[Brag]

Chapter 14

At quarter to eight in the morning, it was still pitch dark. The driver who had come to pick up Val, turned the car off the well-lit Pulkovo Chausse onto a dim road lined with factories.
"I thought we were going to the airport."
"Yes, the airfreight side."
Fingering the Tokarev in his overcoat pocket, Val peered outside. Last night's blizzard was replaced by a sky of unblinking stars frozen in bitter cold. The desk clerk had predicted the Neva River would freeze today.
The driver showed an ID and drove through a gate. They went past a modern airfreight building with trucks backed against cargo bays. Beyond it, a number of airplane fuselages without wings lined one side of the road.
"Here we are," the driver said. "World headquarters for Aerovoz International Airlines."
Val thanked the driver and studied a small, two-storied building. A Yellow light over a door revealed scabby paint flaking off the walls.
He entered what looked like a reception room with ancient furniture. One man slept on a worn-out sofa, another snored on a frayed, overstuffed chair.
Light and the sound of voices came from an interior door. Val went through.
Dougan leaned on a counter talking with two men wearing leather bomber jackets.
"Good morning," Val said.
Making a face, as if realizing his worst fear, Dougan glanced at Val. "Ah, here's our passenger." He then turned to the two men. "Let's go."
Val followed the trio to the back of the building and out. On the ramp stood an airplane the size of a Boeing-737 with wings above the fuselage and two jet engines protruding above the wings.
Dougan took Val by the elbow and made him stop. He pointed at the plane. "Nice, don't you think?"
"Yes." It was the ugliest flying machine Val had ever seen. Even in the gray light of dawn, the blue and white paint looked faded. In Latin letters, Aerovoz was painted on the side of the fuselage.
Gesturing like an opera singer about to break into an aria, Dougan said, "Best cargo plane in the world. It can land on short dirt strips and can easily be converted into a bomber. I own the most versatile airline in the world. Welcome to Aerovoz." He slapped Val on the shoulder.
To climb inside, they had to step over a foot in diameter, yellow tube snaking up the front door of the plane, blowing hot air into the cockpit. The almost empty cabin seemed cavernous. Dougan led toward the rear, past four pallets with crates strapped to them in the center of the cabin. In the aftermost part, stood a row of three passenger seats.
"Fasten cigarettes and no smoking belts," Dougan said in English. He dropped into what would have been the aisle seat in a passenger airplane. Val sat next to a lone window.
One of the pilots kicked the hot air duct out of the plane and closed the door. The temperature in the cabin was well below freezing. Val raised the collar of his overcoat.
"I told the pilots to simulate a short field takeoff so that you can see the impressive performance of this machine. If the Smithsonian has valuable cargo to ship anywhere in the world, we can do it."
"You own this airline?"
"I invented it, nursed it and raised it. Twelve years ago, I borrowed sixty thousand dollars and bought three airplanes. We went to fight wild fires in Southern France. After that, some of my Afghan friends needed help to fight the Taliban. In less than a year I had those airplanes paid off."
After the engines started, hot air blew out of bare ducts on the fuselage and the temperature became more bearable. The sun came up as the plane got to the front of the queue of aircraft waiting for take off.
A sudden stop pushed Val against his seatbelt. Engines whined to a crescendo. Val was pushed against the seat as brakes released. His stomach sank when the airplane rotated to a sharp angle and leapt off the runway.
"Noo kak?" Dougan shouted. "Look outside."
Val had the sensation of being in a helicopter. "I'm impressed. You have cowboy pilots."
"Best pilots in the world, and I treat them right. They know that if they go to jail, I'll get them out. The Taliban locked up one of my crews in Wagram. It took me a year, but I did not rest 'til I got them out. I tried bribery, it didn't work. Having exhausted my options, I loaded an airplane with former Spetznaz soldiers and we fought our way in. That's the way I do business."
"Some business." Val thought of the period after WW II, when American adventurers in rickety airplanes flew all over the planet. Now, apparently the Russians dominated the murky world of unscheduled cargo. Baby Boomers were not exactly an adventuresome lot. Americans had turned inward and were lost in an orgy of domestic self-contemplation.
The airplane reduced its climb angle and turned southwest.
"I'm not an office man and believe in personal contact with my customers. Most heads of Middle East states know me. In Africa they welcome me with drums. They love me in Paraguay. And what am I doing today? Delivering a piddly shipment to a stupid gangster."
