Echo Platoon - 07

by Richard Marcinko

  Then it was back to the bar for another Bombay, and a tactical overview of the room. It didn’t take long for me to pick up on the rhythms, either. In fact, it was kinda like looking at the ocean off the bridge of a big carrier. I watched eddies of socialites easing their way up and down the long, wide space, making sure they’d covered their bases by making contact with as many folks as they could, spending a few seconds with each—a kiss on each cheek, a smile, a knowing wink—then leaving ’em in their wake. There were half a dozen corner huggers, who’d come STO—simply to observe. There they were: drinking it all in, hungrily. But they wanted no part of full-contact party-going. And so they remained close to the reassuring safety of the walls and corners, watching from afar. There were lots of politicians and diplomats. Ambassador Madison, for one. She made her entrance like the fucking queen of the night, and spent a long, long time in earnest conversation with Steve Sarkesian, her fingers intertwined with his, playing the fucking “Moonlight Sonata” on his palm.

  I watched their faces as they played handsie-handsie. Then I saw the look on Mrs. Sarkesian’s face as she watched her hubby and Ambassador Madison try to play out their petit charade.

  Of course. Eureka. It was obvious from the look on her face. Wifey knew what was going on. Wifey knew that Steve-o was getting a little on the side. A little . . . foreign aid . . . from our benevolent Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary, Marybeth Madison.

  Then, having played fuckee-fingers and probably given Steve-o a nice stiff dick, Ms. Madison proceeded to work the room like a pro, displaying her ten-grand dental work and her twenty-grand tits to all and to sundry. You had to hand it to her. She was just as smooth and polished as any senator up for reelection as she smiled and tittered and laughed her way through the crowd, a quartet of tuxedoed Diplomatic Security Service agents surrounding her in a rough diamond pattern, clearing the path.

  Oh, she was a piece of work.

  But I didn’t have time to admire our good ambassador, because I wanted to eyeball the professionals here tonight. How did I know they were pros? I knew it just like I knew it in the Grand Europe Hotel lobby: because I am a fucking pro myself, and it takes one to know one.

  And it didn’t take me long to pick ’em out, either. Steve Sarkesian had his security people on duty. He’d brought ’em in from Paris, and they were smooth. Then there were the clods. To be precise, a TOC—a trio of clods—in badly tailored formal wear, who were elbowing and shouldering their way around as if they owned the place. By their moves, they obviously worked for Sirzhik, and they’d been assigned to keep an eye on moi, although they weren’t doing a very good job of it.

  The other two floaters were pros. One was a Sov—to be precise, a retarded57 KGB brigadier general named Oleg Lapinov. He was wearing civvies, and he’d shaved his head, making him look almost like a malignant Mr. Clean®, what with his puffy cotton-ball eyebrows and thick white handlebar mustache. But I still recognized his face, even from the ten-year-old DIA surveillance photos I’d been faxed. And lemme tell you, Oleg was no Mister Clean®. Not by a long shot. He was RBN—real bad news. He was in his seventies now, but he still had the stone killer look on his beat-up, round, perpetually red face. As a young KGB hood he’d actually worked for Uncle Joe Stalin, making political dissidents disappear in East Germany just after World War II. Later, he’d been part of the KGB’s advance group infiltrating Prague just before the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1956. In the 1970s, he’d run training camps for transnational terrorists right here in the Caucasus. In 1979, he’d been in charge of the Spetsnaz Alpha Team that assassinated the president of Afghanistan just prior to the Soviet invasion. In the 1980s, he’d directed a ruthless policy of extermination against Afghan mujahideen leaders.

  Now, he’d turned up once again—this time as the Kremlin’s chief advisor on oil policy in the former republics. Which is to say, it was his job to notch the trees out here in Baku so they’d fall in a direction that would benefit Moscow, not Washington or anyone else. To do that, according to the CIA’s RUMINT, he was Moscow’s liaison with the lovrushniki—which is KGB slang for the Georgian, Azeri, and Armenian Mafiyas. He told ’em how far they could go collecting dan, or protection money. He set the limits on how big a tusovka, or piece of the action, they could slice themselves. At least that’s what Jim Wink had told me when I’d asked who my opposition in Baku was.

