CLOAK & CORKSCREW: 32) TURNING TABLES

My Saturday Evening Post: A Novel of Intrigue & Lunacy

63.

The Round Robin Bar inside The Willard Hotel was packed with lobbyists and government employees when Josh Penner strolled in at two minutes to five.  He took the only available table.       

 Jack Woodward entered, locked eyes with the movie star and seated himself.   “What’s the glitch?” he said abruptly.

“Ever since I got back from Caracas, I’ve been working with a cultural attache from Venezuela’s embassy,” said Penner.

“So?”

“I told him about the trip I need to take with you.”

Woodward glared at the movie star, whose presence had created a stir in the bar.  “Why the hell did you do that?” he hissed.

Penner shrugged.  “Had to.  Jose Hernandez is the guy I go through to arrange meetings with Chavez.”

Woodward paled.  “Did you say Hernandez?”

“Yes.  Jose Hernandez.”

Woodward’s heart thumped

“You know him?” asked Penner.

Woodward shook his head, retreating into his mind as he processed this bombshell.  “Did you tell him why I want to see Chavez?”

Penner shrugged.  “You mean a back-channel?  Yeah. That’s the glitch we need to resolve.”

“Why is it a glitch?”

“He said Hugo is expecting me to produce more Hollywood celebrities, not someone from the U.S. government.  He said he doesn’t want to risk his career allowing it to happen unless he knows more details.”

“I don’t believe this,” Woodward muttered.

“Which part?” said Penner, who prided himself on believability as an A-list actor.

“I’m not happy about this.”

A solitary figure standing at the bar nearby snagged Penner’s attention.  “Not him again,” muttered Penner.

“What?  Who?”

Penner jumped from his seat and bolted to confront Jeremy Katz.  “I’m sick and tired of you showing up everywhere I go!  Who do you work for!?”

Without a word, Katz laid a twenty-dollar bill on the bar and eased himself out. 

“Yeah, that’s right!” Penner hollered after him.  “Vamoose.”  When he turned around, Woodward was gone too.

64.

AgterIgor Batamirov finished his coffee, Igor Kuntevich waved him goodbye, forever, and bought a ticket to Warsaw.

Something did not sit right with Lot Polish Airways’ ticket clerk. She had been instructed to pay special attention to any passenger that a) wanted a one-way ticket, b) paid in cash, and c) had no check-in luggage.

This Russian was not only a, b and c, he didn’t even have a cabin bag.

After Kunty cleared security and Immigration, he was intercepted by two uniformed security guards.

“Would you mind coming with us?” said one in French.

“What is this about?” growled Kuntevich.

“Please, this way,” the other security guard said in English, gently gripping Kunty’s elbow.

“Don’t touch me,” the Russian snarled, ripping it away.

The first guard spoke into his two-way radio and within seconds two additional guards appeared.

The panic in Kunty’s eyes did not help his situation, as he mind raced to configure the odds of an escape.  And then he remembered the Polonium pen inside his pocket.  He felt for it.  Why didn’t I dump it?

Now he knew he needed to remain calm, talk his way out of this, anything and everything to protect his mission.  And himself.

“Yes, okay,” he said.  “But I don’t want to miss my flight.”

“We just want to ask you a few questions,” said the second guard.   

Kuntevich breathed deeply.  “You cannot ask here?”

“It is better in private.  We go?”

Kuntevich sat in a small holding room with no windows, and no one to talk to, as the second hand on the large round wall clock ticked and ticked, until it became very clear he would most certainly miss his flight. 

The Russian got up once to knock and the door and holler about boarding, but if anyone heard, they ignored him.

Worse, from Kunty’s perspective, there was nowhere to conceal his special pen.  And, in any case, he had to assume he was under observation, even if the cameras were not obvious.

Finally, two men entered the small brightly lit room.  Neither were the same as before, both dressed in plainclothes. 

Kuntevich took the upper hand, rising from his seat.  “You made me miss my plane.”

“Please sit down,” said Armand Chantelot, one of the Frenchmen.  “We have a few questions.”

“If you detain me one minute more I will lodge a complaint,” said Kuntevich.

“That is your right,” replied Chantelot.  He plucked a passport from his inside jacket pocket and placed it on the table.  “This is your passport?”

Kuntevich looked down at the blue and gold-embossed passport.  “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I see a Ukrainian passport cover, but I don’t know what it shows inside.”

‘‘Ah.”  Chantelot opened the passport to the identity page and passed it to the Russian.“Is this you?”

Kuntevich inspected the travel document, which had been taken from him earlier.  “Yes.  May I have it back?”

“Of course.”  Chantelot drilled his eyes into Kunty’s.  “But it won’t get you anywhere.”

The Russian chuckled sourly.  “You are arresting me?”

“Not yet,” replied Chantelot.  “The reason this passport will not get you anywhere is because it is a forgery.”  He paused.  “Borysko, if that is your real name, what is your business in France?”

“I am tourist.  I always wanted to see Eiffel Tower.”

“Did you see it?”

“Yes.”

“I’m so glad.  Did you meet anyone while you were here?”

Kuntevich shook his head.

“Please answer.”

“No.”

“I see.”  Chantelot turned to his associate and beckoned him to pass an envelope.  From it, he removed an eight-by-ten black and white photograph, which he slid in front of the Russian.

Kuntevich looked down and studied his likeness exiting the Russian Embassy on Boulevard Lannes with Vladimir Batamirov.

“Do you know this man?”  Again, Chantelot locked his eyes into Kunty’s large, alarmed pupils.

The Russian remained silent.

“I can place you under arrest for attempting to travel on a forged passport,” said Chantelot.  “And under Napoleonic law I can hold you for two weeks while I investigate other crimes you may have committed.  But I give you the opportunity to talk to me.”

“I should have a lawyer,” said Kuntevich.

“If you tell me what I need to hear, you will not want a lawyer who would report to your superiors.  Do I make myself clear?”

Kuntevich bristled.  He’s asking me to become a traitor to The Motherland.  He folded his arms and glared at the Frenchman, clearly not from airport security, but from DPSD, the French domestic security service.  “I have diplomatic immunity.  I demand that the Russian Embassy be informed that you are detaining me.”

Chantelot tapped the passport on the table.  “This is not a diplomatic passport.  Do you have another you would care to present?”

“No.  But it does not matter.  I have diplomatic immunity.”

“I heard you say that already.  We will check this.  But first we need your real name.” 

“Igor Kuntevich.”

Chantelot rose, glanced around.  “Bon soir, monsieur Kuntevich.  See you in the morning.”

“You leave me here all night?”

Chantelot stopped at the door and turned around.  “Now that you provide a new name, we must make checks.  Do you prefer a cell with common criminals downtown?”