"Sorry to inconvenience you," Val said relishing the idea he was inconveniencing what was probably an international criminal.
Dougan opened his briefcase and handed Val a compact machine pistol. "Do you know how to use one of these?"
An odd thrill traveled through Val's body. The weapon looked like a toy but had a satisfying heavy feel to it. Like the first rifle he got as a present for his twelfth birthday.
"This is a Bison-2. The best machine pistol in the world. You insert the magazine here. Use both hands to shoot."
Five minutes later, Val thought he had learned how to handle the gun. He handed it back. "It won't fit in my briefcase."
Dougan laughed. "We disembark showing guns, to earn respect."
"What sort of place Warsaw has become?"
Shaking his head, Dougan said. "Our departure flight plan said we're going to Warsaw. As we enter Polish airspace, we identify ourselves as a Finnish airplane flying to Rumania. Over Rumania, we change to Sharjah registration. Have you been to Tiraspol?"
"In Moldova?"
"You need to get your politics and geography updated. Tiraspol is the capital of Transdniestr."
"That's not recognized by anyone as an independent state."
"True. But don't tell it to the people there."
Transdniestr, Val thought, a narrow strip of land on the left bank of the Dniestr River. When Moldavia seceded from the Soviet Union, the Russian inhabitants rose in armed rebellion. Dissatisfied Cossacks from the Ukraine poured into the region and a mini-war ensued. Val considered the geopolitical situation in the southwest corner of the former Russian Empire as ridiculous. Ukraine, the historical cradle of Russia had gone independent. This created a problem for the ethnic salad in Moldavia. Some, afraid of being absorbed by Romania, others by Ukraine. So they created Moldova, and now Transdniestr sandwiched in between wanted to be part of Russia.
They must have crossed into Poland. The airplane made a ninety-degree turn and headed southeast.
"So this mini-rogue state must be a convenient transshipment point for the arms trade."
"People in small countries have the same right to business and prosperity as the largest countries." Dougan beat a fist against his chest. "I help small countries. I'm the champion of the underdog."
Val was in no mood to argue with the self-righteous Mafioso. He tried to sleep, but it didn't work. Two cups of tea out of a thermos later, they landed in what looked like an abandoned air base and parked in front of a rusting hangar.
While Val watched from the forward door, Dougan stepped out of the airplane and shook hands with soldiers in an open GAZ jeep flying a huge, ugly Transdniestr flag. Red with a narrow horizontal green stripe on its middle.
Finished talking, Dougan returned to the airplane. "Bogo hasn't arrived yet, so we wait." He looked at his wristwatch and shook his head. "People from the Balkans have not yet learned punctuality. How can we form a Pan-Slavic empire with people like that?"
Val was going to roll his eyes. Instead he found himself clicking his tongue. He descended the four steps to the tarmac and added two countries, to his list of places he had been to.
A truck and a forklift pulled up as the rear cargo door opened.
The soldiers drove off.
"I'd like to have ten rubles for every hour I spend waiting at an airport." Dougan said. "Then I could retire. Have you been to Nice?"
"No."
"That's where I want to retire. Warm weather . . ." He looked wistfully into the opaque sky. I could sell my airplanes and live there comfortably the rest of my life. But people need me. I don't know what the world would be like without me."
"They'd be fewer guns around for people to kill each other with," Val said, sure Dougan was a gunrunner.
Dougan tossed an arm up in a gesture of dismissal. "We save a lot of refugees from starvation. My company also sponsors an orphanage."
Val pointed at the truck, now loaded with two pallets. "What is that cargo?"
"Just rifle ammunition. Bogo's consignment is Kornet antitank missiles. That's a best selling item after the American invasion of Iraq. It goes through an Abrahms tank as if the Americans built it out of old cans. Someone tested a few just before Baghdad fell. Eighty percent kill ratio from four thousand meters. The Syrians immediately bought all available stock and the belligerent talk by the Pentagon stopped. A balance of power creates peace." Dougan gave Val a broad smile.
The truck drove off. The forklift operator lit a cigarette and went inside the airplane. The weak sun warming Val's back gave him little comfort over the eerie quiet on the vast open space.
Dougan paced up and down the length of the airplane.
"Here he comes," Dougan said, shielding his eyes.
