“Let’s get the hell out of New York,” I say to Bef Mogus, two minutes after showing Morley Safer of 60 Minutes out the door.

“Aw, c’mon,” Mogus squawks. “I like New York. There’s a brothel in Queens...”

“No. Morley is probably mobilizing his crew—and maybe the feebs—from a cell phone.”

“After giving him my scoop on Podex? Listen, I’ve heard the babes in this place...”

“Forget it. Those guys will steal your story then screw you just for the fun of it. Morley’s antique show is hard-up for ratings. Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?”

“I’m going back to Washington. You’re free to go wherever you want.”

“You’re letting me go back to Kazakhstan?”

“Of course. I want you back in Kazakhstan.”

Mogus stiffens. “Why?”

“Because I’ll be heading back there myself and I need you there for Phase Two.”

“No chance! I’m done!”

I pull the Pearlcorder from my coat pocket, rewind it about 20 seconds and hit play. Mogus’s distinctive rant fingers Koblatze as the evil force behind Podex.

“I know you wouldn’t think of running to Koblatze to try to nail a huge fee for ruining my operation. Because if Koblatze hears this tape, my guess is he will extract your teeth one by one, then your fingernails, then your eyeballs, and then he’d shove the whole bloody mess up your ass.” I smile. “Am I wrong?”

Mogus is ashen-faced, mouth agape. “Sonofabitch!” he finally erupts. “You really do know how Kobo operates.”

Downstairs, Safer is yakking into a cell phone as we rush by.

⁂

Kate Darconti stands before me. I slip my hands beneath her cashmere sweater and lift it up, exposing her abundant breasts. I pull Darconti against me and gently kiss her neck before snugging my mug into her cleavage. Then I unclasp Darconti’s belt, unsnap her blue jeans and…

My bedside phone rings. “You’re not in your office,” says Pikestaff.

“I don’t punch clocks. And I don’t do offices. What time is it?”

“Never mind the time. The CoS Geneva just filed a formal complaint against you.”

“Bleiler? I should have thrown him off a roof in Switzerland.”

“When were you in Switzerland?”

“I think three days ago. Never mind, I’m coming in.”

⁂

I pop my head through the door and survey Pikestaff’s grand office with large picture windows and a nice view of tree groves. “Jeez, you really are the director.”

Pikestaff harrumphs. “Close the door.”

I rump my rear facing Pikestaff, a big desk between us.

“The President’s money arrived,” he whispers.

“Good. Are we splitting a commission?”

“We are not. This Bleiler thing...”

“That whore has been dealing arms with Bef Mogus.”

“The agency?” Angst distorts Pikestaff’s face.

“No.” I pause. “Unless I’m missing something it’s personal profit. But give him half a chance and he’ll blame the agency. And everyone will believe him, especially the media. Haul Bleiler’s ass to Washington and let’s take turns kicking it.”

Pikestaff shakes his head. “We need to handle Bleiler gently—or this thing could blow up.”

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s give him a promotion and a medal.”

The look on Pikestaff’s face suggests he actually thinks this a good idea.

“Never mind,” I say. “I’ll take care of Bleiler myself.”

Pikestaff studies me. “You know what your biggest problem is? You’re always trying to save the world. It’s not your job to save the world. It’s not even my job to save the world. There’s always going to be badness out there. You can’t stop it. What we try to do is keep in in check. Along the way, you have to make compromises.”

Old age, or higher office—or both—had neutered Pikestaff into a philosopher.

“My biggest problem isn’t saving the world,” I said. “It’s Darconti.”

“Kate Darconti?”

“I can’t sleep at night. She’s driving me nuts every time I fall asleep.”

Pikestaff harrumphs again. “Joe Bleiler is arriving this afternoon.”

“I know. I asked Skeeter to bring him in for a polygraph.”

“No. Skeeter hasn’t scheduled that yet. Bleiler’s coming in on his own.”

“And why is that?”

“To make an issue of you,” says Pikestaff.

I roll my eyes, concealing the spark of a plan.

Pikestaff fills the silence. “What’s the story on Bef Mogus?”

I tell Pikestaff my Bef Mogus story.

“Morley Safer?” he mouths.

“Yeah, and let me tell you, he’s even more wrinkly in person.”

Pikestaff shakes his head. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

⁂

The piles around Scheimer had grown even wilder, as if they were alive—a paper and cardboard vine weed suffocating the furniture.

He looks at me over his clutter-filled habitat. “Where’ve you been?”

“Switzerland.”

“Switzerland?” Scheimer scratches his head. He’d never been to Switzerland. He’d never been anywhere. “What’s in Switzerland?”

“Cows. Banks. Wristwatches.”

“I’m glad you’re back. The galleys for Krutskov’s book are here.” Scheimer points to a bookshelf laden with piles of manuscript paper.

“When’s the earliest we can launch this sucker?”

Scheimer looks to his corroded ceiling tiles for the answer. Then he closes one eye to enhance his concentration. Finally, he erupts. “Five weeks to print, one week to ship. And we’ve still got to organize the cover art. Say two months.” He gazes at me. “Money?”

“Of course.” I dig into my pocket and pull out a wad of hundreds.

And, beneath Scheimer’s bulging eyes, I count out ten-grand in C-bills.

An agency goon squad at Andrew’s Air Force base whisks Bef Mogus and me to a CIA safehouse outside of Easton, Maryland, on the Chesapeake—a two-bedroom apartment designed for special guests.

We had just flown in from Geneva.

Mogus looks around, surveying window bars. “Am I a prisoner?”

“No. We’re hiding you. If the feebs knew you were in country, they’d be swarming over us. Our legal eagles at Langley need to cut a deal with Justice. But first...” I point to the phone, “give Morley Safer a call.”

Mogus checks his solid gold Rolex President. “Isn’t it a little early?”

It was just past 4:30 a.m.

“I had headquarters run down Morley’s home number in Manhattan. Wake him up. You probably wouldn’t get through to him at the office.”

Mogus picks up the phone, touch-keys with short, pudgy fingers.

It takes four rings to rouse Morley.

“This is Bef Mogus. You want to talk to me about something?”

I can hear the veteran CBS newsman protesting through the earpiece. Something about the time; something about his home phone.

“Oh, I see,” barks Mogus. “It’s okay for you to hunt me down in Central Asia, but not okay for me to call you at home? Never mind, dickhead, I’ll phone your office at ten. Listen out for me.”

He disconnects, looks at me for a reaction.

“Perfect.”

⁂

“Rise and shine!” I open the curtains in Bef Mogus’s bedroom. “You’ve got a call to make.”

He rubs his eyes and loosens a string of obscenities from his snout.

Then Mogus picks up the bedroom phones, taps a number.

I listen in from a living room extension as he connects to Morley Safer, who immediately wants to know where Mogus is calling from.

“Never mind that,” Bef snaps. “Do you still want talk to me?”

There’s a long pause. I’m guessing Safer is not thrilled about flying all the way back to Almaty Kazakhstan .

I wouldn’t be.

“I’m in New York,” Mogus adds. “Lunch tomorrow.”

“I could send my producer.”

“No. It’s got to be you or forget the whole damn thing.”

Two egos in a pissing contest.

Safer loses. “Twelve-thirty at Des Artistes...”

“No.” Mogus cut him off. “Dawat.”

“Do what?”

“Dawat! Dawat! It’s an Indian on East 58th.”

⁂

An Amtrak Metroliner pulls us into Penn Station at 10:59 and we grab a cab to The Mark, on upper Madison, where I park Mogus in a suite, walk 20 blocks—fresh air and exercise—to Dawat.

From my stool in the restaurant’s front bar, I watch a CBS News van pull up. Morley Safer alights and saunters in. He looks around then consults the host.

My concern is that 60 Minutes would tip off the feebs and cut a deal to film Mogus getting arrested. One thing the feebs are particularly good at is blending in. So, I wait for Safer to make himself comfortable at a table for two. Then I stroll over and slip into the chair opposite him.

Safer looks up, irritated. Another pesky fan wanting an autograph?

“I’m with Bef Mogus,” I say. “He changed his mind about having lunch here.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Safer snorts, folding his arms.

“No, it’s protocol. If you want to meet Mogus, follow me.” I get up and walk out the door.

Outside, I hail a taxi and feel Safer trailing behind.

A cab pulls up.

I turn to Safer. “Coming?”

“Uh, I have a ride.” Morley glances at his news van, parked nearby.

“No.” I shake my head. “Just you and Mogus.”

Morley plants his feet into the sidewalk, scowling.

“Yes or no?”

The venerable—and very wrinkled correspondent from America’s premier television news magazine program—is suddenly feeling naked without a producer, a cameraman, and a sound recordist to buffer him from the story.

Tight-lipped, he climbs into my taxi.

“Take a right,” I instruct the cabbie. “And lose the van behind us.”

At 78th and Madison I throw an Andrew Jackson at the cabbie and alight. Morley clambers after me, through the revolving door, into an elevator.

I key the door open. No Mogus.

“Bef?”

“I’m on the crapper!” he calls out.

I nod, chuckle, and turn to our guest. “That’s considered good manners in Kazakhstan.”

Morley Safer is unamused.

Two minutes later, Mogus appears, drying wet hands on his chinos.

“You wanted to see me?” asks Safer, by now thoroughly annoyed by the rigmarole he had to endure.

“No,” snaps Mogus. “You wanted to see me. Remember?”

“How could I forget. You had me arrested.”

“Nosing around in Almaaty gets anyone arrested.”

“We’re doing a story,” says Safer, “on the great natural resources of Kazakhstan. We contacted you because we’re interested in the perspective of an American businessman based there.”

Safer, of course, is spinning like a top—a technique that continued to entice wasps into the 60 Minutes jam jar.

“You came all the way to Almaaty just for my perspective?” Mogus scratches his nuts. “Okay, here it is. For 70 years the Kazakhs are told what to think by the Russians. Suddenly, they have to think for themselves. And they’re thinking, Gee, maybe it’s time to make some fucking money. So now they’ve got capitalism and they’re trying to learn how it works. That’s my job, teach them capitalism.”

“So, you’re an educator?”

“That is correct,” snaps Mogus.

“I thought you were a broker?”

“I’m a broker, too. I’m a teacher and a broker.”

“And as a broker,” says Safer, “you take a commission from both ends—and a piece of the action.”

“Bite me. You opposed to free enterprise?”

“No,” says Safer. “I’m reporting a story on illegal arms dealing.”

“Oh, that.” Mogus throws a backhand wave. “Just a sideline. A favor to keep a few people happy.”

“The CIA?”

“No,” says Mogus. “Podex.”

“Podex?” Morley asks suspiciously. “What’s that?”

“You don’t know about Podex?”

Safer shakes his head and purses his lips.

“I’ll be god-damned!” hollers Mogus. “That’s why I thought you were dogging me in Almaaty. That’s why I was avoiding you, for chrissakes!”

“Po-dex,” Morley repeats.

“That’s right. P-O-D-E-X. The KGB reincarnated. It’s one helluva story. And I’m ready to tell it.”

Safer cocks an ear.

Mogus fills it.

Note: I skipped a week so here is a refresher—especially for many new subscribers—from when this serial began six months ago.

Written 25 years ago, this was drawn from real stuff that went down inside the US intelligence community during the mid-to-late 1990s—situations I put through a meat grinder to make “fiction”—where truth lies safely couched.

The voice is what I call first-person wise-ass: sparse and dialogue-driven—Fante and Bukowski-influenced.

Protagonist Jay Sandak is a product of his era and environment, political correctness be damned. No apologies.

I dedicate this to Jeremy Kay, my longtime publisher and editor at Bartleby Press/Enigma Books of Silver Spring, Maryland. JK left us much too soon in March 2025.

He was both a procrastinator and perfectionist—ink, not blood, ran through his veins.

We had a hell of a run, and probably drank too many cocktails in too many DC bars.

He was there when I needed cover—always, without hesitation, without questions. He understood need to know—and knew he couldn’t.

As such—and as Sandak’s ever-suffering foil—dear Jeremy, R.I.P., returns to haunt this story.

After many years running operations against hostile forces in foreign places, I count myself lucky to be free—and alive.

