Heaven, INC: Chapter 72: FAISAL

Big big ol' jet airliner
Don't carry me too far away.
Oh, oh, big ol' jet airliner
Cause it's here that I've got to stay.
— Jet Airliner,

STEVE MILLER BAND

CRUISING AT 30,000 FEET,
SOMEWHERE OVER NEW MEXICO
6:15 PM CDT

MICK SIPPED A GIN-AND-TONIC as the guy settled in the seat across from him, guy with an accent Mick placed as educated Middle-Easterner and who carried himself like he was some kind of a big deal. He’d introduced himself as Faisal when Mick got on the private jet, offered a drink and then disappeared into the rear cabin prior to take-off. Only now, an hour deep into the flight, had he reappeared, pouring himself water and getting Mick another drink.

Now, as Faisal sat sipping water from a fancy wine-glass, Mick noticed he wore the same black-stone-set-with-strange-cross deal as Gilchrist. Some kind of fraternity brothers or something, Oxford or Cambridge maybe, kind of place where silver spoon pussies with accents hung out playing lacrosse and crewing. A distinctly un-San Diego State kind of place.

Fuck em.

Faisal studied Mick— Mick would put the guy late-20s, early-30s—with this intense look, for a young guy at least, before asking a lame question.

“Ever been to Dallas?”

“No. Why? Am I missing something?”

“Not really, no. It is an ugly city. The great architect, Frank Lloyd Wright, was once approached by an oil company about designing their new corporate headquarters in Dallas. Mr. Wright initially declined by suggesting this would be akin to building the Taj Majal in a cow pasture.”

This Arab douche talking about Dallas that way stirred up something patriotic in Mick’s breast, which was ironic, given the fact he hated the city on account of the Cowboys and Mavericks and, in general, all things Texas, starting with that asshole in the White House, Tom Collins. “Yeah, like the goat-herders in Islamistanibad are so much more sophisticated than our cowboys. Yeah, Big D’s got big ugly buildings, but at least they aren’t living in fucking tents. Plus,” Mick added, “Big D’s got cheerleaders.”

Faisal shrugged, probably annoyed to be making small talk with the ‘little people’ . . .

Hey, pal, you brought it up.

. . . as Mick sipped his gin-and-tonic and said, “Look, this guy I’m hitting, you wanna tell me who he is? His name for starters?”

“As Sir Reginald told you, it is in your own best interests to know as little as possible.”

That caught Mick a little, not the information but the name. “Who?”

“Sir Reginald Gilchrist, the man with whom you met.”

“That douchebag’s a knight? You have got to be kidding me.”

“On the contrary, Sir Reginald is distinguished by a legacy of daring exploits and I can assure, he is not a man with whom you wish to trifle.”

Like Mick was supposed to fear the old fart with the little girl’s gun.

Sir Reggie . . . The big deal . . . Whatever.

Mick skipped it, figuring he’d deal with Reggie if and when it happened and hoping it would. In the meantime, he asked, “So what’s this poor SOB done to earn the hook?”

Faisal tilted his head. “Suffice it to say the occupant’s interests do not coincide with that of the people whom I represent and negotiations have reached an insurmountable impasse.”

Like that clarified it. Mick was sorry he’d asked.

You’re a snotty little fella, aren’tcha? Guess that silver spoon’s a little tight up your ass.

Faisal sipped water and said, “Your target lives alone, so there is no need to worry about complications with other family members.” He handed over a piece of paper with three sequences of numbers, a combination and a phone-number. Upon the paper were taped two keys, one smaller than the other. “The first code will allow you onto the property and the second into the house. But, prior to entering the house, you must call that phone number. When the person answers ‘Red Shield Security’, you respond, ‘Sorry, I was trying to reach Mr. Merriweather, I must have the wrong number,’ and hang up. Wait one minute, until our contact temporarily disarms the security system, before you enter the house by the side-door into the servants’ quarters using the larger key. You will then finish disabling the security system using the second pass-code. When that is done, type that string of numbers into the security unit— this will overwrite the system’s archiving function and make it appear as though the system was never set.”

“What about guards?”

“We have ensured that they will not be at their stations.”

“Unh-hunh. What about dogs?”

“No, the gentleman hates animals. Now this,” Faisal said, handing Mick a folder, “contains a layout of the home. It’s a rather large residence so you’ll want to memorize the lay-out— bumbling around in the dark will only serve to get you into trouble. You’ll also find a map from Love Field to the residence and, upon our arrival, you’ll be given a car. It won’t be much of a car but it will also not be traceable should someone see it.”

Mick studied the map of Dallas. The house was located in an area called Highland Park. “How long from the airport to the house?”

“Less than fifteen minutes. We will be on the ground before eight, putting you on the property just after dark. You will neutralize him using the weapon we provide. I understand Mr. Gilchrist has informed you what he wishes done following neutralization?”

What a word for killing . . . Neutralization . . . Fucking amateurs.

“You want it staged to look like a break-in.”

“Yes. In the trunk of the car you will find two pillowcases, one black, one white, along with the unregistered pistol, a pair of latex gloves and a set of lock-picks.”

“Why do I need picks when I’ve got keys?”

Faisal smiled. “You will use the picks to scratch the side-door lock as well as the lock on the display case from which you will remove the man’s extremely rare collection of handguns— the guns are something that a repairman could notice and report to someone else and provide a plausible reason for the break-in. Put the guns in the black pillow-case. Into the white one, place the contents of the safe lin the back of a Sub-Zero freezer located in the wine-cellar using the combination we’ve provided to gain entry. Return the freezer to the way it was and complete the staged break-in. When you return to the car, put the latex gloves, pistol and lock-picks in the black pillow-case and both pillow-cases in the trunk. You will meet a man driving a black Mercedes in the parking lot of a bar called The Loon, where you will hand over the bags for verification. When that is complete, return to Love Field for your flight home. Any questions?”

“When do I get the tape?”

“When we are in the air on the return home. And the money as well. Good, yes?”

“How about you show me that tape again, make sure you have it.”

“You’re a most cautious man, Mr. Smithidopolous.”

“Whatever, dude. I don’t trust you for shit.”

A smile played across Faisal’s face—

Oh, you’re a sneaky little prick, aren’tcha? Well so am I, bub.

— before he went into the rear-cabin. When he returned, he had a brief-case containing the original Bivo tape, along with Tonya’s boob-job money. “Satisfied now?

Mick shrugged. “Not entirely. I can’t figure out, you guys being so slick and all, why you need me to do your dirty work. I don’t follow Lord Bletchly and Gilchrist doesn’t pull me over, none of this is available to you. It doesn’t make sense. Frankly, neither does however you got hold of Bivo’s tape.”

Faisal smiled. “Mr. Smithidopolous, surely it is because Allah wills it.”