At first it sounded like the buzz of a bee. A four engine turboprop flew alongside the runway, made a tight descending turn. It almost vanished from view before it lined up with the runway. A cloud of blue smoke marked the place where the wheels touched ground.
"Good job," Dougan said. "Now we get our machine pistols out. The transfer of goods is always a delicate, formal ceremony."
"I like your euphemisms."
"Formal relationships help in international business. Everyone knows where they stand."
Val covered his ears as the turboprop with Netranscargo written on its sides taxied in. He had visions of men pouring out of it and grabbing Dougan's missiles without paying.
The Gazik with the soldiers and big flag reappeared, but this time parked a respectable distance away from the two airplanes.
The screaming of the engines died. Only the soft noise of spinning propellers remained as a door flipped open, converting into stairs.
Two men armed with submachine guns stepped out and marched toward Dougan and Val.
"The big one is Bogo. Was champion wrestler in the Yugoslav army. He has the manners of a medieval bandit," Dougan muttered.
Val's fingers tightened around the pistol grip.
Looking like a black headed bear, Bogo and his younger blond companion stopped five paces away.
Dougan and Bogo nodded at each other.
Val gave Bogo a mental nickname--Stone Face.
"Care to inspect the merchandise?" Dougan said in English.
Bogo nodded.
"We'll be right back," Dougan said to Val.
As the two men went into the airplane, Val was left facing the blue- eyed, red-faced blond who rested a finger on the trigger guard of his submachine gun.
"I'm reaching inside for a cigarette, don't get nervous," the young man said.
Val realized he had been aiming the Bizon at the blond. He gave him what he hoped was an ironic smile, and lowered his gun. He wanted this hood to believe that he was a badass. From his days in boarding school, Val knew that bullies had to be warned off early if one was to avoid trouble.
With one hand, the man shook a cigarette from a pack and lit it with a gold lighter.
Dougan and Bogo returned discussing something. Bogo extended his hand. Blondy reached inside the pocket of his black leather jacket and handed Bogo a sock, who in turn passed it to Dougan. There was a clang of coins as Dougan shook the sock, weighing it. He looked inside and signaled the forklift driver.
The forklift headed for the airplane and took a pallet out.
"Bogo, I want you to meet Standish," Dougan said.
Bogo nodded.
Val nodded back.
Dougan waved at the soldiers in the Gazik. They dismounted and the car, with only the driver in it, approached.
"Time for lunch," Dougan said.
Blondy slung the submachine gun on a shoulder. Bogo lit a small cigar while Dougan looked as if he had won the lottery. Val relaxed, glad the exchange had gone peacefully and everyone seemed friendly.
Dougan, Val, and the Blondy clambered to the back of the open Gazik. Bogo sat in the front passenger seat, cradling his submachine gun as if expecting an ambush.
Twenty minutes later they were in Tiraspol, and drove through a neat park-like boulevard. Apparently oblivious of the cold, elderly men sat around tables playing chess.
On Suvorov Square, the sight of a huge statue of Lenin gave Val a shiver. Val thought he had traveled back in time. Faded socialist slogans adorned some of the buildings. The car turned left then drove alongside the bank of the wide Dnestr River, which once divided Russia from Romania.
The Gazik stopped in front of a Low-walled garden with tables scattered around. Behind an orchard of neatly pruned trees, stood a two storied villa with balconied wings.
"The best restaurant in town," Dougan said.
The smell of roasting meat greeted Val's nostrils as they marched through the garden.
Blondy placed his weapon on a table and sat facing the street.
A man with bow tie, white linen jacket, and a long white apron that made him look like a Parisian waiter before WWII, greeted them at the door and led to a back room.
They sat at a round table. The waiter took a bottle of Hungarian Bull's Blood wine, and poured into Bogo's glass then into Val's. He poured Narzan fizzy mineral water into Dougan's glass.
Dougan sniffed the water as if testing a fine vintage wine, took a sip and said, "Standish is with the Smithsonian Institute and has influential friends."
Bogo nodded and leaned back in his chair, his eyes boring into Val. "You already indicated that."
Val wondered if the man was capable of changing his facial expression. The salt and pepper brush cut hair accentuated an appearance of uncompromising toughness.
Val said, "I'm here to authenticate the origin of certain documents you sold. The Smithsonian institution is interested in acquiring them if the authenticity can be confirmed."
"I don't deal in art."
