Over breakfast, Katrina filled me in on the latest revelation released by Eddie. He had turned up the heat again-or, perhaps torched up would be more apropos. In addition to everything else, Morrison was now accused of giving the Russians copies of the President’s and Secretary of State’s briefing papers and talking points in advance of every U.S.-Russian summit and meeting.
This whopping revelation had really set the Beltway back on its heels. It’s one thing to give the Russians technical secrets, or to betray their betrayers, or even to pervert the American decision-making process. It’s another thing altogether to provide the President’s and Secretary of State’s scripts to the Russians in advance of all their meetings. Consider some of the guys and gals who work in those offices, who frankly are glued to those scripts like coma patients connected to life-support systems.
Katrina said the newspapers and news channels were filled with outrage, innuendos, and theories regarding the release. Devise all the silly theories you want, the average schmo on the street had the bubble. No President or Secretary of State had talked to the Russians anytime lately where the Russians didn’t know exactly what he was going to mutter in advance, exactly how far he was willing to go, how much was bluff and how much bluster. As diplomatic catastrophes go, it would be hard to imagine worse. The Russians had been inside the minds of our national leaders for years.
Eddie had to be delighted by his latest little release, and it did not escape notice that he was finding ways to get his name on the front page almost every single day. Katrina reported that the latest copy of People magazine was in the hotel lobby, and Eddie’s gorgeous mug graced the cover. I nearly blew chunks all over my limp bacon and undercooked eggs. Clapper had to be delighted. His beloved tarantula was becoming the poster boy of the JAG Corps.
At nine o’clock, Mel arrived in a black embassy car to take us to the embassy. I climbed into the front and Katrina got in the back. Mel immediately made a few gleeful wisecracks about the latest revelations, taking sadistic joy in the continuing humiliation of his former boss. The man must’ve been a real bastard to work for.
Mel had just pulled off the main highway and turned down a side street, when all of a sudden a big truck careened out of an alley and blocked our way. He jammed on the brakes and nearly threw Katrina and me through the windshield-followed by a very quiet moment while we sat and stared at the truck. It wasn’t moving.
I spun around just in time to see three men climbing out of a car at the end of the street we’d just come down. They were dressed in suits, which somehow looked outrageously incongruous, because they were all holding Kalashnikov rifles in their hands, sort of casually adjusting their stances, the way golfers prepare to tee off.
I shoved Katrina’s head down and yelled, “On the floor!”
Mel spun around and saw what I was looking at. He froze.
I screamed, “Weapons? Do you have any weapons?”
He was just starting to reach across me when the first rounds came spraying through the rear windshield. I was splattered with glass and blood as Mel’s head appeared to explode and his body flopped over and landed in my lap.
I instinctively shoved him off and dove for the floor as bullets pelted against the car. That’s when I saw what Mel had lunged for-an M16 rifle strapped to the underside of the passenger seat, two metal clips holding it in place. I quickly undid them and yanked the M16 to my body, straining to pull back the charging handle and unlock the safety, ordinarily simple things to accomplish, except when your body’s all scrunched up and keeps involuntarily flinching from the sounds of bullets striking around you.
Two possibilities struck me-I could stay in the car, pray no bullets hit me, and wait till the shooters walked in our direction to perform the coup de grace. Or I could try to get out of the car and pray nobody shot me. Staying in the car posed one problem. Sometimes, bullets cause a fuel ignition and you get one of those Hollywood moments that just mess up your plans for the evening.
Option two had drawbacks also. If I threw open my passenger door and simply rushed out, the three shooters would nail me. They were maybe forty yards away. They couldn’t miss. I yelled, “Katrina!” and through the sound of loud bangs I heard her say, “Yes.”
“Open your door. And stay inside.”
“Okay!” she yelled.
I gave her a two-second head start before I threw open my door. Her door was on the other side of the car, and the second it opened, it became a bullet magnet as the three shooters tried to hit whoever rolled out. I leaped out my side, and as soon as I hit the ground I scrambled for the front of the car. I could feel chips of concrete striking my legs, but I made it.
I got on my belly and scooted until I could peek around a tire. The shooters still stood casually out in the open, unaware I had a weapon, believing they were invulnerable. One was calmly changing magazines while the other two nonchalantly plunked away at our car.
The obvious choice was to take out the two who were firing. I pushed the semiautomatic selector on the M16, stuck it around the corner, took quick aim, and swept it across the two shooters. The first folded over like he suddenly got a bad bellyache, while the second was flung backward and landed on the concrete.