⁂

Geneva Station Chief Joe Bleiler and I sit in a CIA safehouse in St. Jean, a Geneva suburb.

At 9:20 p.m. the door knocks twice, a space, and once more.

Bleiler rises to answer.

I remain seated in an armchair, back to the door.

After Bleiler answers I whirl around and, still seated, face our guest.

“Hiya, Bef,” I say. “Glad you could make it.”

Mogus freezes. His eyes bug. “What the fuck are you doing here?!”

And Bleiler practically wets his pants. “You two know each other?”

Mogus looks like he’s ready to spin round and run for it, but instead chooses to stand his ground.

He says, “I guess this means that book of yours was a set-up?”

“What book?” asks Bleiler, puzzled.

“You don’t know?” Mogus faces Bleiler. “What the hell is going on here?”

“Relax,” I say. “I’ll explain everything, to both of you. Sit on down.”

They rump their rears with trepidation.

I look from Mogus to Bleiler and back to Mogus again. “I’m running a major operation for CIA...”

Mogus detonates. “Your deal in Almaaty is a covert op?!”

“That is correct.”

“Koblatze will have your balls! And mine too! How dare you barge into my town and hook me into this… this...”

“Calm down, Bef,” I say. “First of all, when I was in Almaaty I did not know about your arrangement with the agency. But to set you straight, Almaaty is not your town. And we, the agency, does not need your permission to operate there without your knowledge or permission.”

Mogus recoils as if he’d been slapped across the face.

“Second, we pay you actual fucking cash to work for us. For me, in fact.”

“For you?”

“Yup. I’m your new case officer.”

Mogus exchanges glances with Bleiler.

Bleiler opens his mouth to say something, thinks better of it, closes it.

“Ha! I work for myself!” Mogus bellows. “I’m doing the agency a big favor...”

“By taking our money?”

“Peanuts!”

“Relax, Bef. I’m not asking for our money back. I just want to clear the air on a few things before we move forward.”

Mogus rises to his full five-foot-two and faces Bleiler. “You let me walk into this… this… ambush!” he shouts, then starts for the door.

“Bef,” I call out. “We need to talk about your arms deals.”

Mogus freezes in his tracks. He twists around and scowls at Bleiler. “You sonofabitch!” You told them?”

Bleiler’s face drains blood. “No, Bef,” he manages. “I didn’t...”

I rise to my feet. “Sit down, Bef.”

Mogus takes a few short steps and retakes his chair, all the while glaring at Bleiler.

“The agency needs your help,” I say.

“What kind of help?”

“You’re familiar with Podex?”

Mogus looks in disgust at Bleiler again. Each new look is a another nail in Bleiler’s coffin.

And it hits me like a bolt of lightning. An epiphany. And I’m not even sipping a gin martini.

“You are part of Podex,” I say. “The arms dealing. All Podex. Right?”

Mogus confirms with his silence.

And Bleiler is twitching like a spastic.

“So what?” snaps Mogus. “I’m a businessman. What I do for the agency is on the side.”

“Whose side?”

Mogus narrows his eyes. “What? Who? My side-God damn it! My side!”

I nod. “Figured as much. That’s where we might have a problem, Bef.”

“We? If there’s a problem, it’s your problem.”

“I wish it were that simple.” I smile and open my arms. “I’m good at solving my own problems.”

“So what’s the problem?’

“The FBI would like to talk to you about a couple of laws you’ve broken.”

“Who gives a shit about those gumshoes. I’m in Switzerland.”

“Indeed. And the Swiss have agreed to arrest you. A legat at our embassy in Berne has initiated extradition proceedings.”

“I don’t believe you.” Mogus looks at Bleiler. “Do you know about this?”

Bleiler shrugs, shaking his head.

“The Swiss are prepared to hold you for 60 days while the Justice Department prepares an extradition case.” I pause. “Of course, I don’t want that to happen. I have another option.”

“What other option?”

“I’m going terminate Podex, Bef. And I want you to help me.”

Mogus sniggers. Then he giggles. Then his giggling turns to laughter. Then he starts to fume. “Just out of curiosity,” he bellows angrily, “how are we supposed to terminate Podex?”

“You don’t need to know everything. Only your role.”

“Just my role,” he says contemptuously. “And what role is that?”

“PR.”

“PR? What do you mean, PR?”

“Morley Safer. Of 60 Minutes.”

“Morley fucking Safer?”

“Morley Safer wants to interview you. Remember? I want you to tell him everything about Podex.”

“Are you crazy?!” thunders Mogus. “These guys don’t forgive. And they never forget.”

“We’re going for the serpent’s head,” I say. “That’s your protection. If you cooperate, full immunity.”

Mogus slumps into his chair. “Can I think about it?”

“Sure,” I say. “You’ve got five minutes. You’re either going to the airport with me—or you’re going to a Swiss jail cell.”

“Nonsense!” Mogus turns all tense and feisty again. “I think I’ll just leave.”

“Look outside,” I suggest.

Mogus motions his little frame in big strides to the window and peers out.

He does not like what he sees. Two cars parked below stenciled Police Municipale.

Joe Bleiler, CIA Chief of Station, is wearing a huge grin as I exit Customs at Geneva International Airport. He eagerly shakes my hands with both of his, as if I’ve arrived to award him the Distinguished Intelligence Medal.

“Sonofabitch, Bleiler,” I say. “Station chief? You’ve done well.”

“Glad to have you back on the team,” he replies, and quickly adds. “Is this an inspection or something?”

“It’s something.” I look deep into Bleiler’s eyes and discern angst. “Let’s talk about it over lunch.”

“I’ve booked a table at...”

“Les Armures.” I say, taking control. “I’m in the mood for lake perch.”

And soon we’re sitting there, a wood-paneled dining room with Bleiler whining about how boring Geneva is.

Mercifully, he stops talking as a female server sets a pair of Kir Royales before us.

After she moves on, I wink and say, “I bet Bef Mogus livens things up when he’s in town.”

Bleiler stiffens.

I can read his face like a book. And I don’t like the story it’s telling.

“Cheers.” I raise my glass and moisten my lips with the sweet mix of white wine and cassis. “So, what’s going on with Mogus?”

Bleiler tries to collect his thoughts. “It’s a... it’s a complicated case.”

It’s complicated. The first phase of obfuscation.

“I like complicated cases.” I sit back, butterflying my arms behind my shoulders. “Take all the time you need.”

My first course, raclette, arrives. I dip a piece of French bread into hot melted cheese laced with wine, add a slice of gherkin to the mix.

Bleiler appears to have lost his appetite. Two beads of perspiration appear on his expansive forehead.

“Start from the beginning,” I prod. “When did you first meet Mogus?”

“Okay.” Bleiler nods. A new bead of perspiration joins the other two, a trinity. “Mogus worked in Security. He wanted to be in Operations, but the DO wouldn’t take him. So he left the agency. He wanted to start some kind of business, giving security training to newly-established intel services. So he tripped around budding new republics, trying to peddle his service. After a few strikes, Mogus got a hit in Kazakhstan.”

Bleiler avoids eye contact with me as he speaks.

“So,” Bleiler takes a breath, trying to get his story straight. “He turns up in Istanbul one day. I join Mogus and a pal of his from the embassy for lunch. Mogus drops some names, some gossip about the Kazakh leadership, you know, who hates who, that sort of thing. I pass it on to headquarters. They must have liked what they heard, because next thing I get a cable requesting I recruit Mogus as an asset. I pitch him. He goes on contract. It’s what he always wanted, working for the DO. And he’s made himself rich.”

“Trading in arms,” I say.

Bleiler swallows hard. “Is Mogus dealing in arms?” His eyes betray his tongue.

“You know he is, Bleiler. And I want you to consider two things very carefully before you say another word: Thing One, if you lie to me, I’ll have your ass yanked out of Geneva and put on the narcotics desk at Langley. Thing Two, the next person you’ll be talking to about Mogus will be a special agent from the FBI—and if you lie to him, you’ll be prosecuted for it.”

Bleiler rests his eyes upon his untouched raclette.

“Tell me about the arms dealing,” I prod.

Bleiler’s eyes meet mine. “Yeah, I know something about that. Everybody’s doing it.”

“Everybody’s doing what?”

“Dealing arms. Everybody in Central Asia and the Middle East who can find a supply route is dealing arms. Sure, I could have cut Mogus off, but better we know what he’s doing than not know, right?”

Bleiler is trying to suck me into a casual validation.

“I’m not in a position to make that call,” I say. “When do you expect to see Mogus again?”

“Two, maybe three weeks.”

“Speed it up.”

“Mogus doesn’t punch a clock. What do you have in mind?”

I tell Bleiler what I have in mind.

He never did regain his appetite.

⁂

Skeeter Leland’s return call finds me in the Atrium Bar at Hotel Beau Rivage, a lake view from an overstuffed sofa.

“When was Joe Bleiler last polygraphed?” I ask.

“I’d have to check.”

“If it was more than six months ago, haul his butt back and wire up his balls. Something’s wrong. And be sure to let me know when he’s hooked up, I’ve got a few choice questions to liven things up.”

“I’ll get the paperwork started.”

I hadn’t visited CIA Headquarters Langley in years. At least six. And this is only my second time on the seventh floor. The first was to tell the DDO to stuff his cloak, and especially his dagger, up his colon. Ultimately, someone else did that for him, and the last I heard he was pontificating along with other windy pontificators at a DC stink-tank.

But here I am, sitting around a conference table with Pikestaff, DDO Skeeter Leland, and Eurasia Division Chief Kate Darconti.

Pikestaff passes copies of a an executive order stamped Top Secret from the White House to Darconti and Skeeter.

They read, not knowing till this moment why they had been summoned to this late morning rendezvous.

Skeeter whistles softly. Darconti steals a glance at me, like, I know you’re responsible for this.

“As you can see,” says Pikestaff, “we’re back in business with Podex. Jay, here, is going to take charge of this operation. He will coordinate all intelligence collection and strategize covert action.” He stands and excuses himself. “I’ve got business on the Hill.”

Skeeter studies me closely as Pikestaff departs.

“That must have been some trip to Kazakhstan,” he says suspiciously, searching for more.

Darconti taps the presidential finding with a couple long, clear-polished fingernails. “Dare I ask what made President Prescott change his mind?”

I inhale deeply and exhale slowly, my arms butterflied behind me. “That’s so highly classified, Kate, there isn’t even a classification for it.” And then I lean forward.“Here’s the deal: I want to see every scrap of memo that’s ever been filed on Koblatze and Podex. Oh, and Kate, see if Personnel has a file this guy.”

I hand her a card with a name.

“Who’s Bef Mogus?” she asks.

“That’s what I want to know. Claims he once worked for CIA. Do a quick check and we’ll talk about him over lunch.”

⁂

We—Darconti and I—roar out of the Langley compound in her Volkswagen Golf and tear along Dolly Madison Boulevard into McLean, a sprawling urban mishmash of shopping plazas. She parks outside Kazan.

The Turkish manager greets her, sits us at a good table in a quiet corner.

“The salmon is superb,” she tells me. “Flown it in daily from Maine.”

The manager, flapping linen, nods with pride.

“Bef Mogus,” whispers Darconti, “was an agency employee.”

“Really?” I’m surprised, having believed Mogus was just one of many James Bond wannabes.

“He was in the Office of Security. Eight years.”

“How long has he been out of the agency?”

Darconti looks into my eyes. “He’s not out of the agency.”

“Huh?” I can hardly believe my ears.

“He’s still on contract.”

“Go on.”

“Ever since he left, six years ago.”

“What kind of contract?”

“Based in Kazakhstan. He meets with our CoS in Geneva every few months.” Darconti pauses. “The Bureau would like to talk to him.”

“Why?”

“They believe he’s involved in smuggling weapons.”

“To who?”

“The Serbs,” says Darconti. “And the Kosovars,” she adds. “He doesn’t appear to discriminate.”

“Is the agency using him to supply arms to one side or the other. Or both?”

“No. Absolutely not. The Bureau’s liaison in Langley has made several enquiries. They want to know if he’s ours.”

“What were they told?”

“As far as I can tell, nothing. But how do you know Mogus?”