Heaven, INC: Chapter 71: EDUCATING MONA

From infancy, we are all spies. The shame is not this
but that the secrets are so paltry and few.
—JOHN UPDIKE

126 TERRA DEL NOVA,
CLAIREMONT MESA
4:02 PM PDT

MONA HAD ALWAYS TRIED to practice empathy, because the world is a difficult place and the winds of fate bend each of us as it capriciously will . . . but this was plainly ridiculous. With time running short, it was absolutely, unequivocally dangerous. And for what? What?

A woman . . . Another woman. . . . Number . . . Oh, who cares, you over-gelled kulak? You are a gluttonous pig who cannot satisfy one trollop before he is off to the next . . . Perhaps you would not have this problem if you focused on quality over quantity . . . If you stopped consuming women and vodka like a drunken Cossack!

The thing with Mona was, you’d look at her and you’d never even see it. From the outside, Mona kept her emotions in check, the mask of the perfect chess or poker player revealing nothing they wish to hide. Even with that, her annoyance with Sergei grew . . .

Over-indulgant, under-educated, middle-aged Ukranian pig-farmer!

. . . the longer Sergei remained in the house with Mandy or Brandy, frankly, Mona no
longer gave a damn, she just wanted to leave before it was too late, the X-3's vaunted cloaking device or not. In fact, Sergei’s one intelligent move was taking the keys, because if he hadn’t, you can bet Mona woulda been gone. Boom. Straight out the door. And sure, some would say maybe not the best idea, and certainly not when an the entire alphabet soup of intelligence apparatus is hunting you— FBI, CIA, DNS, MI5, KGB, to name a few—but then you weren’t on Girl #4 and forced to listen to Sade croon about a smooth operator. . .

Which you, Sergei Andreivich Zukov, most assuredly are not.

. . . or any of the three-dozen stations broadcasting the weepy, over-analyzed rise and fall of Bobby Falcône, the newly bared a homosexual to the celebrity-obsessed American culture in a great fit of great shock.

Amazing that these people never knew what was so clearly obvious . . . Such a naive and foolish people . . . Sheep.

Essentially, at the moment, sitting in the cloaked X-3— Mona was unsure of Sergei’s latest incantation of the vehicle, though he tended towards brashly disguising it as a red Ferrari, especially since every one Sergei’s prostitutes begged him for rides and on half the occasions, chased him back to the X-3, which put the illusionary powers of the cloak to its ultimate test, human touch— at that moment, Mona was just extraordinarily angry with Russian men and the American people in general; both were disgustingly over-indulgent, something Mona truly despised, and nothing was more indulgent than unplanned and hence wasted time. For low-born lust.

Plus, Mona was mad at herself . . .

How is it possible you have in that bag . . .

The black bag at her foot, Ducroix’s bag.

. . . the most important state secret since the atomic bomb which you smuggle out under the noses of the most elaborate security net since Stalin and yet you forgot even a single tampon? Sometimes, Mona Alexhovna, you are a foolish woman . . . FOOLISH!

Of course, outside the car looking in you wouldn’t see an angry woman cursing herself, her spy partner and the American people in general, you’d see a composed, dark-haired woman with an assertive bearing and clear violet eyes that could look right through you or call you hither, whichever she pleased. Well, that is, if you could see into the car, which you could not, because it was the X-3 and cloaked and very much not a Ferrari.

At least it had solar-powered air-conditioning. And a top-notch stereo system, even if not leather interior, at least Vladivostok Station had got that part right. The rest of it, beginning with the idea of Mona Alexhovna Romanokova dancing at a topless nightclub, which she found particularly repugnant, was well, simply absurd.

Unfortunately, if you knew the modern Vladivostok Station, you’d understand.


IT STARTED A YEAR AGO, when Mona was called into the office of the university commissar, in fact, called directly from a lecture she had found most intriguing, on stem cell engineering. A second man sat in the corner, smoking British cigarettes and looking mysteriously important in half shadow, not speaking.

“When you graduate, Mona Romanokova, what do you wish to do? What is your dream?”

Mona had been hesitant, since she’d never spoken to the commissar in three years of university work, let alone this man smoking the expensive foreign cigarettes. Dreams are not something told to strangers.

“I wish to teach at university.”

“Where?”

“Moscow. Their genetic engineering department is on the cutting edge.”

“Ah yes,” the university commissar said. “And do you know the department chair?”

“Only by name.”

The commissar smiled. “Well I do. And I can guarantee a teaching position there, at the minimum, if you are successful in a task for Mr. Kolov here. Mr. Kolov works for KosmoGen. In Research and Development. You would intern for him.”

In a pinstripe suit and wreathed by smoke, Kolov did not look one bit R&D. Mona thought he might look better with guns and knives, maybe the odd garrotte. He was dapper, dangerous and relaxed. It was Oskar who would lure— sorry, recruit— Mona into the Service. Her training was a group project.


THEY TRAINED IN AN AREA sequestered away from the Lubyanka’s general population— those housed in grim, first-floor cells— and were shuttled from classroom to classroom within the confines of the prison’s baroque exterior. It was a large, squat building, and though only four stories tall, the old joke held that the Lubyanka was the tallest building in the Soviet Union for, from its basement interrogation rooms, one could see Siberia; on more than one occasion, Mona was haunted by the thought that somewhere within the Lubyanka’s walls, the KGB had tortured her father to confess his ‘crimes’, and that she might, at some point, be trained in one of the very basement rooms where her father had died.

Of course, by the time of Mona’s own indoctrination into the world of spies, the KGB and the Soviet Union itself were long gone, but she was certain, based upon their grizzled looks and cold eyes, more than a few were old hands of the KGB. Whether they were present at her father’s interrogation, Mona would never know, but the intensity of their training in the trade-craft of spying was nothing short of arduous. Course in eavesdropping, clandestine messaging, evasion, weapon skills, disguise, hand-to-hand combat and other such disciplines were standard fare, but Mona was also trained in more esoteric skills like extortion and seduction, of which the latter Mona’s instructor proclaimed her a natural.

The nature of the mission centered on that last skill, and Mona’s own background in bio-engineering. Through some manner she was never made privy to, Moscow Centre learned the revolutionary nature of Dominic Ducroix’s research and the implications of America’s ability to dole out its beneficence to compliant entities, in addition to the sheer lucre the discovery would deliver to the organization that brought the product to market.

For a number of reasons, Dominic Ducroix was generally shielded by a light but effective security bubble, one which Mona often wondered was to protect Ducroix or reign him in. Regardless, the man had an insatiably misogynistic attraction to exotic dancers; strippers in the American parlance and, to Mona’s mind, a throughly disgusting avocation centered on mutual exploitation and pathologically infantile indulgence. It was for this world, Moscow Centre trained Mona to attract the attentions of Ducroix, an eager patron of the ‘gentlemen’s club’— for men who were in no way ‘gentlemen’— Kiss-N-Tails; there, Mona was infiltrated into the club for the purpose of getting inside Ducroix’s security bubble for reasons of seduction and possible extortion. Despite Mona’s remarkable distaste for the man, she was required to treat him as the ‘light of her life’, as Oskar stated it, and to charm him with her beauty and bio-engineering knowledge, as she was simultaneously posing as a university biology student dancing to pay the bills. To the positive, the money was quite good from the dancing alone. Add in what Moscow Centre was paying, and Boris and Lydia got a healthy dose of money every month.