The guy reloading scurried behind his car-I fired two shots, but missed. At least I think I missed, although I saw no movement and there was no firing. I had expended about ten rounds, and the M16 had a twenty-round magazine, so I had maybe ten bullets left. Harassing fire wasn’t an option.
I aimed my weapon in his direction and yelled, “Katrina, get out of the car!”
I hoped she was still alive to hear me. Five or so seconds passed and there was nothing, no sound from her, no movement.
Then I saw her land on the cement and scramble in my direction. At nearly the same instant, I saw the Russian pop over the top of his car, and I fired a quick burst. I had no idea whether I hit him. I was too fixated on the little round cylinder he’d thrown that was sailing in our direction.
I jumped up, tackled Katrina, and ended up on top of her. Then came the explosion. The thing about being in a narrow street is that sound does not escape. A loud boom sends its first shock wave into your eardrums, followed by an almost instantaneous aftershock from ricocheted waves.
My ears were ringing as I rolled off Katrina. She had her hands over her ears, and her elbows and knees were bloody from the effects of my tackle. Something in my left leg stung as I got up and dragged her to the front of the car.
I sat and tried to appraise our situation. The smell of cordite was heavy in the air, and there was a fair amount of smoke, but all I could hear was a loud ringing. I looked over at Katrina, and her lips were moving, but I couldn’t hear a word.
What next? Check to see if the last shooter was dead? Wait right there and hope he didn’t have another hand grenade and better aim?
After all the noise and racket, surely the Moscow police had to be on the way. Katrina was staring down at my leg and pointing at a spot below my knee. When I pulled up my trouser leg, blood was pumping out in tiny spurts, an indication a significant vein had been punctured. She slapped a palm over the wound and tried to stem the flow.
She began tugging on her dress sleeve, trying to rip it, until I finally reached over and gave her a hand. I yanked too hard, because I nearly tore off the whole top of her blouse.
She tied the cloth around my leg. Three or four minutes had passed, and while I was still too deaf to hear any sirens, no police had shown up yet. I worked my way around the side of the car and ducked in long enough to drag out Mel’s body. I tugged his corpse around to the front of the car, flipped him over, and found his cell phone. I didn’t know the number to the embassy, but it was one of those fancy Motorola models where you push a few buttons on the side and pretty soon his favorite numbers pop onto the screen.
I handed it to Katrina. “Call the embassy.”
Or that’s what I think I said. It might’ve been “order a pizza” for all I know, because it’s damned hard to speak when you can’t hear your own voice. She studied the screen and punched in some numbers, and I could see her lips moving, so she was obviously talking to somebody.
We waited some more. I was fuming. I couldn’t believe that in a major metropolitan area like Moscow, the police wouldn’t be alerted to a major firefight right in the middle of the town and wouldn’t respond right away. Russian inefficiency has to have its limits, right?
Perhaps another three minutes passed before the first police car arrived. The dicey part was the moment the first two cops came around the side of the shooter’s car with pistols in their hands. I could see Katrina’s lips moving, and I presumed she was yelling something in Russian, like, “Hey, we’re the good guys, so please don’t shoot.”
They didn’t shoot. That, however, was the limit to their kindness. They kicked the M16 out of my hands. Katrina started to stand up, but one of the cops quickly flung her against the car, and before I could do anything, the other cop grabbed me by my shirtfront, lifted me off my feet, and threw me against the car, too. They roughly patted us down, and then had our arms trapped behind our backs as they slapped handcuffs around our wrists.
More cops arrived-lots more cops-and people streaming out of their apartments, coming to investigate the aftermath of the street battle. I watched them walking around, surveying the damage, and then Katrina was jammed into the back of one police car, as I was roughly shoehorned into another. Some three minutes later, my car screeched to a halt in front of a police station that looked like something out of any ordinary American slum.
I was shoved and dragged inside and led to a dirty room in the back, where I was literally tossed into a chair. I still couldn’t hear a sound and my eardrums ached, which was really inconvenient, as I couldn’t massage them. Funny, the little things that bother you in the worst nightmares.
A few minutes later, two guys wearing civilian suits came in. They stood and studied me like I was an interesting new specimen brought to their laboratory for dissection. If this were America, I’d be doing the big lawyer war dance, threatening them with police brutality charges and just generally making a horse’s ass out of myself.
I bit my tongue. It’s always dangerous to put your mouth in gear when you can’t even hear what you’re saying, not to mention we were in a foreign land where lawyers are perhaps not as warmly loved and admired as they are in America.
