“Where’s my Russian girl?” Gideon said. “Where’s my little babooo-shka? Back in the U.S., back in the U.S., back in the USSRRRRRRR.…”

“Geedeon. Please. Quiet. Shut up.”

“That’s no way to speak to a-hic-man of God. Oh, I’m a man of God.…”

The doorbell rang. The phone rang. The besieged monsignor answered.

The voice, now icy, said, “You owe one thousand two hundred dollars. Six hundred for each. You don’t want massage, no problem. But you owe one thousand two hundred dollars for making massage house call. Or I am sending Ivan and Vladimir.”

“Okay. Please. Wait. A moment.”

In a panic, Monsignor Montefeltro ransacked his home for money. Monsignors tend not to keep on hand large sums of cash.

Gideon had passed out again. Montefeltro rummaged through his pockets and found his wallet. It held a bit over $300. The doorbell rang and rang. There was a loud pounding on the door. Ivan the Terrible and the probably even more terrible Vladimir.

He saw Gideon’s expensive-looking gold watch fob resting against his bulging, vomit-splattered vest. He took it and the even more expensive-looking gold watch it was attached to. He went to the door, opening it with the lock chain attached, and peered out. There he saw two Valkyrie-tall Russian-looking ladies, attractive (in a cheap sort of way), smoking cigarettes, and wearing faces of fury.

“Why you not open door?”

“Shhh. Prego.”

“You’re -priest?”

Agnus Dei…In the confusion, Montefeltro had forgotten to remove his Roman collar.

“No, no. It’s-a costume. It’s costume party. We’re having a party. Yes. But everyone is now asleep. Thank you for coming. Here.” He handed over the cash and gold watch and fob.

“What’s this?” said Tolstoy. Or Dostoevsky.

“A gift. Very valuable. Please. Go. Now. It’s all a mistake. A terrible error. Please. Dasvidanya. God bless you. I love Russia. Wonderful country. Good night. Good night.”

He shut the door, threw the bolt, and braced, sweat trickling down his neck, for another ring of the bell or the phone or Ivan’s jackboot to come through the door.

Silence. The makeshift emoluments had done the trick.

Omnibus sanctiis et Tibi, Pater…

He heard from the parlor: “Where’s my Russian girls?!”

Chapter 28

Allen Snyder, looking un-upbeat and definitely lacking spring in his step, arrived at the offices of Tucker for the meeting he had hastily called with Terry and Cass.

“I’ve got some good news and less good news,” he said, trying to smile through resisting facial muscles. “Which would you like to have first?”

“The good news,” Cass said.

“The bad news,” Terry said simultaneously.

“The good news: There’s nothing on the computer linking you to Arthur Clumm. Legally, for the time being, you would seem to be in the clear on that one. Though it remains a bit of a public relations…”

“The word you’re looking for is ‘nightmare,’” Terry said.

“Then what’s the bad news?” Cass said.

“They found those files relating to your North Korean project. Some golf tournament?”

Terry said to Cass, “I thought you deleted those.”

“I did,” Cass said.

“They found them,” Allen said. “I’ll explain the technology later.”

“Why not save it-for our arraignment?” Terry said. “Oh, great.”

“It’s typically the deleted files that interest them. Let me ask you-did the North Koreans approach you, or did you approach them?”

“No, no-they approached us. Absolutely,” Terry said.

“Were you in direct contact with their government?”

“No way. There’s this NGO here in town, the-what’s it called, Cass?”

“Association of Totalitarian Asian Tyrants?”

“Cass. Could we be helpful, please?”

“It’s called the U.S.-Korea Mutual Understanding and Promotion Society.”

“Right,” Terry said. “Not a big office. Just one guy who chain-smokes. Mung Park. Mr. Mung Park.”

“And they wanted you to do what, exactly?”

“The way they put it was like, ‘To promote harmony and understanding between North Korea and the community of world nations’ by putting on a pro-am golf tournament. In North Korea. They have a golf course, apparently. A really challenging course. Over there, a bunker’s really a bunker. Our job was to put it on. You know, wrangle celebrities.”

“Celebrities?” Allen Snyder said.

“There wasn’t exactly a groundswell of enthusiasm. But O. J. Simpson indicated some interest.”

“Real A-list,” Cass said to Allen.

Allen digested this information. He said, “You’re aware that North Korea is on the State Department list of sponsors of international terrorism. American citizens are prohibited from doing business with North Korea.”

Terry, rallying to his own defense, said, “We were more just exploring a theoretical…you might say, avenue of convergence. Nothing…specifically…definite?”

Allen stared.

“Terry,” Cass said. “We’re surrounded. Give it up.”

“What has it come to,” Terry said, “when your own government turns into Big Brother, knocks down your doors, seizes your computers, and comes after you with all its formidable resources for trying to contribute something-just something-a gesture, to…to…” He looked at Cass. “I forgot. What was it?”

“Harmony and understanding.”

“Right.”

“Let me deal with the FBI,” Allen said. “I imagine we’ll be hearing from them soon.” Just then, Terry’s secretary buzzed him to say that two agents from the FBI were outside wanting to speak with him and Cass.

Allen went out to run interference.

“I’m thinking we should have a separate reception area,” Terry said. “One for clients and one for the FBI. We’ll make it nice for them. Potted cactuses. Copies of American Rifleman. A TV showing America’s Most Wanted.”

“About the computer,” Cass said to Randy. He was scribbling notes for a speech on a legal pad.

“Um?”

“There’s good news. And other news. Which do you want to hear first?”

“Given my druthers, I’d only ever want to hear good news. I thus gather your news is something less than good.”

“They didn’t find anything about your mother being a c-u-next-Tuesday. Or what we do with cherries.”

“Well, what a relief,” Randy said with a miffed air, looking up from his legal pad. His glasses were perched on the end of his nose, giving him a supercilious WASPy air. “So if you Google ‘Senator Randolph Jepperson’ and ‘cunt,’ you won’t get two thousand matches. Quel joie.”

“So, you want to hear the other news?”

“Not particularly,” he said, going back to his legal pad. “But I have a feeling I’m going to anyway.”

“Terry and I were sort of in discussion with…it was this business deal…really, no big deal.”

“Um?”

“Probably never would have even gotten to that. Deals like that fall through all the time.”

Randy continued scribbling his announcement speech.

“Tell you what, Cass,” he said. “I won’t look at you, and you tell me what you need to tell me. How would that be? On the count of three. Ready? What was it you said about truth telling being just like riding a bicycle? One…two…three.”

“The FBI found some files on the computer that make it seem like Terry and I were”-Cass made a dismissive sound-“working with an NGO trying to facilitate one of those, you know, hands-across-the-seas type of deals where you, you know, adopt a private sector, bilateral, really more multilateral…”

Randy looked up. “Did you just have a stroke?”

“Huh?”

“Because you’re making no sense. Why don’t you just tell me what it is?”

“Okay,” Cass said, using her best casual, matter-of-fact tone. “They’re curious about some files pertaining to a golf tournament Terry and I were discussing with a foreign government. That’s it.”