“I met him in Almaaty. I’d guess Mogus is playing all sides, taking money from everyone, with loyalty no one, including us. What do we pay him?”

“Ten thousand cash, every time he surfaces in Geneva.”

“Who is CoS in Geneva?”

“Joe Bleiler.”

“Bleiler? How the fuck did that moron ever get to be a station chief? And Geneva?”

“I don’t know.” Darconti shakes her head. “Bleiler was Mogus’s case officer before Switzerland, from the time Mogus went on contract.”

“Does Bleiler know about the arms dealing?”

Darconti shrugs. Not her division

“Okay,” I said. “Ask Skeeter to call Bleiler when we get back to the office. Tell him I’m coming to pay his station a visit.”

“When?”

“Flying out tonight. Tell Bleiler to clear his schedule, he and I are having lunch tomorrow, Pikestaff’s orders.”

The Oval Office is smaller than I expect. So is President Prescott.

The President’s National Security Advisor, Donald Wankum, a gentleman-farmer more at home with his fist up a cow’s rectum than in the White House, had intercepted us in the waiting area, and now President Prescott rises from his desk and dismisses him.

Wankum backs out, an expression of hurt on his face.

“Please, sit down.” The president smiles as he motions toward a suite of overstuffed furniture. Very civilized, as expected. “Would either of you like a refreshment?”

We demur.

President Prescott continues to smile, eyes trying to discern a reason for my presence, which had been depicted as “briefer.” Then he turns to Pikestaff. “How’s the morale out at Langley?” he asks.

It had been bad. Really bad.

“Improving, Mister President.”

“Good, good.” He glances away, then back again. “You asked to see me about something?”

“Yes, Mister President.” Pikestaff turns to me. “This is Jay Sandak. He is a contract employee with our agency.”

President Prescott regards me with a nod and a curious expression, discomfited that his chief of staff had been misled.

“Mister Sandak,” Pikestaff continues, “has been working on a delicate batter.” He pauses. “I think you’ve already been briefed on the Krutskov memoir?”

The President nods, jaw clenched. Then his mouth opens. “I heard about it this morning for the first time from Secretary Herbert Picklewart. As a matter of fact, I understand the State Department has a problem with this operation. I was going to ask you to come see me about it, so I’m glad you stopped by.”

We say nothing, providing the president room to expand his thoughts.

“I’d like to appease State and terminate this Krutskov thing,” he adds. “In fact, he adds, I thought I already had.”

“Mister President,” says Pikestaff, “this Krutskov thing has led to the discovery of sensitive intelligence on Podex that...”

“I ordered you to drop Podex,” the president interjects, staccato style. “I was very clear about that. It is not in the best interest of US-Russian relations. And Secretary Picklewart agrees with me.”

“Yes, Mister President,” says Pikestaff. “We did stand down our Podex operation. But new information surfaced on Podex relative to Vladimir Krutskov’s recent death and...”

“Are you playing games with me?” President Prescott erupts again, eyes bugging. “I specifically ordered...”

“I think you’d better look at this, Mister President,” Pikestaff interrupts. He places a document on the coffee table and pushes it toward him.

“What is this?” Frowning, President Prescott picks up the document and reads. His adam’s apple begins to bob. Then his face begins to turns a pallid grey. And then he seems to choke back an eructation from his stomach. “What exactly is this?”

As if his physiology has not already betrayed him.

Pikestaff takes a deep breath. “Mister President, two years before your election to this office, you became a silent partner in a deal to privatize and monopolize the oil fields of Kazakhstan.”

President Prescott glances at me.

Pikestaff, he can control—or so he believes. But who’s this other guy?

It’s this other guy’s turn to speak.

Me.

“Your business partner,” I begin. “Igor Koblatze...”

The president flinches.

“Kobo is trying to fuck you, Mister President,” I continue. “He personally provided me with this document.”

President Prescott loosens his tie, blood flow needed for his paling face.

“Kobo invited you into the deal,” I continue. “And now he wants your share. And he doesn’t give a rat’s ass that you live in the White House. In fact, as far as Kobo’s concerned, he can get you evicted from the White House. With this document.”

A long silence ensues.

“Koblatze gave this to you?” The president is still trying to fully absorb the magnitude of his personal crisis—and conjure up an explanation. But judging by his expression, his heartbeat is maybe a few beats away from clinical shock—and I’m wondering if I should call an ambulance.

“But... but... why?”

“I assume,” I say, “it is part of a larger strategy. But I don’t have all the pieces. Not yet. You are aware, sir, that Podex is a monster octopus, growing faster than Microscroft. For whatever reason—and like I said, there’s probably more to it than trying to steal your percentage—Kobo wants to take you down.”

“What should we do?” asks the president.

We.

“You’ve been growing wealthy from the corrupt privatization of what used to be the Soviet Union,” I say. “Since you are also President of the United States, I’d call that a serious conflict of interest. Just for starters, have you even paid income tax on your earnings?”

President Prescott squirms.

“We know you probably haven’t because of how your share of profits have been distributed and shielded. Have you even declared possessing a foreign bank account?” I pause. “These are the kind of questions that immediately come to mind. Of course, Congress, the Department of Justice, and the media will have hundreds of other questions.”

“Can we keep this secret?” the President whispers. “After all, you are the CIA.”

He is looking to Pikestaff for an answer.

But I’m the one who speaks.

“I’m not a lawyer,” I say, “and I thank God for that. But I do believe that what you’re saying constitutes a conspiracy to obstruct justice. You’re not asking us to break the law, are you, Mister President?”

“No, no... I...”

“But let us suppose, hypothetically, that we’re prepared to keep this a CIA secret.” I shrug. “What are you suggesting?" I ask, knowing the gizmo in my pocket is recording every word.

President Prescott smiles. He is so accustomed to riding a political rollercoaster that it takes nary a few seconds for him to regain confidence.

Yes—he is thinking, I can see it in his eyes—I can deal with these guys.

“Is it only you two who know about this document?” the president asks.

“Yes,” Pikestaff affirms.

“There must be something I...”

“There is,” I interject. “We want to destroy Podex. Obliterate it from the face of the earth.”

President Prescott purses his lips together.

“We need special powers to do this,” I continue. “An executive order from the president to eradicate Podex.”

President Prescott has a new thought. “If Koblatze gave you this document, and you don’t use it, isn’t he going to give it to someone else? A reporter, perhaps?”

“I can stall Koblatze until... until he’s not here anymore.”

“Not here?”

“Your finding,” I say, “is that CIA must destroy Podex using whatever means necessary.”

President Prescott glares at me. “I guess you know I have to say yes.”

“Good guess.” I return his gaze with my own, a Koblatze-style eye-grip. “Oh, and one other thing...”

“Something else?” The president sounds indignant. No shame he.

“All the money you’ve accumulated? A hundred and thirty-nine million, eight hundred thousand, fifty-eight dollars and twelve cents?” I pause. “We want it turned over to CIA to pay for cleaning up the mess you helped create.”

“That’s ridiculous!” President Prescott turns to Pikestaff, appealing with his eyebrows.

If Pikestaff had been stupefied by my natural irreverence bolstered by two whiskies and a hard-on at PJ’s, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he musters every gram of testosterone in his system and stares the president down.

Then he plucks a notecard from his shirt pocket. “CIA has a secret account in the same Zurich bank where your ciphered account is held in the name of a BVI trust. Here’s the account number. Please arrange a transfer by tomorrow, Mister President.”

President Prescott, limp of hand, lamely accepts Pikestaff’s card.

“And,” adds Pikestaff, “we expect to have your executive order on Podex, in writing, by close of business today.”

Kate Darconti is on stage at PJ’s, swinging buck-naked from a chin-up bar. Or so it seems to me in my highly malleable fatigued, jet-lagged state of mind.

“I think I know her,” I say to Scheimer.

Scheimer shrugs. It wouldn’t have surprised him. Nothing surprises Scheimer.

“Day after tomorrow we’ll have galleys,” he replies. “Weren’t you going to write another chapter or something?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” I watch Darconti prance and twirl.

“We should be thinking about cover design.”

“What about cover design?” I should have seen it coming.

“About eight hundred bucks. What do you want on the cover, a picture of Krutskov?”

“I think not,” I say. “He was such an ugly bastard. What-say we be more creative. Jeez, Scheimer, if I’d known we were going to have a creative meeting I’d have ordered whiskey. Hold it.” I signal the waitress. “Whiskey.” I return to Scheimer. “Okay, first we need a title. Let’s call it... Last Words.”

“Not bad.” Scheimer nods. “I kind of like it.”

The ample-chested waitress approaches, whiskey in one hand, a cordless phone in the other. “Is one of you guys named Sandak?”

“That’ll be me.” I grab the glass, drain it, chase it down with Budweiser. Then I grab the phone, put it to my ear.

It’s Pikestaff.

“How the hell did you find me here?” I demand.

“You underestimate us. Listen...”

“Wait—have you seen Kate Darconti in the last hour?”

“She was just in my office. Why?”

“I’d swear that’s her on the bar, dancing naked.”

Pikestaff harrumphs. “I hope you’re sober. We’re expected at the White House in 90 minutes.”

“The president?”

“The president,” echoes Pikestaff. “Meet me at my office in the EOB at 3:15 sharp.”

I hand the phone to the waitress.

She looks at me in total disbelief.

“More whiskey,” I say.

“The president?” asks Scheimer, wide-eyed.

I wait for the astonished waitress to leave before lowering my voice and reeling Scheimer in, head to head. “That was my cousin, Scheimer. I’m trying to impress the babes in this joint.”

⁂

An hour later, I clear security at the Old Executive Office Building and find Pikestaff in his office. He is pacing nervously

“There you are.” He stops in his tracks. “Are you still 99 percent sure about this?”

“No.”

“No?!” Pikestaff’’s eyes jump from his face. “Then what?!” he demands.

“Seventy-four percent.”

“How the hell did we lose 25 points?!”

“It was always 74 percent, Pikestaff. I exaggerated.”

In my absence, another fifty pounds of clutter had gathered around Scheimer the publisher. He thrives on it, as if clutter is an addictive drug. The more clutter around him, the more secure he feels against creditors.

Scheimer peers over his Washington Times at me, leaning against his doorframe, disoriented from traveling and more disheveled than he.

“I have one question,” I say. “What day is it?”

“Thursday.”

“And where are we with Krutskov’s book?”

“That’s two questions. But the answer is… fucked.”

“Ah,” I say. “Does this mean you spent the money I gave you for the typesetter on settling another bill?”

“No. It means we got a cease and desist letter from the State Department.” He opens a drawer, plucks it out, passes it to me.

Apparently, a lawyer for Anatoli Krutskov’s estate had lodged a protest with the U.S. embassy in Moscow to request that a manuscript by Krutskov, which had fallen into the hands of an American publisher, be returned to the estate. The letter went on to caution against publication.

“Isn’t that just like State,” I say, “to take the side of a former KGB chairman against an American’s legitimate right to do business.” I eye Scheimer. “Fuck ‘em.”

He perks up. “You mean we don’t have to cease and desist?” Scheimer was so used to getting his butt kicked, he hadn’t considered not bending over.

I pick up the phone and touch-key a direct number on the letterhead for Stanley Freedman, Russian Desk.

“Freedman,” answers a nasal twang.

“Stanley? Director of the Russian Desk?”

“That’s me.”

“Stan, this is Jay Sandak. How are you today?”

“Busy. Can I help you with something?”

“I don’t think your snake department has the ability to help anyone with anything, Stan. I’m just responding to a letter you wrote me.”

“I wrote you a letter?”

“Yes, Stan. Beltway Books. Anatoli Krutskov. Ring a bell?”

Freedman absorbs this. “Yes. Yes. I wrote a letter.”

“I want to thank you for conveying your concerns about Anatoli Krutskov’s book, Stan. But the fact of the matter is, we have an iron-clad contract with the old goat himself.”

“But Krutskov’s dead,” says Freedman in a tone suggesting puzzlement.

“You folks at State already know that? Excellent, Stan—I’m impressed. The thing is, Krutskov was alive when he signed our contract.”

“That’s what the Russians are disputing.”

