Smart Bombs Page 9

  Suddenly there was screaming and yelling from the vicinity of the bed. The fat man and fat lady were having an incredible coordinated orgasm. They clawed the air and each other, babbled and drooled, bounced around and jiggled. The bed looked like it might collapse and Butler wondered if the floor would hold out. Gradually their movements became less frenzied, and Butler realized that this monumental fuck was over. The time had come for him to make his move, if he wanted to have the element of surprise on his side.

  He removed his finger from Sonia and moved his lips toward her ear. “When I snap my fingers, tell them to put their hands up and not to move, got it?”

  “Yes.”

  Butler took out his pistol and pulled his visor down over his eyes so he’d look mean. The couple on the bed were lying exhausted in each other’s arms, cooing like love birds.

  Butler snapped his finger and charged into the room.

  “Put your hands up!” Sonia screamed in Russian. “Don’t move or we’ll shoot!”

  The man’s head spun around. He had a thick black mustache and looked like a walrus. The woman’s breath came in gasps.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Sonia said in Russian.

  Butler didn’t know what she said but could tell from the tone of her voice that something was wrong. “What is it?”

  She stared at the man. “Don’t you know who that is?”

  Butler looked at him. The man had got out of bed and was standing naked and dripping with his hands in the air, a look of terror on his face. Butler had never seen him before in his life. “Who is he?”

  “You don’t know!”

  “I told you that I don’t.”

  “But that’s ... Vassily Streptakovich, the First Premier Deputy of the Communist Party!”

  “Is he important?”

  “He is the fifth most important man in all of Russia!”

  Vassily Streptakovich smiled and bowed slightly. “Fourth,” he said in English.

  “Is that who you are?” Butler asked him.

  Streptakovich wiggled his bushy eyebrows. “In all modesty, yes.” His English sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a barrel of borscht, but Butler could understand him. “And this lady,” Streptakovich continued, indicating with his hand the woman, “is Lizaveta Kartuzov, a dear friend of mine.”

  “So we’ve observed,” Butler said.

  “May I lower my hands?”

  “By all means, do.”

  Streptakovich squared his shoulders and looked stern. “May I inquire what the KGB wants with me, a foremost leader of the Soviet state and a Hero of the People?”

  Butler looked at Sonia, then returned his gaze to Streptakovich. “We’re really not from the KGB.”

  “You’re not?”

  “No.”

  “Are you an American?”

  “How did you guess?”

  “I have visited your country many times. Beautiful place. I could tell from the way you speak that you are an American. Urn, may I put some clothes on?”

  “Not yet.”

  “But it’s rather embarrassing standing like this.”

  “It won’t be for much longer.”

  “What are you doing in a KGB uniform? And who is she?”

  “We have just escaped from your Kaluga Prison,” Butler explained, “and now we’re trying to get to the American Embassy. Perhaps you can help us?”

  “Why were you in prison?”

  “It’s a long story. Anyway, since you’re such a powerful man in this country, maybe you can help us.”

  Streptakovich shook his head. “I’m afraid I couldn’t do that. After all, a man of my position, you know how it is...”

  Butler pointed his pistol at him. “Either you help us, or you die.”

  Lizaveta Kartuzov put her fingers to her mouth and proceeded to cry.

  Streptakovich looked sharply at her. “Quiet!”

  She stopped crying.

  Streptakovich looked at Butler. “What would you like me to do?”

  “Is that your limousine downstairs?”

  “As a matter of fact, it is. Nice car, eh?”

  “Do you have a chauffeur?”

  “He should be sleeping in the back seat.”

  “Good. I want you to take us to your office, and then I want you to arrange for Dr. Igor Kahlovka, who is a prisoner of the KGB, to be brought to your office. Then all of us will go in your car to the American Embassy. Once we all are safely inside, you may leave with Ms. Kartuzov. Is that clear?”

  “Who is this Dr. Kahlovka?” Streptakovich asked.

  “A Soviet scientist.”

  “What do you want with him?”

  “None of your business. Put your clothes on and let’s go, or get ready to die.”

  “My clothes are in the closet,” Streptakovich said, pointing to it. “May I get them?”

  “Move slowly.” Butler looked at Ms. Kartuzov. “You put your clothes on too, because you’re coming with us.”

  “May I turn on another light?”

  “Go ahead.”

  She flicked on a lamp beside the bed, then walked on tiptoes to the closet, where Streptakovich was opening the door. He took out a suit on a hanger and placed it on the bed. “How long were you watching us?” he asked as he removed the clothes from the hanger.

  “Quite some time.”

  “It was very kind of you not to interrupt us until we were finished.”

  “That would have been most inappropriate.”

  Streptakovich stepped into a pair of big baggy shorts. “You are a spy?”

  “No, I’m a tourist.”

  “And her?” He motioned with his chin at Sonia.

  “A friend of mine. Say, you don’t know anything about that microwave machine that confuses smart bombs, do you?”

  “What machine?” Streptakovich asked, but the expression on his face gave him away. He knew.

  “A microwave machine—it makes smart bombs inaccurate.”