"But you did sell those documents to an American entity which shall remain unnamed."
"Smithsonian, don't play games with me."
"Standish," Val corrected.
Bogo clenched his fists, his shoulders arched forward as if he prepared to leap.
The waiter came into the room with a tray of sizzling and still smoking skewers loaded with meat, peppers, onion and tomatoes.
This seemed to distract the stone faced Croat, who unclenched his fists and flattened his hands on top of the table.
"Best shashlik in the world," Dougan said.
Despite the tension, Val's mouth watered at the aroma of grilled, marinated lamb and spices. He took a sip of wine, which was excellent.
The waiter slid chunks of meat, tomatoes, green peppers and onions off the skewer onto Val's plate and added what Val recognized as chelo, Iranian long grain rice.
Dougan had a tomato and onion salad on his plate.
"Good," Bogo said after chewing a piece of lamb.
Val, kept quiet, savoring the delicate blend of seasonings of the wonderful Georgian dish. It was indeed the best he had ever tasted.
After making some um, um noises over his tomatoes, Dougan said, "Nothing in the world beats tomatoes from the Balkans--Bogo, this is the last shipment of Kornets, unless you help Standish authenticate those documents. Like I said, he has influential friends."
Bogo's fork clattered on his plate and he leaned down as if to pick up his submachine-gun on the floor.
Dougan's glass of fizzy water spilled as a pistol materialized in his hand.
Bogo froze.
Val's gaze darted between his lunch partners, taking in the absurd tableau. "Gentlemen," he said. "The smell of gunpowder ruins the taste buds."
Bogo and Dougan looked at Val.
Val cut a chunk of lamb into a smaller piece, and placed it in his mouth. Trying to keep from shaking, he chewed slowly, amazed at himself, wondering where this sangue froid had come from.
A faint smile appeared on Bogo's face. Dougan returned the pistol into a shoulder holster.
Bogo stood. "Let's go outside," he said to Val.

Chapter 15

Chickens clucked inside a coop in the backyard. Bogo took out a cigar and made a production of heating the tip using two kitchen matches one after the other until the cigar ignited without touching the flame.
After a couple of long puffs, he said while exhaling, "So you have delicate taste buds, too?"
Val considered what Rick in Casablanca would have said if someone got shot in his joint. "I hate to see people bleeding during a meal."
Bogo nodded. "Smithsonian, you've got class. That stupid Dudkin thinks that if he calls himself Dougan and eats vegetables like a rabbit, people will think he is elegant."
"You don't sound happy with your business partner."
"Happiness kills you."
Val had to agree with Bogo's logic. Happiness did set one up for a fall. He had been happy when married.
Bogo watched him with a curious look. Val realized he had been clucking like a chicken in the coop. He straightened and switched his gaze to a pen with five sheep in it.
"I came here to--"
"What do you want to know?"
The question took Val by surprise. Bogo didn't seem like the type to volunteer information. "How certain are you of the documents' authenticity?"
"I need to know nothing, I'm a trader. Someone wants something, if I have it, I sell it."
"To get two million dollars, you had to convince the buyer that the product was worth it."
"To do it twice it's too much work. Do you have another two million?"
Val wondered how many people Bogo had killed in anger. He was sure had not Dougan been fast with his pistol, the lunch would have ended with someone getting shot. "The Russians have a saying, it is better to have a hundred friends than a hundred rubles. I have the friends."
"That cheap ass Dougan keeps reminding me of that. What do the Russians want? Are they pissed because the Americans outbid them? And who in the **** are you?"
"Kindly watch your language. It affects my sensitivities. I'm what people call a bookworm. A war historian."
Bogo turned to face Val, blew smoke out of the side of his mouth. A historian, eh? Really?"
Val nodded, imitating Bogo.
"You research and write?"
"Yes, I write about World War II."
Bogo nodded as a slight smile appeared on his face. "A writer. I read The Hobbit, in Serbian and English and The Three Musketeers in French."
Val smiled, hoping the brute wouldn't take it as a sign of weakness.
"My father fought in World War II. The Americans who supported Tito betrayed him. What have you written about that war?"
Was Bogo's father with Michaelovich's Chetniks or the Croat Legion? Val saw an opening and advanced cautiously. "Many short papers, and three books. "Destiny Without Honor is a history of Vlasov's Russian Army of Liberation."
