, shrugged as if her important thoughts were of little consequence, and smiled
“Just don’t get me killed, okay?”
They shook hands.
Frankie then offered him bitter instant coffee in a plastic cup, locked the front door, and put the closed sign in the window.
“What happens now?” she asked, rubbing her hands together in conspiratorial glee.
A light seemed to glow in Templar’s sapphire eyes.
“We light a fire under Ivan Tretiak.”
“Hoo-boy! I can picture that.” Frankie liked the plan so far.
“We’re going to get a rise out of that would-be tin-pot dictator, Frankie. In fact, believe that he’ll rise like a loaf overloaded with young and vigorous yeast.”
She found his delivery amusing, his material adequate.
“When he’s finished rising,” elaborated Templar, “he’ll have such an altitude that he’ll have to climb a ladder to take off his shoes.”
Frankie laughed for the first time since Toli’s death, and color came into her cheeks. “Very funny picture in my head about that!”
“Frankie,” said Templar as he toyed with a Kremlin replica, “there are three things Tretiak can do in the current social/political situation. He must either a, take over the country, b, go out and get hit by a bus, or c, be put out of business by the two of us. If he does a, everyone except him will be miserable. If he does b, we’ll be saved a great deal of trouble and hard work.”
“I vote for b,” she interjected, “and the sooner the better.”
“I don’t believe we can count on b as a realistic expectation,” commented Templar politely.
She drained the dark bottom of her plastic coffee cup and eyed her visitor.
“What makes you think c is more realistic? Toli said one word and—” Her voice caught in her throat and she clenched her jaw.
Simon came around the counter and put a warm and welcome hand on her shoulder.
“Put your faith in me, Frankie. We can do it.”
She wanted to believe him, wanted to pin her hopes and dreams on this charismatic buccaneer who offered no assurances beyond his own dynamic personality.
“Other men have tried,” commented Frankie as if she were attempting to tease, “stronger men, braver men...”
“Assuming for the moment that such men ever existed,” interrupted Templar with slightly forced joviality, “you’ve never met anyone luckier or more daring than I. With your help, we can melt Tretiak’s plot like last year’s snow.”
She ordered her lips to smile while her eyes glistened. “We make it hot for that rat, Tretiak?”
“Absolutely,” confirmed Simon.
“You got some secret rat remover formula or something?”
Templar smiled and patted his coat pocket. “As a matter of fact, Frankie, my secret formula arrived a half-hour ago by fax. Pm being straight with you. This is a country under reconstruction. Together we’ll make a positive contribution to the collective effort of remodeling and beautification.”
The mansion of Ivan Tretiak was the only comfortably heated home in Moscow, and it, too, was under construction. A daily army of workers, staff, and cleaning women swarmed over the estate while Tretiak, Ilya, and their crooked compatriots plotted the overthrow of the government.
Despite the depleted coal supplies, the tragic and supposedly inexplicable demise of Russia’s hydroelectric plants, the lack of natural gas hues except in the most prestigious diplomatic neighborhoods, and the much touted oil shortage, Tretiak enjoyed all the comforts of a well-heated domicile.
He also enjoyed the taste of black caviar and the aroma of impending victory while discussing strategies with the edgy General Sklarov. Ilya attempted appearing important, mostly by barking orders at the cleaning crew.
“I can count on my troops,” asserted the general, “but I was led to believe you’d soon unveil a great miracle to galvanize the mob.”
Tretiak waved his hand as if all of this were of no concern. He crunched a cracker smeared with dark fish roe and spoke with his mouth full.
“Like the Miracle of Communism, the Miracle of Cold Fusion failed.” He moistened his mouth with a gulp of vodka. “But it doesn’t matter. We have duped Karpov one way or another. If our recent ruse worked, we will get billions out of him before we strike. The stink of failure will be all over him, not me. Before he can scrub it off, you mobilize the army and together we take over.”
Tretiak brushed crumbs from his shirt as the general helped himself to more caviar.
Sklarov’s many years in Russia’s military had taught him all manner of duplicity and corruption. His clandestine support of Tretiak, coupled with a dedicated legion of Special Forces within the military itself, placed him in a delicate yet powerful position.
“You realize that once the coup is attempted, it must be swift and victorious, not like that botched attempt a few years back,” insisted Sklarov.
Tretiak chewed and gloated. He had it all figured out.
“I promised Karpov that the opposition would cease if he funded cold fusion.” Tretiak laughed. “But once the billions are in my pocket, what can he do? Every night the demonstrations become bigger, more violent, and the citizens are too cold to think clearly. When the time is right, we will synchronize a massive rally and media event with the sudden strike of your Special Forces.” Tretiak’s voice boomed with confidence and megalomania. “Within an hour or less, all of Russia and its vast resources and power will be ours!”