“Speaking of enmities,” Cass said in a low voice, “I think we ought to leave. Those men over there-they’re making me kind of uncomfortable.”

Randolph gave them an appraising look. “Not nature’s most gorgeous specimens, are they, the Bozzies? Why linger? Will you ask Madame Mole what we owe?”

He pulled out a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills. The cash did not go unnoticed by the three men. Cass winced. The men got up and left.

When they were outside, Randy said, “Care for a stroll on the Rialto? Walk off our three-star meal?”

“Get in the vehicle.”

Randy walked over to the driver’s side.

“I need to drive,” she said.

But there was no arguing. He had the key. She climbed in her side. They drove off. Cass watched nervously in her rear mirror. The three men emerged from the cafй, got into a car, and followed them.

“Shit,” she said.

“Yeah,” Randy said, “it was pretty awful.”

“Not the food. Those men. They’re following us.”

Randy glanced in the rearview mirror. “They’re probably going home. Home to their poor wives. The prospect of sex with those three…the mind boggles.…”

“They’re following,” Cass said with a trace of anger. “That wad of cash you flashed back there.”

“Sorry. Didn’t look like they took American Express.”

Cass got on the radio and reported the situation.

“Did you just call in an air strike?” Randy said. “Not very sporting.”

“They don’t screw around here. They’re tough.”

“Well, I’m tough, too,” Randy said with jutted jaw.

Wonderful, Cass thought. Bertie Wooster Goes to War.

The car was now close behind them. Suddenly Randy jammed on the brakes. The car almost slammed into them.

“What are you doing?” Cass shouted.

“Seeing if they pass.”

They didn’t. Two men got out of the car and approached the Humvee on either side. The one approaching Cass’s had something long in his hand.

In the next instant, her door window spiderwebbed from the blow of the iron pipe.

“Hang on!” Randy shouted.

Cass felt herself thrown forward against her seat restraint as Randy slammed the Humvee into reverse and floored the accelerator. The Humvee smashed into the Serb car with a loud crunch. He shifted back into forward and drove off.

“Sorry,” he said. “Bit sudden. You all right?”

Cass was already on the radio, reporting that they were now officially under attack. In her rearview, she saw the two men rushing back to get in the car. It took off, following.

“I’d have thought that would have put them out of action,” Randy said. “So, do we have any guns on board?”

“No.”

“A military vehicle with no guns?”

“We weren’t supposed to be operating in hostile territory,” Cass snapped.

“Well, I wish we had some all the same. I’m rather good at skeet.”

“That’s so reassuring.”

Randy turned the vehicle sharply off the road and onto a field.

“What are you doing?” Cass screamed.

“Let’s see them follow us through this muck!”

“Randy, there are mines! Mines all over this country!”

Congressman Randy took his foot off the accelerator.

“Aha. You may be on to something there, Corp-”

Chapter 5

U.S. CONGRESSMAN WOUNDED IN BOSNIA Military Escort Also Hospitalized in Mine Incident

Cass stared groggily at the headline. An obliging nurse had brought her USA Today’s foreign edition. She’d been in and out of consciousness for the last two days, so the paper was indeed bringing her news. At some point-was it this morning?-she had opened her eyes to find her bed surrounded by uniforms, uniforms of impressive rank. She dealt with the unwelcome discovery by closing her eyes and feigning a coma.

She read:

Representative Randolph K. Jepperson and his military escort were injured yesterday when their Humvee went off a main road near the Bosnian village of Krkyl and hit a land mine. They were evacuated by helicopter to the NATO base in Turdje and then flown to the U.S. Army medical center in Landstuhl, Germany.

A NATO spokesman said both are in “serious but stable” condition.

Massachusetts Congressman Jepperson is a ranking member of the House Armed Forces Overseas Projection Oversight Committee. He was on a fact-finding mission at the time of the incident. An ancestor was a signer of the Declaration of Independence.

His escort, Corporal Cassandra Cohane, is with Army Public Affairs, based at Turdje as part of the NATO peacekeeping deployment.

It was unclear what their Humvee was doing in the middle of a posted minefield.

Sometime later-was it that same day?-Cass heard a grave, urgent voice.

“Corporal. Corporal Cohane.”

She opened her eyes. The uniforms of impressive rank had returned. She saw a colonel, a major, a captain-no, two captains. None bore flowers, magazines, or “get well soon” cards. Cass closed her eyes again, but the voice, blistering with authority, summoned her back from her hiding place behind lids. She was momentarily grateful that her head was bandaged and her left arm encased in plaster. It might make them just the teensiest bit sympathetic. Okay, she thought, here goes.

“Corporal”-it was the colonel talking-“why was the congressman driving your vehicle?”

“He asked.”

This brought a wave of frowns around Cass’s bed.

“You understand that was in violation of regulations.”

“I’m aware of the fact.” Painfully aware.

“And you nonetheless let him commandeer the vehicle?”

“Sir, he’s a U.S. congressman.”

The uniforms exchanged glances. “What were you doing in the village?”

“Fact-finding, sir.” Lovely, morphine. Takes the edge off anything, even the prospect of a court-martial.

“Corporal, you’re in a deep hole. Don’t keep digging.”

“The congressman was hungry. He insisted. I attempted to persuade him to eat an MRE instead. It was apparently not up to his gastronomic standards.”

“‘Insisted’? He was your responsibility, Corporal.”

“Yes, sir. I seem to have screwed up big-time, sir. Might I inquire how the congressman is?”

Deeper frowns.

“They’re still working on him. Trying to save his leg.”

The uniforms left. Cass had a cry. The obliging nurse gave her a shot, and she tumbled gratefully back into the outstretched arms of Mother Morphine.

When she awoke-was it the next day?-there was a uniform sitting by her bed. It was Captain Drimpilski. He had flowers. When she realized it was he, she began to blubber.

“All right, Corporal. It’s all right. Come on now, soldier, enough of that. Eagles spin. They don’t cry. Suck it up.”

“Yes, sir.” She blew her nose. “What is the captain doing here?”

“They flew me in. I talked to the doctors. You’re going to be all right, Cohane. You’re damn lucky.”

Cass stared. “Lucky? In what way, exactly, sir?”

“Could have been a lot worse.”

“How’s Randy?”

“Randy?”

“The congressman. Whatever. Is he…all right?”

“They’re flying him stateside for further surgery. They”-Drimpilski sighed-“removed a portion of his left leg.”

“Portion?”

“Below the knee.”

Cass groaned.

“He’s got a dozen broken bones, a collapsed lung, internal bleeding, his left arm got pretty shredded, but they think that’ll be all right eventually. He’ll be setting off metal detectors for the rest of his life. But he’ll live. So it could have been worse.”

Captain Drimpilski handed her another tissue and helped her blow her nose.

“Cass,” he said. It was the only time he’d ever used her first name. It made her start blubbering again. Realizing what he’d done, he self-corrected and spoke gruffly.

“You represent the 4087, Cohane.”