One of them tried saying something, and I thought I heard a bit of noise. I shook my head to let them know I didn’t understand-a doubly ambiguous signal, as they were probably speaking Russian, which I couldn’t comprehend anyway, so how the hell did I expect them to realize I was deaf?
The guy kept talking, and I kept shrugging my shoulders and making silly faces. I suppose to any outside observer the whole scene looked nothing short of comical.
Then the door burst open behind them and in walked two more guys in suits. The two detectives stiffened, an indication that the new visitors were important men. They yammered back and forth very briefly, before a detective walked around behind me and unlocked my cuffs. I instantly reached up and massaged my ears, which was what you’d call a really happy moment.
The door opened again and in walked Ambassador Allan D. Riser and an aide. I guessed they’d uncuffed me before he arrived so it wouldn’t look like they’d mistreated me.
Riser had an appropriately concerned look on his face, and he said something to me, to which I intelligently replied, “I’m deaf.”
He nodded, then said something to the detectives. I was then led out of the room, placed in the back of another police car, and then driven straight to a Russian hospital. I was led into a cramped, messy operating room and plunked down on a steel gurney.
The hospital was filthy and run-down and lacked that antiseptic smell that lets you know that germs aren’t welcome there. Soon a harried-looking doctor and two remarkably hefty nurses came roiling in. The nurses laid me out on the gurney and then the doctor began cleaning my leg, spilling a clear liquid on the wound, then roughly wiping it off with a white rag. He pulled out something that looked like calipers and began digging around inside my leg, apparently searching for the piece of shrapnel embedded inside.
Did I mention that he failed to administer any kind of painkiller whatsoever? I sure as hell mentioned it to him and the two sorry-ass nurses fighting to hold my leg steady. I begged them to stop and called them the filthiest names you could imagine. The only remotely good part about this was that I could finally hear my own voice. It made no difference, however. The doctor was ferociously pitiless. It took him nearly three minutes of digging brutishly around, another few minutes to stitch it up, and when he was done, tears were streaming down my face and I was sweating like a drafthorse.
They walked out and left me, moaning and shaking and staring at all the blood on the table. Then the door opened and Katrina came in with the two very important-looking guys I’d seen earlier. There were bandages on her knees and elbows, and somebody had given her a shawl to throw over her torn blouse.
She and the two important-looking men were jabbering in Russian, and although it sounded like people talking underwater, I distinctly heard the sounds of their voices.
I said, “Katrina, what are these two assholes doing here?”
She looked over at me. “Bad move, Sean. They speak English.”
The two men were also staring at me, without what you’d call friendly expressions. I grinned. “Hi guys.”
The suit on the left said, “I am Igor Strodonov, Moscow chief of detectives, and you will meet my assistant, Chief Inspector Felix Azendinski.”
This explained why the two detectives back at the station had suddenly stiffened. The Moscow chief of detectives is like the second biggest wig in the whole city police hierarchy. I said, “Nice to meet you.”
From his expression that was a one-way sentiment. “Miss Mazorski has informed us of what has happened at the site of the very serious accident.”
“You mean ambush.”
“Yes, this was so,” he said, trying to sound like a master of the English language, which he clearly wasn’t. “This is most unfortunate thing. Is great embarrassment for Russian people. The driver captain is dead with bullets in head and American lawyers are injured.”
It was impossible to tell whether he was sincere or not. Most cops don’t mind at all when defense lawyers get gunned down in the streets. They think it’s a charming irony. I asked, “Do you have any idea who the shooters were?”
“All are unfortunately dead.”
I personally didn’t think it was the least bit unfortunate. “So you don’t know?” I persevered.
“We have theory. We are checking out now. They are Chechens, which is not good thing. You understand?”
“No, I don’t understand.”
“Chechens very bad… what? Outlaws, yes? They kill Americans to make protest. Was terrorist thing.”
I nodded as if this made sense-actually it made no sense. Not to me. But then I’m no expert on the Russian political scene. I glanced at Katrina, who stood perfectly still, an enigmatic expression on her face.
The chief of detectives said, “You very lucky to live. These Chechens, they kill good.”
Leaving us with that thought, he and his assistant departed. Katrina came over and helped me get off the bloody gurney. Having no idea what to do next, she walked and I limped out of the ward, me swearing that if I got so much as a bellyache before I left Moscow, I’d make them fly me out on a medevac plane.
A black sedan with American diplomatic plates was outside, and the driver climbed out as we exited. We climbed in, and I noticed that this guy had his M16 within easy reach on the seat beside him. You can bet he wasn’t real damned happy to have us as cargo.