The Kremlin File

We had to wait further inside the plane while military police boarded to take off the stewardess who’d tried to hijack the craft. She met my eyes as they walked her past, frightened and pleading. I smiled and nodded. Maybe I could get her a lighter sentence; she was more victim than villain. Surrounded by soldiers, the crowd took her for a VIP and screamed until she was out of sight in the terminal. Obviously, the hijacking had not been announced to the public.

After that the passengers were allowed to deplane. The crowd still cheered. We had ridden with the illustrious Dr. Fleming. Tara laughed and waved and they focused on her. Nobody paid attention to me. I like it that way. It’s a big asset to an agent not to be noticed. We were herded into the comparative quiet of the Customs shed and lined up along the low baggage bench. After a short wait, the luggage began coming along on a moving belt behind the inspectors. I pointed out Tara’s and mine; they were set before us and we were asked to open them.

The examination was unexpectedly thorough. In the Caribbean the Customs people are usually cavalier. They’re dealing with tourists they don’t want to offend. What really surprised me here was the frisk. The man felt my holster, opened my jacket and grunted at the Luger.

“Explain, please.” The voice said I was not a rich visitor to be pampered.

I said I was the new chief security officer for Sawyer’s hotel. He was not impressed, snapped his fingers for two policemen trying to be inconspicuous in the background, and ordered me taken to the station for questioning. I was relieved of the gun. Tara wanted to go to bat right there. I stepped on her toe. No point in her being entangled in bureaucratic red tape. I said I’d meet her later at the hotel and went with the police to a van behind the building. They let me bring my bag. David Hawk would have the spitting meemies. He had an agent’s contempt for the bumbles of regular cops.

It was a ten mile ride to the capital city, and slow. The roadside was still jammed and ahead of us Fleming’s cortege was making the most of political hay, going five miles an horn to give the population a good look at their man. We crawled behind the rear escort. The men taking me in were like cops anywhere, bored with the duty. Jerome had proclaimed a legal holiday and a fiesta for the night. It meant only extra hours of work to this pair.

People were still three and four deep as we passed the Sawyer hotel. The vast lawn was peppered with curious tourists, dwarfed in front of the mammoth, pale pink monument to fun. The architecture was sterile, designed to awe the guests and not distract them from the main objective of passing their dollars across the gaining tables under the illusion they were being entertained. The building sprawled across the waterfront between the harbor and the wide boulevard at the edge of a solid business district. Beyond it I saw three cruise ships at anchor; with the swarm from those boats plus the plane influx the casino must be jumping.

The police station was tucked away where it wouldn’t jar the sensibilities of visitors. It was as new as the airport. Sawyer had paid handsomely for his land and rights. There was a small plaque on the waiting room wall giving credit to his generosity. I was taken in through a rear door. The phony stewardess who had shot the pilot sat on a wooden bench, handcuffed to it, weeping slow tears, left in limbo to build horrid fantasies of what would happen to her. I sat down beside her, massaged her taut neck, told her to stick to the truth, and said again I’d intercede. She was too cute to waste away in a women’s prison. She gave me a wan smile, put her head on my shoulder and got it wet. A matron came and took her away. They didn’t want her depression eased.

I was left alone for an hour. The worry treatment. I worried. I couldn’t blow my cover and it would be embarrassing to ask Sawyer to pull rank for me so soon. I had to stay put and play the silly game, see where it led and go from there.

Two men finally dropped the shoe, coming through a door labeled administration. One was the cop who had driven the van, the other wore civilian whites.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” white-suit said. He didn’t sound sorry, but veddy veddy British. It startles most Americans to hear a black islander clip his words like an Oxford don. “Why did you wear a gun?”

I didn’t tell him. I said, “That’s the way I carry it.”

He didn’t like it. “Only our island authorities are permitted to bear arms, Mr. Carter. You have violated...”

“As chief of security for the biggest hotel here, don’t I qualify as authority?”

“Only within that property. As I was about to say, you have violated our constitution, which is grounds for your expulsion from this country.”

I grinned at him, picturing David Hawk’s apoplexy if I phoned to say I was being deported. It was time to apply acupuncture to authority’s nerve chain of command.