To Val's amazement, Bogo chuckled. "Write anything about the Schutzkorps in Yugoslavia?"
This was like stepping into quicksand hoping it wasn't. The Schutzkorps had been organized by the Germans to fight communist partisans. A good portion of its members had been Russian émigrés living in Yugoslavia.
"Just one article, dealing with the Russians in it."
"Forget about the Croatians?"
Val took another cautious mental step. "World War II was a lot more complicated than people think nowadays."
"World War II was a Jewish plot to end European civilization."
Still wary, Val said, "According to General Fuller, the need to force guarantees on Poland by Great Britain, was influenced by the bankers who didn't like Hitler's barter program, which excluded London banks from participating in international trade."
"The Rothchilds won the war, my friend." Bogo showed a row of gold- capped teeth. "Maybe my father will agree to share a bottle of wine with you. He is war hero. He can authenticate those documents. Give me your Email address." He slapped Val on the back, forcing him to take a step forward to keep his balance. "Let's go finish that lunch."

#

The aroma of apples filled the cabin on the return flight. It made Val think of the lack of smells in American produce. Though he couldn't really tell because of the cloud cover, the return flight took a straightforward route. They overflew Kiev, Smolensk, Novgorod, landing in Pulkovo at eight thirty in the evening.
Over Novgorod, as they began descent, Dougan, who had had been working over some papers said, "I hope never to see you again, unless you want a job. You are the only person I know who gets along with that brute."
"You seem to do good business together."
"Doing business with Bogo is never good. Hardly even profitable. But it keeps his pirates from hijacking my goods. I do business with him for the sake of peace."
The remark made Val think of medieval warlords. How little had the world changed. Despite the bourgeois veneer of the industrialized nations, predators still ruled. Val felt pleased with himself the way he had handled Bogo and what he had learned from him.
A soft touch of rubber on concrete and the rumble of wheels turning told Val they were on the ground. He smiled. He no longer needed the SVR to find the origin of the Gelwitz message binder.
As Val stepped out, a black Mercedes drew up to the airplane. A chauffeur opened the rear door for him.
"Have a good trip?" Boikin smoked a cigarette in the back seat.
"Either you or I have improved our status. This morning I came to the airport in a Lada," Val said as he slid inside.
"When traveling with you I prefer a bullet proof car," Boikin said without looking at Val. To the driver, he added, "Poekhali. Lets go."
If the Russian was curious where Val had been or how the meeting with Bogo had gone, he wasn't showing it. He crushed the cigarette in the ashtray and slouched in his seat as if preparing to sleep.
Val crossed his arms and imitated the Russian spook.
Past the Victory Monument, instead of continuing toward Petersburg's center, the driver turned right.
"Where are we going?"
Boikin stretched his neck and looked around as if he had really been asleep. "To get your picture taken. My boss thinks that since you flew out of Washington in your real name. Whoever organized the visit to your apartment might put two and two together. Three days is long enough to get people here."
After a pause, Boikin added, "And someone been making phone calls to hotels asking for Professor Orloff."
A light shiver went through Val's body. "I would like to know why you people are going through all this trouble on my behalf."
"It would be disloyal of me to comment on my boss' stupidity."
Val thought he wouldn't get anywhere by asking more questions.
The car stopped in front of a seedy apartment block.
As they got out, Boikin said. "We've moved your luggage out of the hotel. You'll be staying at a safer location. Out of sight."
Great. New problem. How would he get his binder out of the hotel safe without Boikin and the rest of his gang knowing?
Val followed Boikin inside the building that held the same, not unpleasant odor, as the subway. A unique smell found only in Russian cities or where large numbers of Russians congregated. It was odd how different nationalities acquired a collective scent. Probably had to do with the diet. They took the elevator to the seventh floor.
The sign on the apartment door said:

E.V. Zhukov


Photographer


Baptisms, weddings, funerals.

Boikin rang the doorbell then rapped a code on the door.
A short man with tufts of hair pointing every which way opened the door and nodded them to come in. He pointed at a chair against a white wall and motioned Val to sit. "What nationality?"
Boikin answered, "Argentina."
Tufty switched on a bright light, wheeled a Polaroid, took a photograph, and then pushed the camera back to its corner.
Boikin handed Tuffty a blue passport. "Stamp him in and out of Germany and Italy."
"Wait fifteen minutes." Tufty vanished through a back door closing it behind him.
