grunted and picked up the phone.
“Yeah, I saw it too, Scott.”
So, Yuriy Andreyevich, how did it go?” Clark asked. It had taken over a week to set up, and mainly because General Kirillin had spent a few hours on the pistol range working on his technique. Now he’d just stormed into the officers’ club bar looking as though he’d taken one in the guts.
“Is he a Mafia assassin?”
Chavez had himself a good laugh at that. “General, he came to us because the Italian police wanted to get him away from the Mafia. He got in the way of a mob assassination, and the local chieftain made noises about going after him and his family. What did he get you for?”
“Fifty euros,” Kirillin nearly spat.
“You were confident going in, eh?” Clark asked. “Been there, done that.”
“Got the fuckin’ T-shirt,” Ding finished the statement with a laugh. And fifty euros was a dent even in the salary of a Russian three-star.
“Three points, in a five-hundred-point match. I scored four ninety-three!”
“Ettore only got four ninety-six?” Clark asked. “Jesus, the boy’s slowing down.” He slid a glass in front of the Russian general officer.
“He’s drinking more over here,” Chavez observed.
“That must be it.” Clark nodded. The Russian general officer was not, however, the least bit amused.
“Falcone is not human,” Kirillin said, gunning down his first shot of vodka.
“He could scare Wild Bill Hickok, and that’s a fact. And you know the worst part about it?”
“What is that, Ivan Sergeyevich?”
“He’s so goddamned humble about it, like it’s fucking normal to shoot like that. Jesus, Sam Snead was never that good with a five-iron.”
“General,” Domingo said after his second vodka of the evening. The problem with being in Russia was that you tended to pick up the local customs, and one of those was drinking. “Every man on my team is an expert shot, and by expert, 1 mean close to being on his country’s Olympic team, okay? Big Bird’s got us all beat, and none of us are used to losing any more’n you are. But I’ll tell you, I’m goddamned glad he’s on my team.” Just then, Falcone walked through the door. “Hey, Ettore, come on over!”
He hadn’t gotten any shorter. Ettore towered over the diminutive Chavez, and still looked like a figure from an E1 Greco painting. “General,” he said in greeting to Kirillin. “You shoot extremely well.”
“Not so good as you, Falcone,” the Russian responded.
The Italian cop shrugged. “I had a lucky day.”
“Sure, guy,” Clark reacted, as he handed Falcone a shot glass.
“I’ve come to like this vodka,” Falcone said on gunning it down. “But it affects my aim somewhat.”
“Yeah, Ettore.” Chavez chuckled. “The general told us you blew four points in the match.”
“You mean you have done better than this?” Kirillin demanded.
“He has,” Clark answered. “I watched him shoot a possible three weeks ago. That was five hundred points, too.”
“That was a good day,” Falcone agreed. “I had a good night’s sleep beforehand and no hangover at all.”
Clark had himself a good chuckle and turned to look around the room. Just then, another uniform entered the room and looked around. He spotted General Kirillin and walked over.
“Damn, who’s this recruiting poster?” Ding wondered aloud as he approached.
“Tovarisch General,” the man said by way of greeting.
“Anatoliy Ivan’ch,” Kirillin responded. “How are things at the Center?”
Then the guy turned. “You are John Clark?”
“That’s me,” the American confirmed. “Who are you?”
“This is Major Anatoliy Shelepin,” General Kirillin answered. “He’s chief of personal security for Sergey Golovko.”
“We know your boss.” Ding held out his hand. “Howdy. I’m Domingo Chavez.”
Handshakes were exchanged all around.
“Could we speak in a quieter place?” Shelepin asked. The four men took over a comer booth in the club. Falcone remained at the bar.
“Sergey Nikolay’ch sent you over?” the Russian general asked.
“You haven’t heard,” Major Shelepin answered. It was the way he said it that got everyone’s attention. He spoke in Russian, which Clark and Chavez understood well enough. “I want my people to train with you.”
“Haven’t heard what?” Kirillin asked.
“We found out who tried to kill the Chairman,” Shelepin announced.
“Oh, he was the target? I thought they were after the pimp,” Kirillin objected.
“You guys want to tell us what you’re talking about?” Clark asked.
“A few weeks ago, there was an assassination attempt in Dzerzhinskiy Square,” Shelepin responded, explaining what they’d thought at the time. “But now it appears they hit the wrong target.”
“Somebody tried to waste Golovko?” Domingo asked. “Damn.”
“Who was it?”
“The man who arranged it was a former KGB officer