“Which part are they disputing?”

“They claim you forged Krutskov’s signature. They say you coerced him to sign.”

“Wait a second, they say we did both those things? That’s illogical, Stan.”

Freedman had been specializing in Russia so long, he no longer knew the difference between logic and illogic.

“It will cause grave problems if you publish this book,” he says.

“That’s the way it’s supposed to work, Stan.”

“Excuse me?”

“We, the fourth estate, cause problems. And you, the diplomats, solve them.”

“That is what we are trying to do.”

“On behalf of the Russians?”

“Uh... yes.”

“Well, fuck the Russians, Stan. Who’s side on you on, anyway?” I don’t wait for an answer. “Advise Krutskov’s estate to take me to court. I’m publishing.”

“But...”

“Goodbye, Stan.” I put the phone down and turn to Scheimer. “We just ceased and desisted the State Department.”

“What do you think they’ll do?”

“You ever see Three Days of the Condor, Scheimer?”

Scheimer squirms.

“C’mon. I’m thirsty. Let’s grab a brew.”

A reminder to those reading this serial novel—and a primer for new subscribers:

This is a Jay Sandak prequel to Waterworks, a serial that recently wrapped on Substack.

Written 25 years ago, this story is drawn from real stuff that went down inside the U.S. intelligence community during the mid-to-late 1990s—situations I put through a meat grinder to make “fiction,” where truth lies safely couched.

The voice is what I call first-person wise-ass: sparse and dialogue-driven—Fante and Bukowski-influenced.

Sandak is a product of his era and environment, political correctness be damned. No apologies.

I dedicate this to Jeremy Kay, my longtime publisher and editor at Bartleby Press/Enigma Books of Silver Spring, Maryland. JK left us much too soon last March.

Jeremy was both a procrastinator and perfectionist. Ink, not blood, ran through his veins.

We had a hell of a run, and probably drank too many cocktails in too many DC bars.

He was there when I needed cover—always, without hesitation, without question. He understood need to know—and knew he couldn’t.

As such—and as Sandak’s ever-suffering foil—dear Jeremy, R.I.P., returns to haunt this story.

After many years running operations against hostile forces in foreign places, I count myself lucky to be free—and alive.

The Chevy Chase Club.

Pikestaff is punctual.

“Have a drink, Pikestaff.”

“Sarasota...” he addresses the steward.

“No, a real drink.”

Pikestaff rolls his eyes. “Scotch and soda.” He returns to me. “Does Skeeter know you went to Kazakhstan?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Are you practicing for Congress?”

“Good one, Pikestaff. Truth is, I’ve crisscrossed 24 zones in three days. Or four. I’m not sure about that, either.”

“Are you sure about anything?”

“This, Pikestaff.” I pluck a folded document from my inside jacket pocket and lay it on our corner table. “I’m sure about this.”

Pikestaff plops a pair of reading glasses onto his nose and reads.

I watch as his lips move and his expression changing, somewhere between costive and surprise.

“Holy Catfish!” Then he looks me at with suspicion. “Did you fabricate this?”

“I’m too wasted from latigue to fabricate anything.”

“Latigue?”

“It’s a combo of…”

“Never mind that. What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”

“The right thing, Pikestaff. Just do the right thing.”

“What’s the right thing?”

“DOJ. The Attorney General.”

Pikestaff gulps. “Who else knows about this?”

“Just you and me.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Koblatze.”

Pikestaff eyes me with suspicion. “Why would he give this to you?”

“He made a deal to save his ass.”

“But why should we believe anything that comes from Koblatze?”

“Because it’s true,” I say. “The President of the United States is a silent partner in Kazakh oil. He has millions of dollars stashed in a numbered Swiss account. That’s why the sonofabitch doesn’t want to do anything about corruption in the former Soviet Union. He’s part of it.”

“And you think I should go to the Attorney General and tell him the President of the United States is a crook?”

“That’s certainly option number one.”

“The other is to lock this away.” Pikestaff looks hopeful.

“I have a third option.”

Pikestaff cocks his head.

“We’ve got the president’s balls in our pocket,” I whisper. “I want to crush Podex. I’m doing it anyway. I’ve got the goods—and I’ve got a way to make it authoritative: Krutskov’s dying confession. Now we need the president on our side.”

“You want me to tell the President that CIA is pursuing something he specifically ordered us to stand down?”

“Exactly. I’ll go with you.”

Pikestaff shakes his head. Vigorously.

“I’m serious, Pikestaff. I want to be there. I’ve never seen a president with his pants down. Oh, yeah, that video of Saddam Hussein…. but never a U.S president. We’ll play good cop, bad cop. You act sorry, like you want to forget the whole thing. And I’ll say I want to blow the whistle to Congress, DOJ, and the Washington Post.”

“Are you sure this is for real?”

“Ninety-nine percent.”

“Why not a hundred?”

“Nothing’s a hundred percent.”

“But what if that one percent...?”

“We’d both have to flee to Kazakhstan and go into business with Bef Mogus.”

“Who?”

“A wheeler-dealer. Very short. Says he was CIA. Ever heard of him?”

“No.”

I shrug. “Neither did I before I got to Almaaty. Someone ought to check with Personnel.”

“Something’s wrong here,” says Pikestaff.

“About Mogus?”

“No. Koblatze. Why is he so willing to give up the president?”

“I told you already. To save his ass.”

“But is he really saving his ass by exposing the president this way? According to this, the president is Kobo’s partner.”

“Exactly. Koblatze doesn’t care. He’ll benefit. If the president gets exposed, he’ll become his ex-partner—more money for Kobo. And if the president resigns, gets impeached, whatever, he’ll be powerless to do anything about it—especially with the media looking up his ass.”

“But, but,” splutters Pikestaff, “a new president might adopt a different policy toward the former Soviet Union republics? Why would Koblatze want that?”

“You think those scumbags over there give a rat’s ass who the U.S. president is? Or what he thinks? There’s so much confusion in Kazakhstan and Tajikistan, this Stan, that Stan, a change of U.S. presidents means squat to them. But let’s play devil’s advocate. Push come to shove, Kobo will take his cool five billion and settle in Geneva—one of those big mansions in Coligny. It’s a helluva lot nicer than Almaaty. What Kobo doesn’t want is a book that soils his reputation and gives the Swiss a reason to refuse him entry when he finally decides to retire.”

“Do you think the Russians know about this? Do you think they’ve been blackmailing the president?”

“I wouldn’t rule it out, Pikestaff. But now we know why the president didn’t want Podex looked into. He rightly figured sooner or later it would lead to this document.”

Note: The Third Option (McGraw Hill, 1981) is a book by Ted Shackley, another old friend of mine…

All mugs around the Marco Polo pool turn and fixate on Bef Mogus as he stomps out of the elevator, muttering to himself. For a wee man, he has a mighty step, which he enhances by taking large steps in Lucchese cowboy boots.

We find a corner table. Mogus is still trembling. A brush with Morley Safer was too much for him.

“Why is Morley Safer after you?” I ask.

“Because that bastardo is trying to do a story on me. Claims it’s a story on Kazakhstan. But I know better. I got my spies. I was CIA, you know.”

“So you mentioned. Is that what interests him?”

“He wants to plug me as the Edwin Wilson of my time. You’d think I was a criminal or something. I’m a legitimate businessman!”

The Turkish waiter appears.

I order Heineken.

“Fernet Branca,” demands Mogus. “Rocks.” Then he looks at me. “Indigestion.”

A Mogus bodyguard reappears and whispers into Bef’s ear.

Bef grunts and spits further instructions.

The bodyguard scurries off, taking position near the elevator.

“The police arrived,” says a smug Mogus. “They arrested the ugly bastardo.”

“Are you sure that’s how you want to handle this?”

“Why not? A few days in the can will teach that S.O.B to lay off me.”

“I don’t think so, Bef. It’ll just piss him off. Sixty Minutes will send reinforcements.”

“This is exactly why I don’t go out much,” Mogus hisses, as if it’s all my fault.

“Because of Morley Safer?”

“Not only. I have competition here.” Mogus lowers his voice. “There’s a contract on my head.”

My comfort level sitting next to Mogus begins to dissipate as I calculate that it would take about five minutes for word to filter out that Mogus is atop the Marco Polo—and only 55 more to mobilize a hit. Because in The Wild East, CIA’s 60-day assassination dictum is reduced to minutes.

⁂

A phone that sounds like a long fart rattles me out of a deep slumber. “Huh-what?” I’m only half awake.

“I have Mr. Koblatze,” says a voice.

I wait, noting darkness outside my window. My rhythms don’t rhyme. But maybe that’s the best way to operate in a surreal venue like Kazakhstan.

“I have what you ask.” Kobo’s deep voice grates my eardrum. “You can visit now?”

“Give me 20 minutes.”

⁂

Kobo sits imposingly behind his desk, as before. He looks up at me. “How do you know Bef Mogus?” he asks.

Nobody trusts no one in this awful environment.

“I heard his name in Washington. A contact point.”

Kobo attempts penetration with his eyes. I don’t remove mine but fixate on his black pupils.

He finally blinks, and opens a folder on his desktop. “I have located certain documents. I think this is what you ask.”

Kobo turns the folder in my direction.

I approach his desk and peruse the documents.

“So,” Kobo flashes his big golden tooth. “We make deal?”

⁂

The return flight on Lufthansa is orderly—except for the turmoil of my mind, still struggling to register and decipher a conglomeration of new and unusual stimuli amid fading imagery of Kate Darconti—first at high speed on strong espresso, then in lower gear lubricated by a string of gin & tonics.

⁂

“Where have you been?” This is Pikestaff, connecting by phone.

“Kicking back in Kazakhstan.”

“Was that authorized?”

“I hope so. It wasn’t cheap. The Marco Polo charges Monte Carlo prices.”

Pikestaff harrumphs.

“I have something you should see,” I say.

“Not another surprise.”

“Yes, another surprise. A big one.”

“You know I don’t like surprises!”

“You might like this one. Or maybe you won’t. Can we meet this evening?”

On arrival at the Marco Polo, Bef Mogus affixes a pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarers to his pig ears. Then, squaring his shoulders, flanked by armed bodyguards, he waddles through the lobby to an elevator.

Another set of bodyguards await us on the seventh floor. They wear stern expressions, dark glasses, and affected mannerisms of American gangsters from old movies. Mogus strides down the hall as if he were six-foot-six, oblivious to how ridiculous a super-stride looks on a near midget.

The door opens, almost automatically, and we enter a large, ornate room, part of a suite. In the far corner, a man bigger, uglier, and balder than Telly Savalas looks up from behind a large banker’s desk. He smiles. One front tooth, capped completely in gold, reflects light from a hideous crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

Kobo rises, walks around his desk and hugs Mogus; snugging Bef’s head not far from his crotch.

Mogus and Kobo erupt in Kazakh. The only part I understand is my name. The man offers me a thick, calloused hand.

“Koblatze,” he says, trying to rape my brain with his eyes. “Come.” Kobo motions at a suite of furniture and rumps his rear in a big leather chair. “So. Tell me.”

“I have Krutskov’s manuscript,” I say. “I was given the job to edit it. You understand what that means?”

Kobo nods, tight-lipped, eyes smoldering into mine.

“Krutskov has written about a company called Podex.” I study Kobo’s face. Nothing. Not even a muscle spasm. “Krutskov calls Podex a marriage of the former KGB and the Russian mafia.”

A faint twitch. Kobo’s left eye betrays him.

His right eye, I now realize, is glass. It never moves, but just stares straight ahead.

“And, of course,” I add, “Krutskov’s memoir mentions you.” I pause, leaning forward. “I don’t think this book is going to be very good for your reputation, Mister Koblatze.”

Kobo smiles in appreciation understatement. “You have come here to help me with this problem? So what is it you propose me?”

“I am in a position to monitor this book for you, get you a copy...”

“I don’t want you to monitor anything,” Kobo erupts. “I want you to kill it.” Kobo thumps his meaty fist on table beside him. “Just kill it dead.” The word kill rolls off Kobo’s tongue as if he possesses an affinity for it. “And bury it. Can you do this?”