"Good artist," Boikin said, lighting a cigarette.
"What I'm I to do with an Argentinean passport?"
"Most people show them to some officious border guard's face."
"I couldn't pass for an Argentinean, I don't speak Spanish."
"Learn to say buenos dias. But limit your border crossings to the morning hours."
Boikin unbuttoned his overcoat and paced the room, hands clasped behind his back.
In his mind, Val composed various Emails he would send to begin straightening out the mess he got himself enmeshed. He would call in sick at work, this would take care of his time until he reached his sabbatical.
Tufty reappeared wearing a plastic green visor. "Here you are, Señor Diaz."
Val leafed through the passport loaded with visas, entry, and departure stamps.
"Let's go." Boikin waved at Tufty and opened the door. Once they were out in the corridor, he said, "When you go to England, show this passport if they ask. Once inside the country, revert to your American one. Who knows you're going to England?"
Val thought while the elevator descended. "Just the people at the office."
"So any idiot could call your office and the people there would say he's gone to England."
Val's spine tensed as anger threatened to reach boiling point. "Keep your observations to yourself. Besides, they would only say I was out of town. Our people are very discreet."
"How about the invitation, did you bring it with you?"
"Oh ****!"
Boikin shrugged. "Maybe you should reconsider going. In England, they have a tradition of snipers in the hedges. They will probably hire an Irishman."
"You really know how to ruin one's day."
"There's a worker's café just down the street. No one will know either of us. We can have a drink and relax."
The café was in a basement half a block away. A room full of smoke, hubbub of voices, clacking of domino tiles and moderately loud Russian popular music. They found an empty table in a corner. Boikin ordered coffee and Cognac.
Maybe Boikin was right. After all, no matter what the incentives, the event at Sir Reginald's was just a party. First, he had to meet Bogo's father. If the man was able to squeeze two million dollars for the message collection, he had to be aware of the importance of the documents to someone like Hermann.
Val became aware he had stopped clucking his tongue to say, "****." Hell, two million was nothing. Collectors of Nazi memorabilia would pay a lot more. Hermann's purchase was a steal. D'Albano knows. Learning the source of the documents was almost as important as the contents. Either Hermann had shared with someone that he had the file or he was double crossed by the seller.
Boikin smiled at the chubby lady who plunked two coffee cups, a small plate with lemon slices sprinkled with sugar, and poured Armenian Brandy into large glasses.
"Cheers, as they say in England."
Val wished the ever-amiable Russian would shut up and let him think.
"While you were socializing with those armaments hooligans, Professor Stuart and the Navy managed to decode several other messages that U boat sent after passing the Malacca Straits."
"After the straits?" Val couldn't hide his surprise.
Boikin took a large gulp of brandy, then sucked on a slice of lemon. Placing the lemon rind on his saucer, he answered. "After the straits."
"But how? They didn't have any more intercepts."
"They do now."
"Where did they get them from?"
"I believe they found a binder with messages in a hotel safe."
Val grabbed the edge of the table and clenched his teeth to control his outrage. "I thought the belief and respect for private property had returned to this country. Respect for the individual, the rule of law."
"No one stole anything from you. It was taken for safekeeping." Boikin shrugged. "Nothing wrong with accelerating your research."
"Accelerating my research? You have the gall."
"Don't you want to know why someone wants to kill you?"
"Maybe you should explain."
"There's something in those papers, the messages. That someone in the US government doesn't want known. We are trying to find out why and who."
"Did Bogo try to sell you the collection of messages?"
"We weren't interested enough to pay the outrageous price." Boikin's expression changed to one of surprise.
Val turned his head toward the door.
Wearing a fluffy fur hat, Stuart stood by the door undoing a muffler. She inclined her head, squinting over fogged glasses.
"What in the devil . . ." Boikin stood.
Stuart wiped her glasses with the muffler, put them back on, waved, and came to the table.
Val rose to his feet as she extended her hand.
"I have some exciting news."
"What are doing here?" Boikin asked.
"Delivering great news to the professor." She took a chair and ordered tea.
"How did you find us?"
"Your stupid driver tells the truth when reporting to the dispatcher."
Boikin glanced at his watch. "We haven't been here half an hour--you came directly here and didn't check for a tail."
"Oh, my Lord . . ."
Boikin jumped to his feet, rushed for the door, pistol in hand.