  And where was Oleg baby? He was playing yin to my yang. When I went right, he went left. If I did the port side thing, he did starboard. When I went fore, he mirrored the move. It was like we were two magnets, working in polar opposite. I decided to have some fun with him, but before I could manage anything, one of the Parisian security guys pulled him out of the crowd and ushered him over to the edge of the room, where Stephan Sarkesian stood, a serious expression on his wolfish puss.

  I could tell from Oleg baby’s body language that he didn’t like being summoned. Well, that was in character. Generals, whether they’re KGB or USA, like to give orders, not take ’em.

  Hey, too fucking bad, Oleg. At least now I knew who really wore the stars on his shoulders. And then, as I looked on, Oleg and Steve were joined by the evening’s second heavyweight, a slightly built Iranian scumbag named Ali Sherafi, whose dour demeanor, monochromatic black clothes, thick dark beard, and greasy hair gave him the forbidding bearing of an Islamic fundamentalist funeral director. Which wasn’t actually too far from the truth.

  Oh, yeah. I recognized Ali Sherafi from his DIA mug shots. As a young “student,” Ali-baby had been part of the 1979 takeover of the American embassy in Tehran. But he was about as much of a student then as he was now. In point of fact, Ali Sherafi was one of the original members of Ayatollah Khomeini’s militant Sepa-e Pasadran—the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps. He was alleged to be in disfavor in Tehran. Only last year, the intel reports said, he’d tried to mount a coup against the current Iranian government because he thought its policy of rapprochement with the West was evil and antirevolutionary. But he still had a few rabbis left amongst the mullahs, and they had, according to the stories Iranian sources were floating, saved him from prison, and sent him into a kind of exile, as an “agricultural expert,” to consult with the governments of the Caspian region about improving grain exports to Iran.

  And if you believe that cover story, I have a real nice piece of oceanfront property to sell you. It is just outside Grenville, New Mexico.

  Something was rotten here—and we weren’t even in Denmark. And being of the enquiring mind personality type, I wanted to find out what that something was. But I wasn’t gonna do it by working the crowd. I was gonna do it, as you already know, by breaking into hostile territory, in this particular case Steve Sarkesian’s office, for a recon; a sneak; a peek; and a quick look-see, followed by a speedy burglary and a rapid escape.

  Now, if you are a student of these books, you know that it has been my experience in the past that assholes like Sarkesian are the sorts of egomaniacs who spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on security but then leave the computers in their offices turned on and unprotected by passwords. They have state-of-the-art electronic locks on their office safes—then stow important papers in their briefcases. But before I could accomplish any foray into hostile territory, I’d need to get rid of the TOC.

  How? By use of a ploy; a ruse; a machination? No—I’d need something more . . . subtle than that. I’d need a Roguish diversion. And some hot intel, too.

  9

  WHICH IS WHY I SAUNTERED BACK TO AVI AND, UNDER the cover of making nice-nice with Ashley, asked if he had any idea where our host’s office was. Avi gave me one of those “you’re not really gonna do this” looks, and when he realized I was serious, whispered the info I needed. You got to hand it to folks like Avi, who take their jobs seriously. The look on Ashley’s face told me that she wanted in on this little op. But I gave her a quick negatory glance. This had to be a solo excursion. She was unhappy with the news, but being a pro, she took it as well as
could be expected.

  Show Time. Intel in hand (okay, so it was in my head, but I’m being figurative), I hit the bar and requested a water tumbler full of Bombay on the rocks from the bartender. Then I slurped it loudly enough to cause nasty stares from the folks Avi’d called who’s and who’s, and nervous frowns from all the what’s and what’s in the vicinity. Then I shouldered (slurping all the way) to the buffet table and meandered down its considerable length, asking for (and receiving) huge portions of pasta, bloody rare roast beef, beluga caviar, smoked Caspian sturgeon, and that ever-popular mayonnaise-based potato salad beloved by folks all over this region.