“Maybe,” I say. “Are you retaining me to do this, as your consultant?” I glance at Bef. “Us,” I add.

Mogus relaxes.

The Kobe is thinking how much money to pay. To him, money is a generic instrument. Throw money at a problem, the problem dies.

“Kobo,” I say. “May I call you Kobo?”

Koblatze’s eyes glare at me. The glass one, too.

“I’m a book editor. That’s what I do. I can kill Krutskov’s book. But only if you’re prepared to offer me a better book in its place.”

Kobo grins. “You desire for me to write a book?“

I shake my head. “Not necessary. Give me some information I’m looking for. I’ll write the book.”

“Information? What information?” Kobo looks at Mogus, perplexed.

Mogus looked pissed.

I tell Kobo what information I need.

He registers surprise. Then he smiles. His gold tooth glistens. And he nods. “I think we can make business.”

⁂

Bef Mogus has turned beet red by the time we’ve descended to the lobby. Now he ejaculates with fury. “You tricked me!”

“How so?”

“I’m in this for money!”

“Me, too, Bef. You’re not thinking straight.”

“I’m... huh?”

“Do you have any idea how much money this new book is worth?”

Bef’s swine eyes say No, I don’t.

“A million,” I say. “And with foreign rights, first serial, movie rights—much, much more.”

“Shit,” says Mogus.

“I’m serious.”

“No, I mean, shit, lookey there.” Mogus gestures with his head at the hotel’s main door where Morley Safer of CBS’ 60 Minutes stands poised for an ambush, replete with camera crew. “That ugly bastardo has been calling me for weeks. He wants to interview me.” Mogus spins on his heel.

Morley Safer lurches forward. “Mister Mogus, Mister Mogus...”

Bef’s two bodyguards block the intrepid newsman’s offensive.

“Excuse me!” Safer protests. “I want to...”

A bodyguard grabs the camera.

“Hey, you can’t...!”

With both hands, the bodyguard throws the camera to the marble floor, full force, smashing it to pieces.

He can. And did.

I follow Mogus to an elevator and hit the top floor button.

Bef is trembling with rage. Or fear.

“What-say we have drink, celebrate our new bestseller?”

A strong sleeping pill precludes dreams of Darconti, of anyone or anything. It produces only a hazy new morn in Almaaty, Kazakhstan.

I pick up the phone and dial the number given me by Diane poolside at the Marco Polo. First it snaps, then it crackles, then pops, before a voice answers.

“Yeah?”

Yeah? Why not. The Wild East.

“I’m looking for Bef Mogus.”

“Really, now?”

“Really, truly.”

“And who the hell are you?”

It’s an American voice, even though a name like Bef Mogus could have been from just about anywhere.

“Jay Sandak. I’m a consultant.”

“Whoopee-do.”

“I’m here in Almaaty and I want to consult with Bef Mogus.”

“I’m Bef Mogus. What the hell you want to consult about?”

“Wouldn’t you prefer to meet and talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay, then I’ll get to the point. Do you know Koblatze?”

“Yeah.” A long pause. “What about him?”

“I’d like to meet him.”

“Ha!”

“It’s funny?”

“Yeah, it is. But make me laugh some more. Why do you want to meet Kobo—and what makes you think you can?”

“Certain events he does not yet know about suggest he may need some PR. My specialty.”

“You want to pitch yourself?”

“Yeah. As your partner,” I say. “When you hear the details, you’re going to want half of this. Can you come to the Marco Polo?”

“I sure as hell can’t.”

“You don’t want to hear what I’ve got?”

“I’ll listen,” says Mogus. “For about twenty seconds. But not at Marco Polo.”

 ⁂

I show Baghdad the address given me by Bef Mogus.

“Yes, Mister Sandicki,” he says earnestly. “I know this place.”

We climb into Baghdad’s clunky vehicle and ping our way south. Almaaty’s streets are grimy; its people grim.

We rattle up to a compound surrounded by ten-foot stone walls topped with razor barbed wire. Baghdad circles, finds a gate, honks. Nothing happens. He honks again.

The gate opens a couple of inches and a head pokes to hurl words at Baghdad. Baghdad hurls back.

The gate opens, then closes behind us. Baghdad drives toward a tidy mansion where a man small of stature, maybe five-foot-two, stands between two Roman pillars.

I get out of the car. “Hi, I’m looking for...”

“Bef Mogus.” He jabs his right palm at me to wrap knuckles, unsmiling, then turns his heel and stomps inside.

Servants scurry.

Mogus points to a sofa and chooses an overstuffed chair for himself. The cushion beneath must be double-stuffed, because now he’s taller than me, little bastard.

“How did you get my number?” Mogus demands.

“Someone in Washington. They said you were the guy to see.”

“Who said that?”

“Peter Phillips.”

“Never heard of him.”

I shrug. Neither had I.

“Do you have any idea how much an introduction to Kobo is worth?” he asks, nostrils flaring.

It sounds like a loaded question.

“Two hundred bucks?” I venture.

Mogus bores his beady pork eyes into mine. “Very funny. An introduction like that is worth a million.”

“His price? Or yours?”

A servant sets a tray of mineral water on the coffee table between us.

“Kobo is at the Marco Polo, isn’t he?” I add. “Maybe I could just bump into him in the elevator?”

“Nope.” Mogus shakes his head. “They wouldn’t let you inside an elevator with Kobo.”

“Who’s they?”

“Kobo’s bodyguards. They’re mean as hell.”

“Then maybe we’ll connect in the bar?”

“Nope. Kobo doesn’t drink.”

“So, I guess it’s a good thing I’m here to see you.”

“What do you have in mind?”

The main thing I have in mind is Darconti’s legs, but this hardly seems worth mentioning.

“You heard that Anatoli Krutskov passed away,” I say.

When Mogus nods, his short, fat neck wobbles.

“But did you know that Krutskov wrote a book?”

“Krutskov? A book? No chance.”

“It’s scheduled for publication in the States,” I say. “And let me tell you, Bef—may I call you Bef?—this book will be one fucked-up PR nightmare for Koblatze.”

“Krutskov wrote about Kobo?”

“A whole chapter. Kobo. Podex. You heard of Podex?”

Bef’s eyes pop from their sockets.

“Krutskov even wrote that if he died unexpectedly, it was probably Kobo who had him killed.”

Mogus absorbs this. Dollar signs suddenly twinkle in his eyes, like an old Scrooge McDuck cartoon. “How do you know all this?”

“I’ve read the manuscript.”

“Did you bring it with you?”

“A few significant pages. Significant to Kobo.”

Mogus whistles. “Let me get this straight. You’re offering to help Kobo fight this book?”

“You’ve got it straight.”

Mogus plucks a big fat Mont Blanc from his coat pocket. “Who’s the publisher?”

I shake my head. “Let’s save the details for Kobo.”

“I see.” Mogus considers my reticence. “I’ll make a call, on the basis that we share 50-50 if Kobo retains you. But if I discover you’re using me for some other agenda...” Mogus trails off. He plucks the phone and shoves it into his face, dials, connects to someone, and yaks in the strangest language I’ve ever heard.

He speaks, listens, speaks, listens. Then he thumps the receiver into its cradle.

“We have Kobo’s attention. You’re right. Krutskov did write a book. Kobo knows about it. He wants to see us this morning. Let’s go.”

I offer my car and driver, but Mogus insists on his own wheels, a big, shiny black Mercedes limousine. It rolls up as we stand together between the Roman pillars.

Baghdad watches in awe from his vehicle as a uniformed chauffeur hops out, bows to Mogus, then opens the door for him.

I signal Bagdad to follow.

Buttery leather upholstery almost swallows Mogus whole as he turns to face me in the backseat. “Bullet-proof,” he says with pride.

“Are you American?” I ask Mogus.

“Dual American and Kazakh. I was CIA.” Mogus smirks. “When things busted up there, I busted out. Life is too short to live on a GS salary. I’m doing better now.” Mogus gestures at the mahogany bar, the Bang & Olufsen sound system.

“But is this really the place to enjoy money?” I gesture with my arms at the landscape, which, in truth, looks a little less bleak through tinted windows.

“Almaaty is just one of my homes,” Mogus snorts.

“Where are the others?”

“Ismir, in Turkey. Geneva, Switzerland. I move around a lot. You’re lucky you found me here today.” This appears to spark a new thought. “How did you know I’m in town?”

“I didn’t.”

“What if I’d been away?”

“Plan B,” I say.

“Plan B?’

“A dry martini and a cigar.”

Mogus snorts again. “How do you know about this Krutskov book?” He reaches into a mahogany humidor.

“I’m Krutskov’s editor.”

Mogus digests this as he shoves a large cigar into his small mouth. “You’re an editor with a brain,” he manages to say around it. “But what you’ll need here is very large pair of balls.”

Lufthansa is dull and efficient, as always.

Even in first-class, the flight attendants order everyone around. I ignore them and settle into a Xanax-induced Darconti fantasy.

At Frankfurt, a motley passenger mix soils the gateway to Almaaty.

You can tell a lot about a place by the random assembly of strangers traveling toward it: A couple of German businessmen, as sleek and pristine as their Gold Pfeil briefcases. They are the exception. Kazakhs, Tartars, Turks, and Turkmen are the rule. Hardened, weathered faces that reflect difficult lives.

When the call is made to board, only the Germans pay any attention to the procedures. Everyone else groups around the gate, not bothering to form a line. A free-for-all—but with an edge. Their eyes say they’re willing to plunge a knife over a stomped toe.

First-class eradicates the riff-raff; just me and the orderly Germans.

I recline and fall into a Xanax-meets-caffeine hallucination while defending my space from overly-officious flight attendants.

Many hours later, the jet lands in Almaaty, contrasted by aged, cannabalized aircraft of no discernible origin littered along the tarmac.

Customs is a trading post. Goods are displayed on long tables. You trade something to get in.

The first kickback.

Darconti had supplied me the name of a car and driver service. Choosing a random cab, she’d warned, meant you possible delivery to a graveyard.

I scan the tawdry arrivals zone, looking for my name. Eventually, my gaze locks onto a piece of cardboard onto which is scrawled “Sandicki.”

The young Kazakh or Turk or whatever he is snaps to attention.

“My name Baghdad,” he says, reaching for my bag. “I get car.”

And I keep my bag.

Three minutes later, a vintage Mercedes—not the collectible variety—rolls up, pinging and stinking of diesel.

The Marco Polo’s accommodations are somewhere between Holiday Inn and Bates Motel, with odd appointments. Furnishings and plumbing are basic. Running water—more a rusty cold tea—is considered luxurious by Kazakh standards.

Entering the pool club on Marco Polo’s top floor is a little like pushing through the swing doors of Dodge City’s Long Branch Saloon (think Gunsmoke), circa 1850. The gunslingers holding court are more discreet, but twice as lethal. Everyone watches the new-comer, not with subtlety out the corner of an eye, but with both eyes straight on. And you know, as soon as you turn your back, they’re taking bets on whether you’ll strike it rich in this town—or die a cruel death trying.

Recreation is the pool, not poker. But no one is frolicking. This is not a family resort.

I meet a few glares and table myself near the bar.

If the members of this exclusive club are the privileged class, I dare not even imagine what the local riff-raff smells like.

A Turkish waiter appears and commits our order to memory: Coca-Cola for Baghdad, who I’d hired for the whole day, fifty bucks; a Heineken for me.

“Hi, Baghdad!” It is an American voice. Female. Mid-western. Maybe Chicago. Warm and friendly. The very last thing I expected to hear. Unless I’m hallucinating—a good possibility.

But Baghdad hears it, too. He flashes a shy smile and nods.

“Who is she?” I ask.

“Miss Diane,” replies Baghdad. “I am driver for business.”

“What business?”

“Laws.”

“Lawyers?”

“That’s what I say. Laws.”

The only place you can’t find lawyers is New Guinea, whose legislators were smart enough to outlaw them.

“I’d like to meet Miss Diane,” I say.

“You need laws?”

“No.”

I mean this. What I need is any friend I could can get—a foothold in this very strange corner of the world. After all, I have no plan but only an overactive imagination and a modicum of affability.