In fact, the entire assignment could have been, grudgingly passable, given Mona’s ability to focus on a task at hand, had she not met her target’s son in the most coincidental of circumstances and had she not, against all logic, reason and sensibility, fallen for this young American with the patient grey eyes.

Perhaps, had she been better at her trade craft or Dominic a little less obsessive, the nature of her relationship with Chris would have remained unknown to both men. Alas, fate had chosen for them a different course.

Heaven, INC: Chapter 70: THE COST OF FREEDOM

I might like you better if we slept together,
but there’s something in your eyes that says maybe.
That’s never. Never say never.
—Never Say Never,
ROMEO VOID

COUSIN FRANKIE’S TRAILER,
SLEEPYTIME MANOR PARK ESTATES,
4:01 PM PDT

IT’S A FUNNY THING how time passes when you’re tied to a bed with duct tape across your mouth and awaiting the return of someone who just might kill you if they haven’t found what they’re looking for. Not that Jimmy thought it would necessarily go that way, but it makes a guy think, and tied to the bed by rope that bit into his wrists whenever he tried breaking free, Jimmy’s mind skipped like a needle across a scratched record, digging into the groove containing a ditty about somebody covering up for Ducroix’s killing Evie . . .

Evie.

. . . and now, in and around wrenching at the rope binding his wrists and ankles, thinking if he could draw it close enough, maybe he could gnaw through it like a rat . . . Nope, nothing, not a goddamn thing . . . he was confronted by what to do now as it related to tonight and the chasing of a dream he’d shared with Evie for so many years so many lonely years ago.

The rope was nylon cording that would not give.

Through the trailer’s thin, aluminum skin, Jimmy could hear Doris’ T.V. , tuned to an old re-run of Family Feud and Richard Dawson saying, “And the survey says!” Then the ding and one family clapping. Jimmy knew the Feud wouldn’t last long, Doris being a chronic channel-changer.

Jimmy tried rocking the bed a little bit, see if he could maybe get some slack in the rope, some way to get at the knots, just a little something something . . . and got a big fat nada. The frigging bed was secured to floor somehow, hell, it might be attached to the trailer’s frame for all Jimmy knew, and it wasn’t budging an inch.

His captor, Uncle Martin, while apparently never having sampled Pizza George’s delicious fare, did have access to Pizza George’s level of intel. Notably, that there was a carpet cleaning van floating around Norcestor and Imperial last night at the same time Ducroix vanished.

Uncle Martin had tortured him some more, see if Jimmy would change his story. Best part was when he said, all seriousness, “I want you to know this hurts me more than you. I respect the arts, I really do.”

Priceless stuff.

Then bent Jimmy’s fingers back some more, asking, “Where’s Ducroix?” That and, “What about a bag? Did he have his bag?”

Apparently, at some point, Ducroix had some black bag with something Uncle Martin thought was very important. Where the bag was, Jimmy had no idea. It was only a matter of convincing Uncle Martin in a very boring conversation, if you wanted to know the truth; frankly, torturous questions about douche-bags is both tedious and time-consuming, especially with a show tonight.
Finally, after a while, Uncle Martin had left, saying he was gonna check up at the studio, see if Jimmy was lying.

Such a trusting guy.

Now, Jimmy listened to a car coming up the lane and clinched up a little until he recognized the sound of the Widow Dennison’s ‘74 Skylark.

Laying there, strapped to the bed, he had time to wonder who the guy really was. One thing Jimmy notice, whole time he’s in the trailer, he’s careful about fingerprints, even to the extent of taking the time to wipe down his prints with a paper-towel and taking it with him. Why he hadn’t worn gloves if he was so concerned, Jimmy didn’t know, but Jimmy watched the whole thing from the bed and noticed one thing: the guy hadn’t wiped the duct tape across Jimmy’s mouth.

Jimmy got to thinking again about the little tweaker who kept the van out over night, one Evil Roscoe hired two days ago, his first day on the job and he doesn’t return the van and from the first moment he’d seen him, Jimmy knew he was straight out of prison, that look in his eyes that comes from constantly trying to see out the back of your head.

Maybe he went down Norcestor to buy drugs, maybe he —

Jimmy heard the door-knob turning, thinking maybe Uncle Martin was back to give his fingers another go at the bendable Olympics, thinking this as the trailer shifted with somebody taking a step and then another . . .

It wasn’t Uncle Martin. It was Doris, wearing a silk half-robe and her lips rouged in red.

Doriz gazed fondly at Jimmy tied tightly to the bed — Jimmy tried telling her to untie him before Uncle Martin returned but the duct-tape made communication impossible — before a broad smile spread across her lonesome, craggy face.

The last thing Jimmy allowed himself to remember was Doris opening her robe to those sagging elderly breasts . . .

Behind duct-tape, no one can hear you scream.

Heaven, INC: Chapter 69: RISE OF THE ELVI

It is not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves.
-SIR EDMUND HILLARY

SUPER-SAVE-A-LOT-&-MORE-MART,
EL CAJON,
3:59 PM

WHILE THE TURD LOAFED two hundred feet above in men’s stall two, down in the laboratory, Billy Joe and the brains that comprised his neural network computer continued their joint monitoring of global communications, especially the furious bursts emanating from the National Security Agency, the FBI and the White House. But that’s not all.

Simultaneously, and more importantly, Billy and the Brains continued the worldwide colonization of every computer on the planet into a cybernetic storm of knowledge, both known and eavesdropped, a super silicone and pimento loaf computing system that enslaved nearly 99.9% percent of the computing— save the Macs with PhotoShop, V. 2.51 patch— while, not content wasting any valuable processing power, crunching some of the final numbers for the space-time work for their impending trip to Mars. To top it all off, all of this world domination occurred amid incessant squawks about clean-ups on Aisle 9 and requests for assistance in Automotive and ‘someone to the Men’s’, etcetera, etcetera, while more importantly, in the Igloo 32 in the corner, over by the cold fusion reactor, Head Clone B continued its hyper-rapid development into a full-operational head able to control events to a rearward position. Frankly, of all the things Billy was up to, more than eavesdropping on the most important conversations in the world, overt cyber world domination and turd in the Men’s, the integration of Head Clone B to Billy’s central nervous system could prove problematic. And with no time for training, he’d need to hope for a smooth thought-wave download. And it was certainly dicey, to make the head operational today, of all days, what with the Jupiter launch now just hours away, provided no one prematurely climbed up on the Super-Save-A-Lot-And-More Mart’s roof and rooted around in the air conditioning vents and discovered the Jupiter craft . , .