  I grabbed one of the huge, starched linen napkins arranged at the end of the table, unfurled it, shook it one-handed, and tucked it into my collar so I wouldn’t dribble anything on my tie in an ungentle-manly fashion. I sunk the water tumbler of Bombay right in the pile of perfectly prepared al dente spaghetti alla carbonara that sat dead center on my plate. Then, I plucked a large and very au jus–sy chunk of roast beef from the platter and got most of it into my mouth before the blood started—oops—dripping jus down my chin.

  No matter. I jus’ chewed away as, balancing the top-heavy plate somewhat precariously, and nodding and smiling all the way, I pushed back into the center of the room, right in the smack-dab middle of the crowd of black-tied swells, socialites, and pols.

  Which is where I began to eat my dinner. Have I mentioned that I hadn’t bothered to obtain any silverware? Well, I hadn’t. And so, making polite yet Roguishly risqué conversation to all and sundry as I went, I proceeded to consume everything on my plate at flank speed, nodding and smiling and inhaling my food, all the time watching as guests around me scattered in horror.

  Why were they scattering? Because they didn’t want to be covered in the food I was inhaling.

  Yes, inhaling. Yes, literally.

  Now, as those of you who have been with me from the very start already know, I spent my youth as an enlisted geek in the Teams, which is shorthand for what used to be known as Underwater Demolition Teams, or UDT. There, as a member of Everett Emerson Barrett’s Second (to None) Platoon, UDT Team 21, one of my duties was to make sure that our platoon always ate together. This was not always possible aboard ship during our six-month deployments. You see, there is a rigid caste system onboard ships under way. (Shit, there is even a rigid caste system onboard ships at anchor.) And that caste system put us Frogs at the bottom of the food chain. Which meant we slept, showered, shit, and ate only after everyone else, including the Marines, had done so. And you know how Frogs feel about Marines, don’t you?

  No? Well, Frogs love Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children. They love to make olive drab–colored toothpaste out of ’em. They love to wipe floors with ’em. You get the idea.

  Now, so far as eating goes, the fact that we were LTWS58 meant we couldn’t take our meals as a group but had to squeeze ourselves in one by one at whatever table at the enlisted men’s mess deck was partially open. Chief Barrett didn’t like that at all, and so he hinted very strongly that I, and another Second (to None) platoon sailor, Mr. Mugs, regularly clear out a table on the enlisted mess deck so that our entire platoon could eat together.

  Mr. Mugs and I developed the following Froggishly understated routine. We’d grab our plates, piling ’em high with food—specifics and food groups unimportant just so long as there was a lot of it—and then we’d sit down and eat. Sans utensils. Sans manners. Sans any civilized behavior whatsofuckingever. For example, it didn’t take long until I got adept at sucking peas up my nose, and slurping spaghetti through my nostrils. If that didn’t gross the tablemates out, we’d move ’em out by snorting honkers into each other’s coffee and drinking ’em. The desired result took only a few days. In fact, by the end of the first week at sea, all I had to do was walk onto the enlisted mess deck and pick up a tray, and a couple of tables would just fuckin’ clear out—even the Marines.

  I can report to you that the art of sucking spaghetti through the Roguish nose is like riding a bike: once you learn how, it’s easy to pick up again, even after many, many years.

  And so, I worked the crowd. It didn’t take too long—not more than ten minutes or so—until my diversion began to take its desired effect. Of course, I played the innocent. I adopted a puzzled glance as who’s and what’s melted away at my approach. Finally, I cornered a woman in a strapless, sapphire blue evening dress, draped in the sorts of diamonds you see in fashion magazines that cost about ten bucks a copy. Now, for the life of me I couldn’t understand why she looked at me so weirdly. I mean, what was so bad about three inches of spaghetti No. 12, dripping with raw egg and cheese, sticking out of my left nostril?

  Well, if she was going to react like that—I simply snorted the offending pasta up and out of the way, put my finger to my opposite nostril to shut it down, then cleared the excess egg and cheese by blowing ’em (“Oops, sorry, lady”) onto the ample bosom of her gown.

  I reached over to wipe the egg off, but the goo on my hands did even more damage.

