The Kremlin File

Lewis was a huge black man who had played professional football in the United States a few years back. He was aloof until I called him Freight Train, the tab the press had hung on him, and recalled some of his big plays. Then he loosened up, told me about the special precautions he was taking with the President in residence, and took me up to Fleming’s floor to introduce me to his staff.

There were four, all burly American blacks, huddled in a corner of the corridor. Lewis swore under his breath and growled about army arrogance. All alike, he said, everywhere, push you off the earth. He was burned because a lieutenant and two privates were by the doctor’s door and had brushed off his guards. They had also apparently brushed off two men now languishing at a corridor intersection down the other way — swarthy, short, thick Italian-Americans. They gave me pause. The Mafia was looking out for the doctor too, protecting their own interests in the casino.

I was introduced to the hotel’s security squad, then to the three army men in front of Fleming’s suite. I asked the lieutenant if the President was back. He looked through me without an answer. Lewis bellowed that I was Thomas Sawyer’s handpicked man, imported to protect the doctor and they’d damn well better cooperate. The lieutenant still didn’t see me; he just turned and knocked a code on the door. A flunky opened it. Fleming saw me from across the room and called for me to come in.

A swarm of government people filled the room, fighting for the great man’s ear, with Colonel Jerome hovering nearest. I didn’t stay long, only the minutes it took to thank Fleming and compliment him on his speech. Fleming was up to his ears organizing his government, but he was still solicitious of my welfare. He hoped I’d encounter no further difficulties on the island. I thanked him and left.

In the hall Lewis asked if I wanted to look at the security setup on the other floors. We rode down a flight and I saw soldiers, guards, Mafia everywhere. President Randolph Felming was tucked in tight.

I congratulated Lewis, excused myself and went into my room. The little booby traps I had left weren’t disturbed. Nobody had been there. I wondered if AXE’s information about the unreliability of the Grand LaClare army came from the fertile imagination of some nervous diplomat. I put in a call to headquarters to talk to David Hawk.

His voice lunged through the instrument, demanding to know why I hadn’t reported in as soon as we landed. When he heard about the hassle over the gun, he had some special words for pompous officials, and when he got that out of his system, I gave him a rundown on where else I’d been that had used up time.

“The skyjacking was set up by the Russians, I’m sure,” I said, “But that’s all taken care of. The stewardess didn’t know she was a cat’s paw. She’s not very bright, and she panicked. Do something for her.”

He was silent while he made a note, then, “Fleming, did he have any suspicion why you were aboard? He’s not stupid.”

“He doesn’t seem to realize why I’m around. Anyway, all is well on the island so far. The people act like God is the new president.”

“Splendid. Let’s see how our Red friends react to that. Keep your eyes open.”

I blew a lass at the mouthpiece, rang off, and went for the Scotch room service had brought up with the earlier drinks. I had two long, leisurely shots to toast the chief. Then I phoned the desk to call me at five and sacked out.

My face was set in a stiff smile when the ring woke me. I took the luxury of a full yawn, called Tara to meet me in the bar at five-thirty, and spent most of the time until then in the shower. Vacation.

She had martinis in icy glasses waiting when I got there, with every eye in the dim room undressing her. Gorgeous. She was out to make me slaver and I obliged. We dawdled over a few drinks. She knew a restaurant at the far end of Bay Street with a terrace overlooking the harbor. We had turtle soup to begin with, but I was too wrapped up in her to notice the rest of what we ate.

Lights came on with the dusk like stars and formed a glittering necklace around the shore. From the street came the noise of wild celebrating.

“Let’s go join them,” I said.

A band was whooping it up at the open market and the mob was drunk on the joy of living, the air electric as a storm. The people dancing in such abandon were poor, descendants of slaves, ill used most of their lives. But there was a spark in them that hadn’t been extinguished by the poverty of generations.

We danced all the way back to the hotel. On the top floor the sentries had been changed, but my hotel ID card cleared us. Without a word Tara stopped at my door. I opened it, held her back while I looked for signs of entry as a matter of habit, saw none and ushered her in.

Tara kicked off her shoes and wriggled long slender toes in the deep carpet while I poured warm whiskey for us. She tasted hers, tipped her head back and let it trickle down her throat.