  Streptakovich shrugged as he put on his shirt. “Where did you hear about that?”

  “People talk.”

  “Not to me, unfortunately. But when a man reaches my high station in life, people are afraid to tell you things. But I know that you are a spy. You have CIA written all over you. Who did you say told you about the microwave machine?”

  “I’ll ask the questions.” Butler jiggled his gun significantly.

  Lizaveta Kartuzov was rummaging in the closet. “Should I wear my brown dress or my gray dress?” she asked Streptakovich in Russian.

  “What the hell so I care?” he replied.

  While Streptakovich and Lizaveta were dressing, Butler walked to Sonia’s side. Her arms were crossed under her bulging boobs and she looked distraught as usual.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “We’ll never make it,” she replied.

  “You have no faith in me.”

  “Why should I have faith in you?”

  “I got you out of prison, didn’t I?”

  “You’re also the one who got me into prison.”

  “Natalia got both of us in prison, but this is no time to quibble. Soon we’ll leave for this man’s office, and after we get the good Dr. Kahlovka, we head for the American Embassy. You’ll be in the United States before you know it, watching television in some dyke bar someplace.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “We’ll do it.”

  “Don’t be so sure. Do you know where his office is?”

  “No. Where is it?”

  “The Kremlin.”

  Butler flinched. “The Kremlin?”

  “That’s right, and if you think you’re going to buzz in and out of there like it’s some kind of train station, you’re crazy.”

  The Kremlin? Butler thought, turning from Sonia. How the hell am I going to pull this one off?

  Chapter Twelve

  They walked toward the corridor to the back door of the building. Streptakovich wore a black coat and fur hat, while
Lizaveta wore a brown coat and no hat, her long blonde hair spilling over her collar. Butler and Sonia had straightened their uniforms and wore their hats low over their faces.

  “Don’t forget,” Butler said to Streptakovich. “Do anything foolish, and I’ll shoot you.”

  “I’ll cooperate as best I can. Just don’t be too trigger crazy, if you know what I mean.”

  “Just don’t do anything that might make me think you’re trying to signal somebody that we’re holding you hostage.”

  “Please calm down. By the way, what did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t say.”

  They went out the back door and descended a short flight of stairs to the courtyard, where the big Zim limousine sat in the driveway. They approached the car and Streptakovich knocked on the back window. A figure inside jumped up, and the door opened.

  “Ah, Comrade Streptakovich,” the chauffeur said sleepily, He was no older than nineteen and had pimples on his thin, sallow face. He looked at his watch, then at Lizaveta and the strange couple in the KGB uniforms. It was easy to see that he was confused.

  “Take me to my office,” Streptakovich growled.

  “Yes, comrade.”

  Streptakovich sat in back between Butler and Sonia, while Lizaveta took the front seat beside the driver, who started up the limousine, turned on the lights, and drove out of the courtyard. When he reached the street he turned left.

  The limousine passed through the city of Moscow. The sky was black-streaked with reddish clouds, and against them was the weird skyline of cupolas and balisks. There was little traffic; it was three o’clock in the morning and the city was sleeping.

  “Have you heard the news?” the driver asked in Russian.

  “What news?” Streptakovich asked.

  “Some prisoners have escaped from the Kaluga Prison. They killed a few of the guards.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Streptakovich looked at Butler and Sonia. He was starting to get the picture. Finally the limousine entered Red Square. At one end was Saint Basil’s Cathedral, at the other end was Lenin’s Tomb, and on the side was the Kremlin. The buildings were all lit up, and Butler knew that somewhere in the area was the U.S. Embassy. He was tempted to go there immediately, but his original mission was to get Dr. Kahlovka out of the Soviet Union, and by God that’s what he was going to do. The danger of the situation didn’t especially intimidate Butler. He’d been in dangerous situations before. He had a cool head and a steady trigger finger.

  They approached the Kremlin, and Butler was surprised by how much it resembled the Kaluga Prison. There was the same high wall surrounding stone buildings inside. The limousine rolled toward the gate, and the guards recognized the vehicle. They opened the gates and saluted it as it went past them.

  The car rumbled over the cobblestones within the Kremlin. Butler looked at the buildings and could see lights on in some of the buildings. He imagined Lenin and Stalin swaggering along the sidewalks, and the Czars before them.

  The limousine stopped in front of one of the stone buildings. It was five stories high and looked like it had been built sometime in the last century by the same architect who had designed the palace at Versailles. It managed to look solid and ornate at the same time.

  “Tell the driver to wait here,” Butler said to Streptakovich.

  Streptakovich gave the instructions to the driver, then they left the car and entered the building. They walked down a long corridor covered with red carpet, and on the walls were oil paintings of heroes of the Revolution. Finally they came to a wooden door, and Streptakovich opened it. They entered the wood-paneled office area where Streptakovich’s secretaries worked during the day, and then passed on to Streptakovich’s office.

  Streptakovich snapped on a lamp on his desk. It revealed a large wood-paneled office with a painting of Lenin behind the desk and a painting of Streptakovich himself as a young man in a military uniform on the opposite wall. Two Soviet flags on short flagpoles were on either side of Lenin’s portrait.