“I meet you Miss Diane.” Baghdad stands, ambles over to Diane’s table and whispers in her ear, then ambles back with glee. “Miss Diane says she meets you soon.”

I swig lager directly from the bottle and adjust my wristwatch to local time. A few twists of the crown and breakfast becomes dinner, body and soul thoroughly scrambled.

Out the corner of my eye, Miss Diane’s companion rises and departs. A moment later, she rises and aims herself in my direction.

I hoist myself up. “Jay Sandak. Join us for a drink?”

She checks the time. “I don’t have long.” She reverts her eyes to me. “Is this your first time in Almaaty?”

I nod. “And maybe my last. Please join us.”

Diane sits, chuckling. “It takes some getting used to.”

“Are you used to it yet, Diane?”

“I don’t think anybody ever gets used to it.”

“How long have you been trying?”

“On and off, a year,” she says. “Three months here, one month back in Washington.”

“That’s where I’m from,” I say.

“State Department?” she asks.

“Private consultant.”

“For whom?”

“Know anybody who needs one?” I signal the Turkish waiter.

“You’re job hunting?” Diane is mirthfully incredulous. “In Almaaty?”

“Isn’t Kazakhstan the new frontier—and maybe the last?”

Diane laughs. “This is not the place to make your first million. The entry fee is a million.”

“What if I want to try?”

“The only consultants who do well here are those with access to government ministers.”

“So, I guess the question is, who’s already here with that kind of access?”

Diane glances around. “It’s not prudent to ask questions like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because Almaaty has more spies than Geneva.”

I shrug. “What would a spy do in this place?”

She laughs a big hearty one. “You kidding? The oil business alone is worth billions! Kazakhstan might not look like much, but it has more oil beneath it than all the other Arab countries put together. I know. I’m handling the tender.”

“Then you must know who I need to see.” I wink.

“I actually do.” Diane plucks a pen from her purse and scribbles onto a paper serviette, then pushes it across the table at me.

Bef Mogus.

“Who...?”

“You’ll find out.” She chuckles again, rising. “Don’t mention my name. Nice meeting you.”

Kate Darconti joins me in Pulcinella, a cheerful Italian in McLean, down the road from CIA Headquarters in Langley.

I sip Pinot Grigio and watch Darconti’s full lips, storing detail for imagery enhancement in my dreams.

“Pikestaff says I can de-brief you,” I say.

“Excuse me?”

“Podex.”

“Oh. Yes. Where do you want to begin?”

Your blouse.

“Might as well start at the beginning,” I say. “When was Podex created?”

Darconti lubricates her tongue with iced tea and begins. “Its roots go back to the 1960s. Black market trading in Kazakhstan.”

“Kazakhstan?” The kickback capital of the world. “I’d heard Vienna?”

Darconti nods. “Podex is headquartered in Vienna. But its real operational base is Almaaty, Kazakhstan. They keep their clean books in Vienna. The real books are in Almaaty.”

“Why?”

“Obvious, no? It’s safer for them. Austrian Intelligence is already suspicious of their activities. They believe Podex is buying Austrian politicians. So Podex makes sure there’s nothing in Vienna that incriminates them, in case they get raided. Ligichansky divides his time between Vienna, Almaaty—and Israel.”

“Ah. The Israeli connection.”

“Yes.”

“What do our Israeli friends tell us about Ligichansky?”

“They won’t discuss him,” says Darconti. “They cite operational security, not to be shared.”

“I see. We give Israel something like a hundred million dollars a year to grease their counter-terrorism program, don’t we?”

Darconti nods. “That’s right. They’ll only cooperate with us on terrorism issues.”

“Fine. So we say, we don’t need to cooperate on terrorist issues, especially when cooperation means we give you a hundred million dollars. We want to cooperate on Podex. You want a hundred million? Cooperate.”

“The Israelis have a direct line to the Hill,” says Darconti. “A very effective direct line. If we conveyed that message, Congress would be on us like a ton of bricks.”

“Congress. Of course. How stupid of me.”

“The KGB, which created Podex, understood there are only two kinds of people who do business Western-style: one, their own officers, because they’re well traveled and somewhat sophisticated. Two, the black marketeers—savvy street gangs that practice free enterprise. And so there was a marriage: KGB and organized crime. Together they embarked on capitalism. Ligichansky comes from the KGB side. He was tailor-made for wining and dining in European capitals and Washington.”

“He’s been here?”

“Yes. He even visited the White House.”

“When?”

“About six months ago.”

“For a state dinner?”

“No. A private meeting.”

“With some economic flunkie?”

“No. Higher.”

“The vice president?”

“Higher.”

“The president?”

“Yes.”

“How...?”

“We think it was arranged by a big contributor to the president’s political party. Only fundraisers have that kind of clout. We know who organized it. But we don’t know why, or what was said.”

“Couldn’t you...?”

“No. We cannot go to the President of the United States and ask him what he talked about with a visitor.”

“But hasn’t the president been briefed on who Ligichansky is and what he represents?”

“We’ve briefed his national security advisor several times on Podex. We don’t know where it went from there. Let me return to my point. Ligichansky is erudite, slick, and completely at home with heads of state. The ugly side of Podex is Ligichansky’s opposite number from the mafia.”

“Name?”

“Kobo. Short for Koblatze. Igor Koblatze. Kobo rarely leaves Kazakhstan. When there’s a hit, it comes from Kobo. We know he’s responsible for at least six hits.”

“Including Krutskov?”

“No. That would make seven, if confirmed.”

“Have you ever been out there?” I ask.

“Kazakhstan? Of course.”

“Where does one stay in Almaaty?”

“There’s only one place that’s any good. The Marco Polo. Everyone stays there: billionaires, spies... Ligichansky keeps a permanent suite. Kobo has a whole floor—his home and office. The Kazakh president is a member of the top floor pool club. Why?” She pauses, looks me in the eye. “Are you thinking of going there?” Darconti doesn’t wait for an answer. “In the last three weeks, two Iranian exporters were murdered in their apartment and a Turkish businessman was tortured and killed. Oh, and an Indian banker ‘fell’ out of his Marco Polo hotel room.”

The Wild East.

I can already imagine myself kicking back in Kazakhstan; hanging poolside, the Marco Polo, mixing it up with spies, billionaires… and everyone else trying their luck at Kazakh roulette.

Pikestaff’s twang soils my answering machine so I call him back.

“Hold on,” says his secretary when I return his call. “He definitely wants to talk to you.”

Three seconds later, Pikestaff. “I need to see you. Why don’t you carry a cell phone? It’s hard to reach you.”

“I like being hard to reach.”

“Can you come out here?”

“I made a vow I’d never step foot in that spool of red tape again. And that’s from a guy who doesn’t believe in vows.”

⁂

Six o’clock at the club.

No Pikestaff.

I dispatch a martini, three olives, order another.

Pikestaff strides in 20 minutes later muttering about Beltway traffic. He insists we sit in a far corner.

“We don’t run rogue operations,” says Pikestaff sternly. “Everything we do is authorized by the White House and approved by congressional subcommittees.”

“It’s a wonder you do anything with all that baggage.”

“I’ll get to the point,” says Pikestaff. “This Krutskov book has become too problematic for us to handle. He’s dead now. We’re standing it down.”

“Excellent news, Pikestaff.”

“So, you can... “ Pikestaff stops and squints at me. “Why excellent news?”

“Because it means I can publish Krutskov’s book on my own. Free enterprise plus the First Amendment. I’m going to launch my own imprint: Leg-Up Books. I’ll make a lot more money than you’ve been paying me.”

“But, but…” Pikestaff splutters. “You can’t do this yourself!”

“I have a signed contract with Krutskov. You were my benefactor, my financier, or—as they say in the creative world—my angel. If you fly off, I’ll find another angel—or borrow operating capital from a bank. And something else, Pikestaff. If you pull out, I’ve got no reason not to put the foreign minister-is-a-U.S.-spy stuff in.”

“You can’t!”

“Of course, I can. I heard it from Krutskov, not your agency. I’ll use it to get Krutskov’s book maximum publicity. That’s the only way I can regain my investment and turn a profit.”

Pikestaff closes one eye. “Are you trying to blackmail me?”

“If I am, Pikestaff, it’s something I picked up working for your agency.”

Pikestaff harrumphs.

“This isn’t blackmail,” I continue. “If it were, I’d be threatening to slip a line or two about you in the book. Something like, the KGB once targeted you for recruitment because they have a photo in their Pikestaff File of you being blown by the ugliest whore in Bucharest.”

Pikestaff stiffens. “Krutskov told you that?”

“Calm down, Pikestaff. The point is, he could have told me that. Krutskov’s dead. He could have told me anything. You still don’t appreciate how creative an opportunity this is for your agency.”

Pikestaff shakes his head. Vigorously. “There’s a big problem we overlooked when we embarked on this operation.”

“What big problem?”

“You’re publishing this book here in the United States for Americans to read, right?”

“Right.”

“That’s against our charter. We’re not allowed to operate inside the borders of the United States. And we’re especially not allowed to influence American public opinion.”

“You’re afraid Congress or the New York Times might perceive this as an exercise in mind control?”

“They might.”

“American readership isn’t even the point, Pikestaff. This book will be carefully studied in Moscow. It will disinform and destabilize. It will set the record crooked, so to speak. And best of all, it will expose Podex.”

“That is precisely what the White House does not want.”

“Why not?”

“They have their reasons. It’s our job to answer questions from the White House—not the other way around.”

“So you’ve already said, Pikestaff. That sucks. Let’s find out their reasons.”

“Are you suggesting we spy on the White House?”

“Every intelligence service in the world spies on their head-of-state. I just want to know why the White House wants to protect Podex and, by extension, the Russian mafia, which, coincidentally, also wants this book killed. What’s the connection?”

“All right, all right. You made your point. You’re going to keep digging anyway, right?”

“Right.”

Pikestaff considers this.

Then he nods—Pikestaff’s way of agreeing to something without articulating agreement.

“Pork loins,” I say to Deputy Director for Operations Skeeter Leland when he joins me at the bar in Melio’s.

“Pork loins?” Skeeter says this like he thinks it’s a new secret code nobody bothered to tell him about.

“Pork loins, caramelized carrots, and mashed potatoes. Tonight’s special. I highly recommend it. So what happened to my author, Skeeter?”

“We’re not exactly sure. It may have been a heart attack. We haven’t ruled out foul play.”

I’d already made up my mind that the Russian foreign minister and his cronies were behind Krutskov’s sudden demise.

But Skeeter has his own theory. “Ligichansky,” he whispered.

“His partner?”

“Ex-partner. Our intelligence suggests that Ligichansky didn’t want a partner anymore. There’s been trouble between the two ever since Krutskov got out of prison...”

“Do you have any idea what that means?”

Skeeter nods and shakes his head at the same time.

“It means,” I say, “Krutskov’s book will be published posthumously. It means absolutely no blowback. We can authenticate that Krutskov wrote this book—and we can plant anything we want into its content in it. Krutskov won’t be around to deny it. We can even have him finger his murderer—something like, If I’m murdered, Ligichansky did it.”

“You’d write that?”

“You kidding? I’ve already written most of it. It would take a just a few more strokes.” I suddenly think of Darconti. “How’s Kate?”

“Working hard.”

“I need to see her.”

“Why?”

“We can have Krutskov tell the whole Podex story in his memoir. To do that, I need Darconti to tell me the whole story. About Podex.”

“But Podex has been stood down.”

“Look, Skeeter, we both know it’s in the best interest of this country’s national security for Podex to be exposed. What better way than to have Krutskov do it. We could never have hoped for a better way to leak this. The White House has political constraints. They shouldn’t be burdened with this. I’ll do it as a book publisher.”

“You’re suggesting a rogue operation?”

“In the national interest. Because Bozo the Clown in the White House is going to let things slide until the Russian mafia sets up shop over here and makes the Cosa Nostra look like a dance step—and a new dictator takes over while they’re asleep at the wheel.”

⁂

“How’s it going, Scheimer?”

“It’s going.” Scheimer’s publishing hovel had grown more clutter.

“I mean my book.”

“I know what you mean.” Scheimer scratches his scalp. “It’s with the typesetter.”