But we’ll get to that later. Besides, it’s perfectly understandable that there may be those reading about cloned brains and neural network computers and about functioning human heads grown from pimento-loafs and stem-cells and interplanetary space-craft who scoff at the notion that Billy Joe could be so far advanced in his research while the rest of the world was still back at Dolly The Sheep and the ethical and religious implications of cloning a living human being.

To which Billy Joe would say cloning schmoning.

Hell, way before Dolly the Sheep, Billy Joe had unraveled the mysteries of creating an identical match to a living organism. That’s so 1990's.

Of course, in Billy Joe’s case, he started small, with tropical fish, working his way up the genetic ladder from little neon tetras to tinfoil barbs and clear up to the cichlids, and it wasn’t until he’d successfully created over seven hundred Oscars from a single scale of the original, his beloved Captain Charlie, that he moved up to mammals. Just as quickly, Billy Joe progressed from hamsters to cats and on up to dogs, which had been a tremendous success, what with Billy Joe winning a string of victories at dog shows all over the country and then selling the little fellas to people who wanted a shot at big-time, dog-show celebrity, until he was finally drummed out on account of claims of illegal breeding and that he ran a dog factory. Ha. If the dog-show dufuses had ever discovered the truth about Tinker the toy poodle and his 322 identical-clone brothers, well, you can bet things would have turned out a lot differently and certainly not for the better.

Shortly thereafter, Billy Joe turned his considerable brain power— he was at the time, of course, working alone, as the brains had not yet been developed— to the awesome challenge of cloning a living human being. It was with the Elvis Experiment that Billy Joe’s cloning efforts reached, arguably, the pinnacle of development.


AS WITH ALL GREAT ENDEAVORS, the Elvis Experiment was a labor of love, the result of merging business with pleasure.

See, ever since Billy Joe was a boy, he’d been a huge Elvis fan, in fact, he had every Elvis recording ever made, even a couple cast-offs from the old Sun Studio days, along with enough Elvis memorabilia— from lunch-pails to heating-pads— to found a museum. Huge fan of the King, Billy Joe was. In fact, despite being an extraordinary recluse, for one year Billy Joe served as president of the local chapter of the Elvis-Fans-Who-Believe-In-Alien-Abduction fan club, until he had a falling out with his treasurer, who claimed Elvis was now in fact serving as Emperor of Mars; when no amount of logic could persuade the man differently, not even Billy Joe pointing out the King’s well-known aversion to dry climates, Billy Joe resigned his Presidency, which came as a great blow to his mother. It was Billy Joe’s mother, Jo Jo, who’d kindled within the young Billy Joe the profound respect and admiration for the King that to this day he carried proudly in his heart. As well, it was to his mother he owed thanks for a chance to complete the Elvis Experiment: namely, the lock of Elvis’s hair safeguarded for so many years in a silver locket she wore over her heart. Upon his mother’s death— he’d waited til then, never building up Mom’s, hopes in case he ended up cloning one of the maintenance men— Billy Joe felt it appropriate as an honor to both she and the King to embark on the making of an Elvis clone.

Or, as in this case, actually three Elvises. Or, to use the proper English form of plurality, the Elvi.


IT WASN’T NECESSARILY THAT HARD, the cloning of the Elvi: Billy Joe built gestation tanks in a back-room at the old strip-club he owned for a time, the Kiss N Tails, and with some tinkering to genetic clock-speed, was able to get them from a few cells to full-grown men in less than six-months. Unfortunately, security back then was always a problem and his girls, the dancers, looked upon Billy Joe as a kindly uncle and would often pop down into his work-shop between dances for a smoke and a little heart to heart; a couple times, he’d been coming out of the Elvi Chamber when one of his girls had appeared— Billy Joe, as with many brilliant people, inventors in particular, was notoriously absent-indeed and occasionally left the door to the club unlocked— and the dancer would ask what he was doing ‘back there’. Or the time one, Jesse, had found the Elvi suits and wondered what he was up to. No amount of fibbing would convince her that the white jump-suit was his, as women have a keen sense of fashion and knew white just wasn’t Billy’s color, regardless the fact it was maybe fifteen sizes too small.

Finally, the Elvi were mature, physically at least. But, think about it, what good is a fully mature Elvis if he hasn’t got anything in his head? And, since this was a clone of the King himself— noted singer, dancer, actor and all-around entertainer— the brain power wasn’t up to par, nothing like the Brains, George, Ringo, John, Paul, Jimi and Bonham. No worries. One of Billy Joe’s line of inquiry was recording and translation of brain-waves for subsequent archival to hard-drive— Billy was able at this point to record his thoughts as easily as taping a party-mix of really good tunes— it occurred to him he could reverse the flow of brain-wave data. The first down-loads were simple, consisting of all the music the King had ever made, plus his many films and interviews, all the way back to the Ed Sullivan Show, but still, that simply wasn’t enough. While the King was not the world’s foremost thinker, Billy Joe did not want his Elvi to be shallow morons educated in nothing more than unsophisticated cinematic fare such as Jailhouse Rock.

Then Billy Joe hit upon an idea. Why not make the Elvi proficient in things that either interested Billy Joe— the learned Elvis acting as an assistant to Billy Joe— or in things Billy Joe had no time for. Thus, the Elvi became experts in cooking, board games and both tropical and saltwater fish, as Billy Joe was thinking about branching out beyond just freshwater aquariums. Each Elvis was an expert in just one of the knowledge disciplines. Cooking Elvis, who Billy Joe named Chef Boyardee, could cook anything, from exotic Indian dishes to standard American fare like Maryland crab cakes, and he was an absolute whiz with Mediterranean soups. The second Elvis, Milton, was a master of games, from lowly card-games like Uno to Battleship and on up to chess, which he occasionally gave Billy Joe a real run at; Jenga, though, was all Milton, as Billy Joe’s trembly hands were no match for Milton’s freshly-minted nervous system when it came to stacking little wooden blocks. The third Elvis in the Elvi Triad was Jacques. Jacques’s attention to detail in handling the fish, the obvious love he felt for them, coupled with his keen insight into undergravel filtration systems earned him a special place in Billy’s heart the other two Elvi never reached.

The four of them lived together for a time in the basement of Kiss’N’Tail, Billy Joe and the Elvi— and how the Elvi longed to meet with the Billy’s girls, which was of course an impossibility—until the stuff with Vince went down in ‘94 and the four of them were forced to flee, taking up residence in a cabin in the woods by Palomar mountain, a place enabling Billy Joe close access to the observatory, where on occasion he’d sneak in to do research on some suspicious activity in the Crab Nebula. In time, though, it was time for the Elvi to strike out on their own; it was simply no life for them, cooped up in a cabin with nothing to occupy them save tropical fish, Star Fleet Battles and Mediterranean soups. That year, Billy Joe set out to release the Elvi out into the wild.