  Her hubby, a short rotund number who had a face like a pug dog I know named Tuffy, stepped between the wifey and me, his pushed-in face all red and offended, and said something I couldn’t quite understand. I think he was speaking Turkish. WTF. He could have been speaking Greek.

  I shrugged, smiled as broadly as I could, stuffed a pair of peas up my nose, and inhaled. “Hey, food’s great, huh?”

  No answer. Well, according to Miss Manners, when there’s a lull in the conversation, it’s high time to move on.

  I saw another target of opportunity across the ballroom and fired a shot across her bow. “Madam Ambassador—”

  I watched her as I hove to. Even though I don’t find the woman attractive, I gotta tell you, I can see why there were rumors for years that Marybeth Madison and the Leader of the Free World have been making the Beast with Two Backs (as Iago once called it) whenever the first lady was out of town and Mizz Madison found a way to leave her billionaire husband back in Texas and visit her pal BJ Bill in Washington. The woman is tall, well put together (even statuesque), and has the sort of command presence common to four-star flag officers, Fortune 500 CEOs, and Park Avenue doyennes. The problem was, that beneath that artfully crafted and well-maintained veneer of aristocracy and obvious wealth, lay a much thicker stratum of something else; a dark, manipulative, perhaps even vicious nature that made her—at least to me—sinister, repulsive, and forbidding.

  As I approached, she regarded me with the sort of penile-withering arched eyebrow sneer that actually does render some types of men impotent for days. But her face darkened in anger as she realized that she was looking at someone with a much more permanent hard-on than Clinton. That’s when the ambassador took in the whole package of moi: the soiled napkin tucked under my beard, the glass of Bombay Sapphire with greasy fingerprints all around shoved in the pile of pasta, and the many fragments of food woven into my facial hair. Her expression was even more fucking kaleidoscopic than Steve-o’s had been. As she observed each messy element of my appearance, her face transmogrified: displeasure morphed to aversion; aversion was transfigured to repulsion. And repulsion became simple, cold hatred.

  I, of course, paid no outward attention whatsoever. I smiled—my teeth covered in crushed beluga—and wiped egg from my nose. “Is this a great fuckin’ party or what?”

  That sent her over the edge. “You are a total disgrace to your country,” she hissed as she slowly and carefully backed away, putting distance between us. “And I will make sure that Washington learns about this . . . performance.” With that, she turned on her heel and stalked off, her security detail parting the crowd so that she could make her escape.

  In response, I shrugged, lifted my messy tumbler of gin, and drained it, allowing a fair amount of Bombay to run out the sides of my mouth, down my chin, through my beard, and into my collar. I wiped at my face with my sleeve. I’d been at this game for almost half an hour now, and frankly, it was getting OLD. Not t
o mention the fact that getting all this shit cleaned off my bespoke blazer was going to cost me the old arm and the old leg. But expenses be damned. I was also getting the desired results, to wit, I was being pointedly ignored by the crowd of swells, who turned away whenever I drew close.

  You want more evidence my act was working? Okay, right now, even as I’m speaking, the TOC Steve Sarkesian had detailed to watch me was breaking contact. In fact, they were being waved out of the room by Miss Ivana, who now looked at me with undisguised loathing. I waved at her and blew a food-stained kiss. She chose to ignore my messy-faced smile, whirled on a Miss Piggy ankle, and departed.

  And what about Steve Sarkesian? I worked my way to starboard. He was deep in conversation with Ambassador Madison. There is a SEAL technical term for her emotional state. It is, pissed off. She was reading him the fucking riot act. And guess what: he was taking it. That’s what pussy will do to you, friends. It will whip your ass. And Steve Sarkesian was obviously pussy-whipped, when it came to matters Madison, because he was simply nodding his head up and down like one of those toy dogs you used to see in the rear windows of Buick sedans and Olds 98s.

  Then, all of a sudden, Ambassador Madison was done—done with Steve, and done with the evening’s programme. She gathered her security minions around her and swept into the night, leaving him standing there like a fool, sputtering.

  His reaction, when he realized I was looking at him cross-eyed, was to motion Oleg Lapinov and Ali Sherafi up close, and gesture in my direction. From the expression on his face, he was probably saying something negative about me.