“I hope it’s not too late to add new material.”

“It’ll take longer, cost extra, But I suppose it’s do-able. You’re already back from seeing Krutskov again?”

It amazes Scheimer that real life is faster than his slow-motion.

“Yeah.” I pause. “But he just died.”

Scheimer looks up at me, alarmed. “What’ll we do now?”

I shrug. “Publish his book.”

“But we don’t have Krutskov to promote it, do interviews.”

“It’ll be more poetic like this,” I venture. “Krutskov’s dying words.”

“I don’t care about poetic! I care about publicity!”

The phone rings. Scheimer picks up. “When?” he speaks into the receiver. “How? Yeah, he’s here.” Scheimer palms the mouthpiece and waves it at me. “Vladimir from Chicago. You’re right. Krutskov’ dead.”

I grab the phone.

“Krutskov die,” says Vladimir in Chicago

“Oh, no.” I feign sadness. “When?”

“Yesterday night. They bury tomorrow. We must stop book.”

“Why?”

“I just tell you. Krutskov die.”

“So what? His book is still alive.”

“No alive. I have instructions from Moscow. They say stop.”

“My contract isn’t with Moscow,” I say. “It’s with Krutskov. So there’s no problem, Vladimir. We can publish.”

Vladimir is silent.

“Vladimir?”

“If you publish,” says Vlad, “I am dead man.”

“Why?”

“Russian mafia. They make me dead if you publish. Maybe they make you dead, also,” he adds, not as threat but an afterthought. “They call me soon. What I say them?”

“Tell them you cannot stop this book.”

“No matter. They make me dead anyway.”

“Call the FBI. They’ll protect you.”

Scheimer, riveted by what he overhears is blinking fast, agitated.

“Gotta go, Vlad. Bye.” I put the phone down.

Scheimer’s eyes are bugging. “What was that about?”

“Oh, nothing much. The Russian mafia doesn’t want Krutskov’s book published. And Vladimir’s afraid they’re going to kill him if it is.”

“What? What about me?”

I shrug. “You’ll probably be okay.” I glance at the door. “But if I was sitting here all day, I’d probably keep the door closed, maybe invest in an extra lock or two.”

“That’s just great,” says Scheimer.

“There’s always a trade-off, Scheimer—a yin-yang thing.”

“Yin-yang?”

“Exactly. This book is going to pay off your creditors, put you on the map.” I pause. “Of course, once you’re on the map, you’re a bigger target.”

Scheimer looks over his shoulder.

“Just kidding, Scheimer. The Russian mafia isn’t set up for hits in this country. Not yet. If we do this book right, it’ll set them back a few years. That’s what they’re unhappy about. But I sure wish we could have this book published within 60 days.”

“Why 60 days?”

“An old CIA dictum: It takes 60 days to plan a hit.”

I connect to Director Pikestaff’s office and interrupt a meeting.

“What do you want now?” he asks.

“I saw Krutskov again. He told me that Russia’s sitting foreign minister is in our camp”

“He said WHAT?”

“Don’t have a cow, Pikestaff." I consider his reaction. “Are you saying this might be true?”

“Don’t say another word. Meet me at my club. Six p.m.”

⁂

Six p.m. is Pikestaff’s time at the club. He has a time for waking up, a time for eating lunch, a time for... yes, Pikestaff has a time for everything.

I stroll into the Men’s Bar at a quarter-past.

Pikestaff is sipping Sarasota water and impatiently tapping his finger.

I order a Beefeater martini, three olives.

“Why did Krutskov tell you,” he half whispers, half hisses, the Russian foreign minister is in our camp, as you put it?”

“I’m his editor. He wants it in his book.”

“He can’t put that in his book!” Pikestaff shout-whispers.

“Why not?”

“B-B-Because,” Pikestaff splutters, “there would be terrible repercussions.”

“Are you saying it’s… true?”

Pikestaff averts my gaze. “It doesn’t matter if it’s true. If Krutskov writes it, people will think it’s true, and it will cause a lot of trouble.”

“So what? If it’s not true, it’ll cause the Russians trouble, not us. Right?”

“Wrong. This Administration’s policy is to support the Russian government.”

“But it’s a misguided policy, Pikestaff. The Russian government is full of crooks.”

“You’re his editor,” Pikestaff hisses, again. “If I understand this situation correctly, you can edit it out.”

“That wouldn’t be honest,” I say, deadpan.

Pikestaff harrumphs. “We can’t have Krutskov writing that the Russian foreign minister is spying for us. It’s out of the question!”

“So, it’s true. We have their foreign minister in our pocket—right, Pikestaff?”

“Okay. And now that you know, forget it.”

“Can I tell Darconti?”

“No! Only three people know this: the president, the vice president, and me.”

“Five, Pikestaff.”

“Five?”

“Krutskov and me. Maybe others.”

“Others?!”

“Whoever’s bugging Krutskov’s dacha. After the old buzzard filled me in, they started bugging the hell out of me, too. I had to leave in a hurry for Finland. You’re paying for the clothes I left behind.”

“You’re lucky to be alive.”

It isn’t like Pikestaff to be melodramatic; a triple-harrumph would have sufficed.

“Clue me in, Pikestaff. What have you heard?”

“Krutskov granted a rare interview. To a French journalist. We think Krutskov told him the same story you heard. The journalist never made it back to France. They found him in the bathtub of his Moscow hotel room with both wrists slashed, throat cut. Ruled a suicide.” Pikestaff pauses. “The foreign minister made certain before he left the KGB that his key protégées were in full control. They know the truth. The foreign minister has promised to implicate them if he is ever exposed. We helped fabricate ‘evidence’ against the protégées to convince them they’d lose their heads if the foreign minister lost his.”

“I’m impressed, Pikestaff. You guys are actually doing something. And here I was believing the agency was consumed by sexual-harassment workshops.”

Pikestaff harrumphs yet again, drains his Sarasota water, and thumps his glass on the bar.

“Let’s recap, Pikestaff. Krutskov’s capitalist business enterprise is the old Soviet Union reincarnated. Their foreign minister is our spy. Senior KGB officers are bugging Krutskov and covering for the foreign minister... I’m a little confused. Who’s in charge over there?“

“That’s the problem.” Pikestaff buttons his coat and adjusts his pocket square. “No one. Keep Skeeter informed. Except for...”

“I know, I know.”

⁂

Skeeter finds me, telephonically, before I can find him. “We’ve just had some interesting news,” he says.

“Involving me?”

“You might say that. It involves the man you’ve been meeting out east.”

“What about him?”

“He’s dead.”

The word dead rolls around my brain, rendering its connection to my mouth useless. “You’re talking about Mister K?”

“We should probably meet.”

With germs multiplying at the back of my throat, I concoct a Robitussin-Dimetapp-NyQuil cocktail, chase it with brandy, and sleep most of the flight to Moscow.

An occasional bout of turbulence prompts a hypnogogic dream. And though I look for her, Kate Darconti does not manifest.

Moscow, I discover upon landing, is trying in vain to spring from a long winter. It is cold and ugly and miserable. The only celebration going on is the germs in my throat—an orgy of reproduction.

The Baltschug-Kempinski, in contrast to city streets, is elegant and cozy, with German efficiency.

I’m not in the mood for Moscow, not in the mood for Krutskov. I fantasize trading them for Sunset Key and Kate Darconti as I sip hot Russian tea with lemon to sooth my inflamed throat. Then I sleep.

⁂

Alexei appears next morning to take me to Krutskov’s Swiss chalet where the old goat is sitting by his hearth, just like when we first met.

“Congratulations.” I thrust my right hand at him. “We have a book.”

Krutskov smiles. Even with the best dental care his elite enjoyed, Krutskov’s gums have shriveled, exposing root. “You have book?”

I sit down next to him and pluck a manuscript from my brief bag, hand it to Krutskov. “There are still a few holes to fill,” I say. “And then it’ll be ready for publication.”

“Holes?” Krutskov frowns.

“The current situation. Your closing chapter must assess the current situation in Russia.”

Krutskov leans back in his chair. “You have questions?”

“I do.” I pull the tape recorder from my brief bag and set it between us. “Do you have tea?”

Krutskov summons a babushka with a brass bell.

“First,” I start. “The Russian prime minister has made himself the richest man in Russia through corrupt gas deals.” I assume Krutskov’s den is bugged and the prime minister will see a transcript of my words. “Why do you think the U.S. government supports this regime?”

Krutskov shrugs. “Is natural.”

“Natural?”

“The United States supports capitalism. Capitalism is corrupt. Is natural. But there is better reason. You must switch off.” Krutskov gestures at my recording device.

I switch off.

“The foreign minister,” he whispers. “A CIA spy.”

“C’mon.” I assume Krutskov is just being Krutskov. He really did believe Philby was a triple agent.

“I know this.” Krutskov firms his weak jaw.

“How?”

“When he gets new job, he demands files. This is wrong, two weeks in job. But he does. Soon, he takes visit to Washington. During visit he gives Aldrich Ames to CIA.”

This is better than the stuff I’d been fabricating.

“Why?” I ask.

“He thinks Soviet Union collapses. He thinks top guys get killed, like in Romania. Ceausescu. So he gives Ames. If things go bad, he runs to USA.”

“But if you know this, how can he continue to be Russia’s foreign minister?”

“Some know, some don’t believe. I believe. Maybe I put in book.” Krutskov looks at me. “It helps book?” He truly has no idea about what makes Western media tick.

“Of course, it helps book!”

“Then we do. It answers question. USA supports current regime because it has spy near top.”

I switch the recorder back on.

“New subject,” I said. “Have you ever heard of Podex?”

Krutskov averts his eyes from mine. “I hear.”

I give Krutskov space to add to this answer but he says nothing more.

“What is Podex?” I press.

“Bizness,” he said.

“What kind of business?”

“Import-export.”

“I’ve heard a lot of former KGB people work for Podex. Did you know that?”

“Where you hear?” snaps Krutskov.

“It came up in my research. I was hoping...”

Krutskov waves me silent. “We do my book now. This not my book.”

⁂

Not two minutes in my hotel room, the phone buzzes. I pick up.

Silence.

This does not bode well. If, indeed, Krutskov’s den was bugged, the foreign minister would learn that a book will expose him as a CIA spy. And whether Krutskov’s story is true or not, the foreign minister would not be pleased. Accusations alone in the espionage biz destroy careers.

The phone buzzes again 15 minutes later. I pick up. Another burst of silence. That would be their strategy: part intimidation, part wanting to know I’m in my room.

Time for a counter-strategy. I pick up the phone and order room service. “Send someone who speaks English,” I add. “I have a few questions about my room.”

Twenty minutes later, a steward wheels a trolley inside.

“You speak English?”

“Little.”

“I need a favor. Understand?” I wave a twenty-dollar bill to inprove his understanding skills. “I must go out. You stay in room, wait for me. Okay?”

“Okay,” he echoes.

“Phone will ring. Pick up phone.” I pick it up, hold it to my ear. “Listen. Say nothing.” I demonstrate silence. “Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Sit down, drink tea.”

The phone buzzes. I pick up, listen to silence, replace the receiver. “See? You do same.”

I descend to the lobby and slip out, traverse Red Square, enter GUM department store—more like a bazaar—and zigzag around its many stalls, up two floors, down one, around and out, to a taxi stand near Hotel Metropole.

“Train station,” I command.

Inside the bustling station, I find a snack bar and park myself behind a newspaper, watching for watchers. Satisfied there are none, I purchase a sleeper cabin, cash money, on an inter-city express.

Thirty minutes later, night falling, I’m training through Moscow’s grey suburbs, waiting for the blur of passing scenery to lull me into a Darconti dream.

Emil Rubitski had moved to a corner office in the Center for International Studies on K Street since I’d last seen him.

I pop my head into his space. “Hey, Doc—lunch is on me today.”

The soft-spoken Rubitski won’t hear of it. He dined only at the International Club, surrounded by other Senior Fellows, two floors down. And since club rules dictate that he must sign for grub and guzzles, lunch is perennially on him.

A steward takes our order and wastes no time serving libations. The Center is, collectively, a thirsty institution.