After careful thought, Billy resolved to set the Elvi free in small towns served by large and thriving Elvis fan clubs, where they would be welcomed. They were shy and timid creatures, the Elvi, and it would be important for them to feel loved. Hence, in the autumn, Chef was released outside Goat’s Fork, Montana. It wasn’t a happy sight, poor Chef looking so alone and scared as he stood in the snow with his little knapsack on his back, the wind ruffling his dark hair, but Billy knew he’d be able to find a job at the local diner. In fact, a year later, he visited Chef, who’d become the star of the town, an Elvis lookalike who’d made Mediterranean soups the favorite of many a Montanan. It was much the same with Milton, released in Geneva, Wisconsin, home of the people who invented Dungeons and Dragons, and with Jacques, released into the wild in the Florida Keys, where he shortly landed a job on a boat responsible for the seeding of sea-bass back into the ocean.

And now, finally, after all this time, after all the interceding years, Billy Joe had issued the commands calling the Elvi home. Or rather, to the rendezvous point planted so long ago in their minds. Chef would arrive first, being closest, but Milton and Jacques wouldn’t be far behind, moving west at the speed of Greyhound. Shortly thereafter, Billy and the Brains, Chef, Milton and Jacques, along with HeadClone B, would begin a trip of much longer duration. But that was in future.

Now, while a turd loafed two-hundred feet above on the floor of Men’s Stall Two, Billy and the Brains continued their preparations . . .

Heaven, INC: Chapter 68: ROLL TAPE

All diplomacy is a continuation of war by other means.
—ZHOU ENLAI

POLICE HEADQUARTERS,
14th & BROADWAY
3:41 PM PDT

CARMELLA WATCHED RAYMOND CHO work the Woodcrest Apartments’ video, rewinding the tape this way and that and manipulating the image, comparing it to footage taken from the County Medical Examiner office’s lobby camera.

“Yeah, sure looks like the same the guy,” Raymond said. “Whoa. If we’re right, and this guy really was at both Norcestor and Imperial and the ME’s joint . . . Whoa.”

The implications of this, it was hard for Carmella to wrap her mind around—

Boomp, the door to MultiMedia swung open and Carmella nearly jumped out of her chair when Captain Decker strode in with a sour expression on his dark face. “You wanna tell me what you’re doing up here? We got brass coming down hard on all the shit going down with a missing cop on our hands and you’re in here goofing off with Cho.”

Carmella frowned. “What missing cop?”

That seemed to piss Decker off even more. “Bobby Riggs. Found his patrol in a parking lot behind a bar on El Cajon Boulevard, the Crow’s Nest, but the man has vanished. We’ve got not a single witness to whatever went down back there, with the exception of a suspicious person’s report: on some little druggie type apparently put something in a couple guys’ drinks and then stole their money.”

The Crow’s Nest was a little neighborhood dive bar down on El Cajon Boulevard, shot-and-a-beer, Friday-night-karaoke kind of joint, you know the type, with a parking lot behind it with a view blocked entirely from the street. In fact, really, the perfect place you’d want to perform an act of foul play if you were so inclined.

Captain Decker’s eyes went to the computer screen and the Woodcrest Apartments’ surveillance video. On the screen, still-footage had stopped with the mystery man yelling at the driver. “Who’s that?”

“That car hit a pedestrian down on South Norcestor one minute before Christian Ducroix was car jacked by Mij Andropov and minutes after the jogger was run down on Sweetwater. Hey, Raymond, show the captain the other car.”

Raymond rewound the footage until a vintage Mustang rolled on the screen. In the corner of the screen, the time showed 11:58.

Carmella said, “Christian Ducroix and some woman, it looks like. But you see, here, how she’s struggling? Look . . . Right there . . . See? Looks like she takes a swing.”

Decker said, “Let me see that again,” and watched the tape roll by. “So Mij Andropov escapesd from the apartment where we found a dead body on an anonymous tip—”

That would have been Elmond, calling from a pay-phone in the parking lot of the Super Lotus King Buffet.

“— an ex-South Guyanan colonel named Black Molo who may, or may not be, related to the dead-secret-agent-in-a-suit-type found in a backyard swimming pool out in Lemon Grove, said body later stolen by some guy in a suit and three goons.”

Before Carmella could ask a pertinent question, Raymond Cho, the department’s biggest geek, said, “Captain, what do you mean when you say, Secret agent? Secret agent how? Secret agent like James Bond secret?”

Now Captain Decker was really annoyed. “I don’t know how secret, Cho. He wore a suit, had a gun packing explosive bullets, a poison pen and money in various currencies hidden in hollowed out heels.” Decker fixed an eye on Carmella. “How’s your jogger?”

“Dead as of an hour ago, so it’s at least vehicular manslaughter if not outright murder and we now have a suspect. Raymond, show the Captain the side-by-sides.”

The Captain gave Carmella a look before turning to the screen.

The screen split in two, showing Woodcrest Apartments on the left and the Medical Examiner’s lobby on the right.

Captain Decker studied the screen. “Same guy?”

Carmella nodded. “Sure looks like it. I think after watching this video, it’s quite possible either the Mustang or Hummer is the one who hit the Sorensom woman. Hey, Raymond, show him the plate.”

Raymond cued up the sequence where the license plate was most legible, slowing the digital tape down to 1/24 speed and watching the car frame-by-frame. You could just make out the last three numbers: ‘323' and ‘LOMAT’, as in diplomatic plates.

Studying the screen, Captain Decker ran a hand across his dark, smooth-shaven scalp. “We got a country on that?”

Carmella said, “Winkle’s on it,” then watched Elmond come through the door. “And it looks like we might have some news.”

Elmond saying, “Yeah, we got some news: we can narrow our potential hit-and-run down to Christian Ducroix or a diplomat from France, Mexico, Britain, Germany, Russia or Japan. Anybody wanna play international Risk?”

Captain Decker shook his head. “Tell you what: way folks are right now, all keyed-up and crazy about the economy and all that trade war talk, last thing we need is for any of those countries’ diplomats to be the ones pulled a hit-and-run kill on an American citizen. Be some serious diplomatic implications from that.”

Carmella said, “All do respect, Captain, there’s a man out there about to bury his wife. What do you want us to do about it?”

Decker fixed her with an even stare. “You’ve got a person of interest in a hit-and-run fatality, that silver-haired cat and whoever was driving. I advise you locate them and bring em in ASAP for questioning and take a look at that car. Gotta be some kind of evidence if they did do it.”

Elmond said, “And if they claim diplomatic immunity?”

“That’s D.C.’s call, not ours. You just worry about tracking this guy and his driver down and bringing them in. How you two do that, I leave up to your own discretion.”