  “May I take off my coat?” Streptakovich asked.

  “Go ahead.”

  Streptakovich hung his coat in the closet, and then took Lizaveta’s and hung it up too. He walked to the chair behind his desk and sat down, rubbing his hands. “What now?” he asked.

  “Get us Dr. Kahlovka.”

  “That might take a while.”

  Butler took out his pistol and pointed it at Streptakovich’s head. “It’d better not.” Then he looked at Sonia. “Pick up the extension over there,” he pointed to a phone on a wooden table, “and listen to what he says. If he so much as suggests that we’re here, tell me and I’ll blow his brains out.”

  Streptakovich shook his head. “That will not be necessary, I assure you.”

  “I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you, Streptakovich, and you weigh at least three hundred pounds.”

  Streptakovich picked up the telephone, thought for a few seconds, then hung it up again. “I don’t know what to say,” he confessed.

  “Just call whoever you were going to call and tell them to bring Dr. Kahlovka here immediately. Say that some KGB agents have uncovered new information about his activities, and you want to question him personally.”

  “But that would be most irregular.”

  “You’re the number four man in the Soviet Union, Streptakovich. You don’t have to take any shit from anybody.”

  Streptakovich nodded. “That’s true.” He picked up the phone, dialed a number, and after a while began to talk. Sonia listened on the other phone while he spoke to the commandant of the Kaluga Prison and demanded that Dr. Kahlovka be brought to him immediately.

  “But what on earth for?” asked the commandant on the other end of the phone.

  “You dare ask me why I do things? Don’t you know who I am?” Streptakovich thundered.

  “Yes, comrade. I’m sorry, comrade. I’ll have him delivered to your office immediately and without delay, comrade.”

  “See that you do,” Streptakovich snarled, hanging up the phone. Then he looked at Butler. “I did it.”

  “I guess now we have to wait. You got any cigarettes?”

  “No, but I have some fine Cuban cigars.”

  “I’ll have one, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind at all.”

  Sonia stood up. “I’ll have one too.”

  Butler looked at her.

  Streptakovich looked at Butler.

  “Let her have one,” Butler said.

  Streptakovich, Butler, and Sonia took cigars and Streptakovich lit them with a lighter he had on his desk. It was in the shape of a metal cube and had an embossed bust of Marx on one side, and a bust of Lenin on the opposite side.

  “I’m bored,” said Lizaveta, fanning her mouth.

  “Who cares?” Streptakovich said.

  Lizaveta frowned and leaned back in the chair. Sonia stood at the window and looked out, while Butler paced the floor, trying to figure out what his options were. The hand moved slowly around the clock on the wall. Butler realized he didn’t have many options. All he could do was try to make it to the embassy with Sonia and Dr. Kahlovka. He walked to Sonia, who was puffing her cigar.

  “How’re you doing?” he asked.

  “I’m contemplating death,” she replied.

  “Good grief.”

  “I’ve decided that it might be a wonderful escape from this horrible humdrum life.”

  “But when you escape, you usually go from one thing to another. When you die, you go from one thing to nothing.”

  “I think that’s what I can use right now. Nothing.”

  “You Russians are so melancholy.”

  “And you Americans are so adolescent.”

  “It’s adolescent to want to live?”

  “You’re just a very silly man.”

  “I want to live because I have something to live for.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I want to make love to you
.”

  “What!”

  “You heard me.”

  “Forget about it, idiot.”

  “I touched you in Lizaveta’s apartment, and now I want to have you.”

  “You’ll never have me.”

  “Didn’t you like it when I touched you? It felt as though you liked it.”

  “You were not touching me—Delphine Seyrig was touching me.”

  “You know very well it was me.”

  “If I thought it was you I would have thrown up.”

  Butler walked away from her. Streptakovich sat at his desk, puffing the cigar and drumming his fingers. Lizaveta looked at her nails.

  “I hope my wife doesn’t find out about this,” Streptakovich said.

  “You mean Lizaveta’s not your wife?” Butler asked.

  “Of course not. She is my mistress. Every major communist leader has a mistress. After all, who do you think we are? We are not a backward people.”

  “Oh,” Butler said.

  “But I love Lizaveta,” Streptakovich continued. “There’s going to be a terrible scandal when all this is over.”

  “Why don’t you defect to the West?” Butler asked.

  “Defect?”

  “Sure.”

  Streptakovich scratched his chin. “I never thought of that.”

  “Why don’t you think about it now.”

  “Hmmmm,” Streptakovich said. “Hmmmm.” He looked at Butler. “Do you think I could get a job in America?”

  “Sure. The government probably will find a job for you to repay you for defecting.”

  “I have always wanted to own a restaurant,” Streptakovich said dreamily.

  “Oh, it’s easy to own a restaurant in America. The government probably will lend you the money.”

  “And maybe I could play a balalaika, and stroll among the diners.”

  “Sounds terrific. And Lizaveta will be one of your waitresses.”