Rubitski does not seem completely present; part of his legendary genius. A section of his brain is somewhere else, configuring something strategic. People say the reason he never goes anywhere is because he can imagine being anyplace he wants and it is as satisfying for him as the real thing.

“Emil,” I said. “Today’s topic is Podex.”

Rubitski flinches as the errant part of his brain returns to the first and second dimensions.

“Where did you hear about Podex?” he asks in his controlled monotone.

“C’mon, Emil—you think you’re the only one who knows secrets?”

“Podex is dangerous,” says Rubitski. “They kill people.”

“That’s what I keep hearing,” I say. “They have good PR.”

“Good PR?”

“Absolutely. They’re doing a helluva job spreading the word that people should stay out of their face. Problem is—for them anyway—it has the opposite effect on me.”

Rubitski offers his blankest face.

“So, you might as well tell me about Podex, Emil.”

“Podex,” he whispers, “is the old Soviet Union disguised as a multinational corporation. It is an intelligence operation and a crime syndicate rolled into one.”

“Why is the White House turning a blind eye?”

“It’s very simple.” Everything is very simple to Rubitski. “The president’s public stance is that the world has been rendered safe under his leadership. Evidence to the contrary would suggest that he isn’t doing his job. Ultimately, it is easier to suppress the evidence than do the job.”

“Got it. Business as usual. But there’s an Israeli connection, right?”

“Is there?”

“You know there is, Emil. You know everything.”

Rubitski gulps his Dewar’s and soda, then turns around to see who might be sitting behind him. “The Israelis have assured the president they will handle Podex.”

“In other words, butt out.”

Rubitski shrugs. “The president counts on the Jewish vote.”

“Supposing I want some background on Ligichansky? Who would I talk to?”

Rubitski plucks a pen from his pocket and scribbles on a notepad.

⁂

“This is pretty good stuff,” says Scheimer.

He and I are stooled in PJ’s, guzzling Budweiser beer and watching naked women perform chin-ups and splits. He’d just finished reading Krutskov’s manuscript. “How did you get Krutskov to say these things?” he asks, his eyes popping with incredulity.

“You think I made it up, Scheimer?”

“No. I just find it amazing that the former chairman of the KGB is confirming that Felix Bloch did spy for the Soviets. And that Bloch has five million dollars stashed in a numbered account in Switzerland.”

Scheimer is buoyant, throwing cash money at the waitress, plus a tip—very un-Scheimer.

“Times have changed, Scheimer.”

“But that passage about Philby being a triple agent, duping the KGB with disinformation for 20 years while really working for James Angleton. That’s one helluva revelation.”

I swig my beer.

“And that last chapter on Podex… we could get serialized in Esquire or Vanity Fair.”

“There’s more on Podex to come,” I say. “I’m going back to Moscow for another round with Krutskov.”

⁂

I key a local number.

“Embassy of Latvia.”

“Ambassador Pubinis,” I said.

“This is Ambassador Pubinis.”

I like embassies where the ambassador answers the phone.

“Mr. Ambassador, Emil Rubitski suggested I meet with you to discuss an important matter.”

“What is about?”

“Better we don’t talk over the phone. May I buy you lunch?”

⁂

I’m already sitting at the bar in Busara—a restaurant in Glover Park boasting Siamese cuisine—when my Latvian walks in. I wave. The ambassador hands his coat to a hatcheck attendant before offering me a big beefy hand.

We settle into a booth, order a pair of Pad Thais with hot sake.

“You want to talk something?” Pubinis asks.

“I want to talk Podex. And Vladimir Ligichansky.”

The ambassador nods. His lips tighten as he scans the restaurant for spies. “You have question?”

“I have many. But they add up to this: What do you know about Podex?”

The ambassador studies me. “For what you ask?”

“I plan to expose their activities. My guess is that it is in the best interest of your country that Podex be flushed out of the sewer into the light where everyone can see what a crock of smelly shit they are.”

Pubinis nods, circumspect. “I can tell you few things. But—how to say?—I do this as person, not ambassador. I cannot be publicly associated.”

“I understand. We call it deep background.”

“Our concern with Ligichansky is political and economic,” says Pubinis. “We have big bank collapse last year. We think it comes from Moscow, from Ligichansky. It is still not clear. We send investigator to Moscow to ask questions. He disappears. They find him floating in river. Now political. Ligichansky starts political party in Latvia. Big money. They use much advertising on TV and they win 12 seats in Parliament. Now they buy newspapers to halt negative reports. Is big problem.”

“Have you ever met Ligichansky?”

“I do. At university.”

“You went to college with him?”

“No. Ligichansky, dean at Latvia State University. I am head of youth Komsomol. We make small team for meetings. It happens 15 years ago.”

“What’s he like?”

“He speak soft.” Pubinis’s voice is barely audible. “He speak like this. It is job to hear him. But Ligichansky makes big things happen at university.”

“What big things?”

“Ligichansky says at meeting he can get large building in center of Riga. It’s crazy. Nobody gets building in middle of city. Impossible. But Ligichansky says, ‘Not impossible. I get Soviet Army building for university. You want?’ Of course we want. He gets. Incredible.”

“What else?”

“He gets apartments. In communist times, hardest thing to get is apartment. You must wait ten years on list. At meeting Ligichansky says, ‘I get part of new building for university.’ It means 40, 50 apartments. Fifty apartments? Is incredible! But Ligichansky gets.”

“How?”

“This is part of Ligichansky’s mystery. Part psychological. Everyone knows that Ligichansky can do these things. It makes circle. Also, friends-connections. He has good contacts with Central Committee. Everyone knows this.”

“But Ligichansky got arrested, right?”

“Ligichansky arrested, yes. He makes a business selling old cars from university to embassies in Moscow. Everyone knows he will be arrested. But he is surprised.”

“With all his friends-connections, why wasn’t he able to escape arrest?”

The ambassador shrugs. “Factions. Everything not so simple. Before arrest, it is known Ligichansky gets big job at Moscow State University. This is big deal. It means Ligichansky is something very special. It means big money, special status, networks, cruises. Moscow University is state within state. But Ligichansky gets arrested. No Moscow job. Jail. He says nothing. This is important to system of friends-connections. Ligichansky keeps mouth shut. I don’t see him again. Yes, once, in airport. I see him, he sees me. We say nothing. We know system.”

“His level KGB informant?”

Ambassador Pubinis says nothing. But his poker face says it all.

Come morn, Darconti is sitting in the open air at Latitudes, sipping coffee.

“Let’s rent some mopeds.” I sit beside her. “We’ll explore Key West.”

And each other.

“Aren’t you supposed to be writing a book?”

“Writer’s block,” I say. “It finally struck.”

“How?”

“The odor of roast people basting in aloe. I need to clear my head.”

“You’ll have to clear it without me. I’m flying out this afternoon.”

“You came all this way for one night?”

“Yes.”

“But I wanted to take you to Blue Heaven.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a restaurant. World-class food in a backyard with roosters running around.” I pause. “Don’t you want to hear the other things Krutskov told me?”

“I’m not sure I want to know.”

“Yup. Sounds like the upper echelon at Langley,” I say. “They join wanting to know secrets. And end up wanting to evade them.”

⁂

I enter Scheimer’s hovel in DC and wave a disk at him. “It’s done.”

“Where’ve you been?” Scheimer gives me one of his full-faced looks of bewilderment, surrounded by the usual mess of manuscripts and paper coffee cups.

“I unplugged myself onto a tropical island.”

Scheimer shakes his head. “Well, you’d better plug yourself back in. Krutskov has been looking for you.”

“What did you say?”

“I told them that as our roving editor you were out roving.“

I check my wristwatch. Early evening in Moscow. I pick up Scheimer’s phone.

“You’re not calling Russia on my phone,” says Scheimer.

“Don’t worry—it’s on my nickel.”

“That’s not the problem. My long distance service was cut off. I’m three months behind and it was the only way they’d let me keep a line. Local calls only.”

I put the phone down. “You really are a mess, Scheimer. Fortunately, you may soon have a best-seller on your hands. How fast can we publish?”

Scheimer spins his brain into gear. “Two to three months. But we have to pay the typesetter up front.” Scheimer reaches over his shoulder to scratch an itch. “And settle a past bill.”

⁂

I touch-key Moscow and demand to speak with Krutskov. A tinny hollowness follows. I’d either made my point or someone made theirs.

“Sandak?” Krutskov’s grumble finally fills the vacuum.

“Anatoli!” I say, waiving formality. “I hear you’re looking for me.”

“Where you be?”

“I be here,” I say. “Washington. I be somewhere else when you called. Some place quiet, rewriting your book.”

“My book,” echoes Krutskov. “You publish soon?”

“I do. Three months. Okay?”

“It’s good. You come to Moscow?”

My next call is Skeeter Leland. “I’m headed back to Moscow,” I tell him. “Any reason we need to meet?”

“No,” says Skeeter. “But Director Pikestaff wants to see you, pronto.”

⁂

The oak-paneled men’s bar at the Chevy Chase Club is empty at six p.m. Until Pikestaff arrives with his entourage of security.

“How can you live like this?” I asked, eyeing the goons.

Pikestaff shrugs. He relishes chase cars; has aspired to this kind of existence his whole career. “You saw Krutskov.”

“You’re very well informed,” I say. “Have you considered a career in intelligence?”

Pikestaff half-smiles. “How is the old bastard?”

“Crusty.”

“And his book? You’re ghosting it?”

“I’m giving the term ghost-writer a whole new meaning, Pikestaff. I’m spooking it.”

“When will I see a copy?”

“Soon. I thought you wanted Skeeter to handle this?”

“What worries me is that you are handling Skeeter. And Kate Darconti.”

“I’d like to handle Darconti,” I say. “It’s my number one priority.”

Pikestaff harrumphs. “What’s your interest in Podex?”

“Me?” I thumb myself, a picture of total innocence. “I have no interest in Podex.” I pause. “Except, of course, in the context of Krutskov’s book.”

Pikestaff harrumphs a second time. “Why would Krutskov put Podex in a memoir?”

“His partner Ligichansky screwed him and...”

“I know that’s the story you’re peddling But Krutskov benefits greatly from Podex.”

“Then maybe the old goat is going senile. Whatever it is, Krutskov blew the lid off Podex in his book.”

Pikestaff grimaces, possibly indigestion, but more likely, me. “The White House doesn’t want the lid blown off Podex.”

“No? Why not?”

“That doesn’t concern our agency.”

“Well, what the White House doesn’t want doesn’t concern me. Krutskov can write whatever he wants to write about. We have a free country, freedom of speech. Even for unrepentant commie-bastard Russians.”

“You’re confusing the issue,” says Pikestaff. “Our agency is paying for this book.”

“But that’s supposed to be secret.”

“Not from the White House.”

“You told them?”

“No.”

“Then what are you so worried about?”

Pikestaff stifles a belch.

“There won’t be a book,” I add, “if we start censoring Krutskov.”

“Maybe that’s the solution.” Pikestaff shrugs. “No book.”

“Clue me in here, Pikestaff. Have we penetrated Podex? Is that why you don’t want that pot stirred?”

Pikestaff shakes his head no.

“That’s really pathetic,” I say.

“You presume to know more than the White House?”

“Not more, Pikestaff. Better.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Easy,” I say. “It’s always the same with whoever’s butt is planted in the Oval Office. Those bozos only want POI.”

Pikestaff, of course, is familiar with the acronym for policy-oriented intelligence. They only want to hear what they already believe is true.

“With Johnson it was Vietnam,” I continue. “With Bush—hell, he didn’t want to hear the Soviet Union was on the verge of collapse, so the analysts who knew the truth got kicked in the ass, Bush was surprised when it happens—and everybody blames the agency for not foreseeing it. Our best guys got totally ignored, some of them reprimanded for refusing to report unbiased, objective intelligence, screw POI.”

“Okay, you’ve made your point.”

“No, I’m not sure I have. The point, Pikestaff, is this: we can’t run Krutskov’s book as White House POI. He writes what he writes, let the cow-chips fall where they may.”

Pikestaff rolls his eyes. “Just make sure a copy of Krutskov’s manuscript crosses my desk before it reaches a printer.”