Heaven, INC: Chapter 67: HEEEERE'S BIVO!

Ambition is a Dream with a V-8 engine.

- ELVIS PRESLEY

OCEAN STREET,
CORONADO
3:36 PM PDT

BIVO PAPACOSTAS ADMIRED HIMSELF in the tailor’s mirror, adjusting the gold Elvis shades and the white cape, made a couple classic Elvis gestures, then looked at Pope’s reflection in the mirror.

“Special Agent Mister Pope, I am sorry, but I grow weary of these questions. All day long, since my first coffee, I tell people that I know nothing about Mij Andropov being killed, I was at the club, playing the dominoes with my cousins. There were people there, they see us, they got the alibi.” He smiled. “Those ones—” nodding toward Sergeant Neil Finnerty and another detective “— ask the same questions. I tell them, you police, maybe you ask each other silly questions and leave Bivo Papacostas alone.”

Across the room, Detective Sergeant Finnerty chewed on a toothpick and glowered. Beside him hulked a detective named Buttkowski, a cop built like a condominium on steroids. Ten minutes later — and out of earshot — Al dubbed them Belligerent and The Beast.

“Agent Pope, my client is right,” Bivo’s attorney— Lawrence Ashmead III, Esq., on the business card— stated. “So, unless you plan on arresting him, I advise that both you and San Diego PD cease this fruitless harassment— as you can see, Mr. Papacostas is preparing for a very important engagement.”

Pope said, “Big karaoke night?”

Bivo brightened. “The American PopStar western sub-regional finals at the Tickled Trout.” Then, adopting an Elvis Presley power-lunge while holding an imaginary microphone, he said, “Thank you very much.” A passable Elvis-impersonation followed by a slap on the head of the tailor crouched at his feet. “No, I tell you, no, the crotch, is still too tight!”

“Sorry, Mr. Papacostas.” The tailor was visibly frustrated, “But you did say you wanted a noticeable bulge.”

“Of course.” Bivo smiled at Pope. “Is for the lady judges.” Then sternly informed the harried tailor, “My balls hang to the left and that is clearly cut for a right hang. You fix the hang, you give me comfort and the bulge. And for that, you get a nice tip.”

The tailor looked like he just wanted to get out of Dodge, maybe wash his hands. “If you’ll remove your pants, Mr. Papacostas . . .”

Bivo removed his white bell-bottoms and handed them to the tailor, standing now in red bikini briefs and a white cape. Nestled amid his chest hairs was a Greek Orthodox cross. “Special Agent Mister Pope,” he said, “like my attorney say, I have important business to attend to. What else you want me to do? I already ordered flowers for Mij.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Pope caught the expression on Al’s face — a curious blend of bemusement and hostility— and on Detectives Finnerty’s and Buttkowski’s— just open hostility there— before saying, “Mr Papacostas . . . Why don’t we talk in private.”

Bivo stared at Pope a moment, with an expression like he was adding up numbers . . . “Tell me, Special Agent Mister Pope, have you ever had Spanokopita? No? Then you are in for a treat: Priscilla, she make it just this morning and I swear to you, is the very best Spanokopita in all of San Diego . . .”


“National security?” FINNERY HAD SAID when Pope took him aside to request privacy during Bivo’s interview. “That’s the card you’re playing, National security? With all the shit going on up there at Norcestor & Imperial, you’re playing national fucking security. Hell, if Francisco weren’t such a scumbag, I’d figure you guys really were playing cover-up on Ducroix and his kid for the game-bang they pulled on that Chambers’ broad.” Finnerty stuck a thick, nicotine-stained finger in Pope’s face. “Well let me tell you something you right now: if America’s security in any way depends on that homicidal ass-monkey in there, then we are even worse off than I thought— fucking guy’d sell this country out for a chance at that American PopStar bullshit. He’d kill his mother to win it.”

To which Al said unhelpfully, “How’d you like to be the judge that votes the miscreant off national TV?”

“That happens,” Finnerty replied, “50/50 the judge wakes up with a horse head in his bed.”

“And,” Detective Buttkowski added, “if the judge cracks a joke while he’s booting Bivo off the show, that judge is gonna wake up with his head in the bed.”

Finnerty glared at the over-sized detective, before saying, “Point is, Special Agent Mister Pope—” smirking “— Bivo Papacostas is a homicidal maniac and if you Feds’re playing games that let him off for killing scumbags like Mij, that homeless fuck or anybody else— games like hijacking that body outta the morgue— then that death is on you my friend.”


OUT BY THE POOL, Pope and Al sat on one side of the table, Bivo and his attorney on the other, inside the house, Detective Sergeant Finnerty and his hulking sidekick stood at the kitchen window, glaring, and even through a quarter-inch of tempered glass, Pope could feel the detective’s malevolent gaze.

Bibo gestured at an object on the plate that looked to Pope like a tart.

“Is Spanokopita, Special Agent Mister Pope. A Greek specialty filled with spinach and other wonderful things.”

“Mr. Papacostas, I’m not here for dinner or coffee. I’m here for information that helps us regarding Christian Ducroix’s situation that is a matter of the gravest national security.”
“Yes,” Bivo reasoned, “but everybody got to eat. Try it. I swear you will love it.”

Instead, Pope said, “Mr. Papacostas, shortly before three in the morning, men employed by you were seen pursuing Mij Andropov on foot outside the Norcestor Arms. We have witnesses to this. Two hours later, later, Andropov was found dead in an avocado grove showing signs of torture consistent with evidence found at the apartment of Molo Balcotez.”

Bivo’s lawyer leaned in to whisper in his ear.

Bivo saying, then, “I was playing dominoes at the Olympic with Mick Smithidopolous, Nicki Nikkidallous a salesman from the liquor company, Bob, I don’t know his last name, you have to ask Mick. You can call, ask them if we there all night. Besides, why would I want to kill Mij? He runs a nice karaoke.”

Al leaned forward. “Hey, Elvis? Man’s talking to you nicely, you don’t insult him with your bullshit. Keep it up, I’ll haul your ass down to Gitmo tonight, where we can talk in a cage while this American PopStar thingy goes on without you.”

Bivo’s expression was unreadable behind gold Elvis shades.

Clearing his throat, Bivo’s attorney said, “Agent Pope, I will not allow my client to be exposed to the kind of hostility being displayed by Agent Fitzgerald. This discussion is effectively over.”

Pope glanced at Al—

The vein on Al’s forehead pulsed like the heart of a thick blue worm.

— and back at Bivo’s attorney. “Mr. Greenstein, as stated earlier, it’s imperative that we locate Dr. Ducroix as quickly as possible. At the moment, this subsumes any crimes Mr. Papacostas or those at him employ may have committed. In return for effecting this, I’ve been authorized—”

Ordered.

“—to grant your client total immunity from prosecution for the events of last night on ground of national security.”

To offer a get out of jail free card for this little thug.

The little thug’s attorney studied Pope a long moment. “Not saying that this is in any way germaine to the discussion, but Agent Pope, murder is not a federal crime. Hypothetically speaking, how can you immunize my client against that on the local level?”

Pope pulled from his briefcase the document AD Burns had given him. “That,” he said, “is a writ from Attorney General Bell stating that if your client comes clean now for what happened last night, he’s permanently immunized across all levels of American justice and will never be charged in any court in this country.”

Greenstein studied the document. “This is a form letter. Fill in the blanks?”

Pope exchanged glances with Al, before saying, “The offer includes Mr. Papacostas’ associates, but is only valid today only— after that, I turn San Diego PD loose.”

Greenstein leaned in to whisper in Bivo’s ear— Pope thought this was perhaps the absolute lowest point of his life, giving a man like Bivo Papacostas a complete pass for, potentially, murder— before Bivo whispered something back.

Greenstein looked to Pope. “My client wants it to cover events related to last night but which happened prior.”

“No, no sandbagging.”

After a moment’s consideration, Greenstein nodded at Bivo.

Bivo saying then, “First of all, who killed Mij, I don’t know. Last time we see Mij alive, he driving away in an old Mustang, fighting with some woman. That’s when the other car started firing, the Cadillac. They the ones shot the homeless.”

“You were there?”

“No,” Bivo said, “this I am told by my men. They got the immunity, too, yes?”

Pope nodded.

“You see, when Rony and Dmitri go outside to make the call, say how things going, that’s when Mij head-butted Molo, that stupid wetback, and knock him out. Before Molo wakes up, Mij untie the ropes and gets out of the apartment, sneak down the stairs.”

Al said, “You trying to tell me Mij Andropov went down four flights of stairs in the Norcestor Arms wearing just his underwear?”

“He took Molo’s axe. Very sharp.”

Al grunted. “Yeah, I suppose an axe could get you out of even the Norcestor Arms.”

Pope said, “What happened then, Mr. Papacostas?”

“Spiro find Mij missing, they chase after him, but by the time they get to the street, Mij already has the Mustang and he is driving away. That’s when the Cadillac and the Hummer come by. Cadillac shoots at the Hummer, Rony say they try and shoot the tires, but they miss and hit the homeless.”

“Was there someone else in the car?”

Bivo nodded. “Yes, the woman. They say Mij driving away, she fighting him. They said the man Mij pull out of the car, he a boy, wearing some funny costume.” Bivo made a look. “That one, very foolish, very young. Only a dummy would go into the Norcestor any time, let alone to do so at night. I can tell you,” Bivo said, “someone like that could never work for me. You sure you
don’t want any spanokopita? I assure you, is very good.”

Heaven, INC: Chapter 66: BIG ED AT THE YACHT CLUB

He who marches out of line hears another drum.
— One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,
KEN KESEY

SAN DIEGO HARBOR YACHT CLUB,
HARBOR ISLAND DRIVE
3:01 PM PDT

USING THE ENTRY-CODE Dr. Smarty Pants gave him— after tying the guy up and sticking a gag in his mouth— Big Ed Walker drove into the yacht club’s parking lot. But he hadn’t gone down even one lane looking for a parking space before his well-honed spidey-sense started going off, telling Ed danger was nearby and, lickety-split, he was backing the van into a parking space between a Mercedes Benz and a Mustang. Sure as shit, wasn’t more than a minute later a goddamn police car went rolling by carrying two women cops Ed could tell right off was dykes. Big Ed thought shit was going bad and even went so far as to pull the 9mm from his pants . . . but then, without even pausing, the dykes kept on going. Ed watched them prowl around the lot, checking shit out but never bothering to hoist their fat asses out of the car, and five minutes later they were rolling out the front gate and off down the road.

But still, Big Ed’s spidey-sense kept on squawking.

Ed sat a spell, pondering on the situation and wondering if it really was his spidey-sense squawking or just all the speed in his system plus the fact he hadn’t slept in three days and had consumed four bottles of Mr. Jack Daniels’ and a case of beer with nothing much to eat except some cheese doodles . . . then thought, fuck no, he was Big Ed Walker and made of tougher stuff than any man.

On the way over to the boat-yard, Big Ed had listened to AM radio— buncha blabbermouth, know-it-alls spouting goddamn opinions like they was so much better than everybody else— and that’s how he caught the news-report about a police officer who’d called in about finding bodies in a van before he himself disappeared. No mention of a carpet-cleaning van, though police were looking for a man described as 5'2 to 5'5 with greasy hair who’d been seen at the Crow’s Nest shortly before the officer disappeared. Big Ed tried remembering if he’d seen such a fellow in the bar, but couldn’t recall any really small men in there, greasy hair or not.

Ed also caught a report about police suspecting foul-play after a Normal Heights’ man disappeared and blood was found in the apartment. That would be the smart-alecky homo who complained about Ed bumping his lamp and who now resided in a dumpster behind Herbertito’s Taco Shop #3 along with the Krispy Kreme cop. Something Ed found interesting was the reporter saying police thought Smart-Alecky Homo’s disappearance might be revenge over a huge swindle the guy pulled on some casino Indians. Again, no mention of a carpet-cleaning van, but Big Ed knew his luck wouldn’t hold much longer: any moment, they’d realize the last thing these people did was get their carpets cleaned by ChemSteem Carpet Cleaning & Upholstery Specialists. And when they did, the fat would really hit the greasy.

The other thing Big Ed caught on the radio was how the FBI and police was still looking for a missing doctor believed to have been kidnaped. When the woman started describing Dr. Smarty Pants, going on about how famous he was, this super hot-shot scientist guy, it made Big Ed kinda proud to think the whole world was looking for a guy who was bleeding to death in the back of Ed’s van. More than anything, really, it made Ed feel like a proud papa.

Finally, though, Big Ed decided he’d worried enough about his goddamn spidey-sense because, what the hell, there wasn’t nothing his cat-like, speed-enhanced, ninja reflexes couldn’t handle. So, after checking on Dr. Smarty Pants, Ed got out of the van— making sure he gave the Mercedes Benz a quality door-ding— and grabbing his clipboard to get that official look, set off in search of Dr. Smarty Pants’ boat.

Smarty Pants had told Ed his boat was called the Maltese Queen and docked at slip J-37. When Big Ed asked what the fuck was a ‘slip’ and Dr. Smarty Pants explained it was the space where a boat was parked, Big Ed said, “So then why not just call it a fucking parking space instead of making shit up?” Smarty Pants clearly wasn’t that smart because he didn’t answer.

The gate nearest the van was marked SLIPS D-F. Beyond it was a walkway that led down to the slips and all kinds of really cool boats, big power-boats and yachts, plus the sail-boats to which Ed felt more partial. Admiring the boats, Ed passed SLIPS D-F and was walking in the direction of SLIPS J-L when his spidey-sense started squawking again.

Super casual-like, Ed knelt to tie a sneaker, glancing around, see if anybody was watching, but nothing in the parking lot out of the ordinary caught his eye. He tied the other sneaker and let his gaze drift over the boats, but he couldn’t see nothing out there neither. So, grabbing his clipboard, he continued toward SLIPS J-L whistling a Merle Haggard tune.

It was almost dark now, the sky gone to reds and purples and looking about as pretty to Ed’s eye as this world could ever be, and he paused to take in the last of the sun . . . and a little flicker of movement caught his eye. Without turning his head, Ed’s gaze went to a building marked SAN DIEGO HARBOR YACHT CLUB, a wooden two-story with big windows overlooking the boats, and through the windows Ed could see people in the restaurant. Ed relaxed, realizing that’s all he’d seen, some rich jerk-off eating his lobster or something—
This time, Ed saw the movement clearly, a head silhouetted against the sky, someone on the roof of the building . . .

Just like that and slick as you please, Ed was consulting his clipboard again . . . spinning around a couple times like he was lost, doing the ‘complete dipshit’ bit . . . then pretended to check out the clip-board again while, beneath the bill of his ChemSteem ball-cap, he snatched a glance up at that roof. Hmmm. Whoever was up there was watching him with a pair of binoculars. Who they were, Ed had no idea, but he knew it couldn’t be good, not with a van-load of bodies and Dr. Smarty Pants back there.

So, Ed spun around again, putting his hands on his hips. “Motherfucker,” he said, loud enough for his voice to carry across the parking lot. Peering around, then in the direction of another marina. He looked at the SAN DIEGO HARBOR YACHT CLUB sign, giving it a quality, Fred Flintstone double take. ““Motherfucker cocksucker son-of-a-bitch shit,” he said then hurled the clipboard— not far, mind you, but far enough— before stalking around a bit. Finally, fetching the clipboard, Big Ed huffed off in the direction of the van, cursing while taking obvious looks at a distant marina.

That and worry about all that damn blood and hoping none of it was leaking out now.

Fucking blood.

Heaven, INC: Chapter 65: MONA & CHRISTIAN

Face to face, each classic case,
we shadow box and double cross.
— Smooth Operator,
SADE

LA MIRAGE APARTMENTS,
MISSION VALLEY
3:05 PM PDT

MONA FOUND HERSELF, despite all the stress, succumbing to the siren song of sleep and Sade when Sergei made her to jump.

Sergei climbing into the car, saying, “Do you think that Pluto knows it is a small planet. I mean, it is so far out there, maybe it looks at the other planets and says, “Ha ha, look at how much smaller you are than me. Ha ha. And you, with your big fancy rings. I am so much bigger than you. I mean, how is Pluto supposed to know it is so small and far away?”

Mona nodded, annoyed with Sergei’s interruption. “What is the matter? Your penis failed again?”

Thumbing the ignition, Sergei said, “No, it did not fail again. I told you, I get the blue pill, no problem. Sergei is back.”

“Yes. But Every time you have a bad experience, you suddenly become philosophical to the point of waxing anthropomorphously about Pluto.”

Sergei had a frown on his big dumb Kulak face. “Anthro-what? I do not know this word. I do know that I am often philosophical and that this has nothing to do with Peter the Great.”

The fact men even named their penises Mona found to be very odd. The fact Sergei would name his after, arguably, Russia’s greatest czar was preposterous. Mona should know. Sergei had a habit of drinking too much vodka and dropping his trousers. Let us just say, this was not great publicity for Sergei’s peter.

Whatever, Mona was quite frankly tired of talking about Sergei’s penis and sex life. And Mona could have pointed out that love did not normally involve six partners. But what was the point of arguing? Sergei was Sergei. Besides, Mona was worried about Christian. The last time they spoke was an hour after midnight, after he had emerged from his meeting with Lord Bletchly. Mona had stopped in the ladies room while Christian fetched the car from the valets. When she got into the car, he was gone.

Now, Mona was torn between the irrational of trying to find him and the original plan of leaving America and returning to Russia with Christian. But then Dominic had come along and ruined everything.


OF COURSE, THE RELATIONSHIP was preposterous right from the start.

Christian was nearly still a boy, certainly not that much older than Boris, and Mona was very much of the traditional mind that her man be a man, older and wiser, not naive young bear cub. But there was something about Christian, something that struck a chord, some link in her cold, Russian heart, that connected. Of course, Christian’s love of all things Russian and Tolstoy in particular had something to do with it.

They met in the Russian history section of the San Diego State library and it involved a book.

Not Tolstoy, but Chekov, and in particular, a book of his plays. It was a moment of serendipity, two people worlds apart reaching for the same book at precisely the same moment, two kindred spirits meeting across space-time over a book of stories. Or at least, Mona had come to see it that way.

Not that, that first day, she would just relinquish claim to Chekov simply because of some piece of cosmic fate. As far as Mona had been concerned that very first moment, Chekov was Russian and hence belonged in Russian hands.

To Christian’s credit, he’d been something of a good sport about it. To his greater credit, he proposed a wonderful solution.

“Let’s play a game of chess. Isn’t that the great Russian game? Beat me at a game, and the book is yours. And if I win, you agree to have dinner with me.”

Mona had said, “I had the book first.”

“No, it was clearly a tie. Besides, in America, ownership is 9/10ths of the law.”

Mona’s thought that day: What an awful, greedy country.

HE WASN’T GREAT— Boris would have won three out of every four games— and while he lost all five games to Mona— the first match began after coffee and a croissant and ended before dinner, which they took at a Mexican restaurant named Ponces, in a neighborhood called ‘Kensington’. Afterwards, they shot pool at the Ken Club and caught some great bands. Mona beat Chris three games to two, but the third left her with a sneaking suspicion he had let her win. This was something Mona would normally never accept, but the manner in which he played it somehow . . . worked. Later, after a lot of Tolstoy and Chekov and a little too much tequila, they kissed in the parking lot. It was a short kiss, but it was a kiss full of passion, passion that bloomed out of the drab life of a lonely, covert agent like a fire blooming amid a cold Russian winter. . .

Things were great, those three months, between Mona and Christian. Some surely would find it funny, an older woman and a younger man in those few times It’s funny, but somehow, despite their age differences, and a Russian and an American, an undercover intelligence officer in love with the son of her kidnaping target, they were truly small things. Mona was in by no way a mystical type, in fact, she hoved to physics as the way to describe everything in the universe, and but here, with Christian, she felt an almost divine gravity, a sub-atomic bonding of souls— again, not a word Mona was normally comfortable with— that felt organically natural.

Sure, he was ten years younger, and people looked at them and whispered, ‘Cougar’, under their breath. But then they’d never shared that kiss after a night of Tolstoy, Chekov and a little too much tequila.

Pity for the them.