Heart of a Russian Bear Dog

by M. L. Buchman

  How Ripper didn’t snap his own spine with how fast he turned was a testament to the flexibility of a Malinois. Carlton on the other hand had jumped beautifully…and had his FN P90 submachine gun more than half-raised before he’d stopped himself.

  “Hey, buddy,” he squeaked happily for Valentin’s sake. “Remember to ignore me in the future when I tell you to surprise an armed Secret Service officer? Okay? Especially one who happens to be my new boss.”

  Valentin wagged his tail in answer with great thumps against Alex’s shoulder as he kept his head outside. By protocol, Valentin was supposed to ride in back behind the cage screen, but where was the fun in that?

  Alex twisted enough to glance through the tinted rear windows. Tanya looked as if she was laughing hard enough to split a gut. Carlton looked ready to kill a bear…or at least a Russian bear dog’s handler.

  Good on one front, but bad on another. He really had to learn to think first.

  Past 30th Street, they were almost to the Georgetown Veterinary Hospital. Back in college, he could always spot a library long before anyone else when he passed through a town. And he knew the location of every used bookstore within a hundred miles of San Francisco that had even the tiniest Russian language collection.

  Now, he could pick out every veterinarian emergency clinic long before anyone else. Thank God Valentin had never needed one, but he’d memorized all the big ones and most of the smaller ones in DC during the drive east just in case there was ever a need.

  Close before the hospital, outside a coffee shop, were an unlikely pair of men.

  Alex wasn’t sure why they were unlikely, but they were and he’d been trained to trust that instinct.

  He looked again, but they hadn’t spotted him—despite the massive dog head sticking out the passenger window of a black, government-issued SUV.

  No.

  Their attention was locked down the block to the west. Except they were being careful not to show it. Quick glances, then turning away.

  There was no line waiting to get into the coffee shop, yet neither man held a to-go cup. Instead their hands were jammed into their jacket pockets.

  They might just be cold—the day hadn’t warmed much past freezing since this morning’s workout at JJRTC—and waiting for a friend. Or they might be clutching weapons.

  A spot opened half a block up, and he pulled in as normally as he could, while not looking wholly away from the two men.

  At his signal, Valentin followed him out the driver’s side. They stayed to the street side of the parked cars. Here M Street was a busy four-lane plus packed parking on either side. Narrow shops in old two-story brick. They were bare brick or painted white, yellow, or gray. About every fourth building had a three-sided bay window jutting out into the sidewalk, including the vet hospital.

  He was starting to draw ire from the drivers, so he quickly cut in between a Mercedes and a rusting Pontiac sedan—the only kind left—crossed the sidewalk, and got the veterinarian’s bay window between him and the possible targets.

  Through the bay, where someone was clutching a schnauzer as they sat in one of the waiting room chairs, he could see the backs of the two men. They still hadn’t turned in his direction.

  Down the block, Carlton and Tanya had started to cross the street to begin the coffee shop’s block. Ripper was still scanning side to side, but Carlton had gone slack. It wasn’t a big change in a Secret Service officer, but Alex knew the feeling. Too long on patrol. How pissed he was at the new guy from the West Coast. Or even just the momentary thought about how good a fresh cup of coffee would taste…or about the remarkably beautiful woman striding alongside him.

  Whatever it was, neither he nor his dog had yet twigged that they might be walking into a trap set half a block ahead.

  Alex circled the bay window, signaling Valentin to heel closely, and came up behind the pair.

  Having no leash to carry opened up his options. He casually rested his hand on the FN P90 across his chest as if steadying it. He also placed his other hand on the weapon he was most likely to use on a crowded city street: the butt of his taser.

  At the last second, he had a crazy idea.

  From a safe four paces back he called out in easygoing Russian, “Beautiful day, isn’t it, guys?”

  “Da.” One replied before turning to look at him. “Der’mo!”

  Shit! indeed, dude. Caught ya.

  His buddy turned, took one glance at the USSS emblazoned across Alex’s vest, or perhaps it was the submachine gun, and echoed his buddy’s curse.

  Before Alex could take the next action, a pair of hipsters came out of the coffee shop clutching their afternoon lattes.

  The two perps took advantage of the situation and dove into the coffee shop, slamming the door behind them.

  The moment the hipsters were clear, he called out “Aport!” Fetch!

  Valentin ran into the door—and bounced off the thick Lexan security glass, though Alex could hear the old wooden frame cracking.

  His dog reared back to throw his shoulder into it.

  Alex managed to reach over and twist the doorknob just before Valentin struck. The door slammed open with a loud crash, but didn’t shatter. Cries of surprise sounded inside.

  He could see by the flurry that the two perps had bolted for the back.

  He and Valentin were hot on their heels. Bolting under the flip-top counter, Valentin barely had to duck—he himself flipped up the countertop—past the three baristas that Valentin had brushed aside, and into the small rear prep area.

  A manager was peeking out of a cubby office and just pointed in the direction the two men had run.

  Alex had trained Valentin to hit the crash bar on metal doors, and it too slammed aside.

  There were several cars double-parked in the small space off the alley. Cheap and old enough that they were probably the baristas’ vehicles.

  A hard squeal of tires, and he saw a white rental take off. He memorized the plate, but doubted if it would lead anywhere useful.

  Ripper, closely followed by Carlton, raced into the near end of the alley just as the white rental shot out the far one. He was glad to see that Carlton had a hand firmly clenched around Tanya’s arm, not leaving her behind to be someone else’s target.

  “Saw you go for them,” Carlton puffed out as the three of them met under the alley’s lone tree. The two dogs sniffed around, but the scent trail ended at the sharp black marks of the spinning tires.

  “Two guys, watching your approach. Must be a third as a driver.” Alex pulled out a radio and called in to the command center to mobilize District of Columbia police, search traffic cams, and start an immediate trace on the plate.

  They promised him a call back quickly.

  He turned to Tanya. “You okay, Ms. Larina?”

  6

  Was she okay?

  Tanya rubbed her arm where Carlton’s hard grip had dragged her into a run.

  Was she okay?

  “Someone has just tried to kidnap me—”

  She saw the glance between the two agents.

  “—or worse. No, I’m not okay. Ya rozlyuchenyy!”

  “What did she just say?” Carlton was looking at Alex.

  “Not sure. It was Ukrainian, which only kinda carries over to Russian. Is rozluychenyy like yarostnyy or more like…”

  “I’m pissed!” Tanya shouted in English.

  “She’s pissed,” he told Carlton as if discussing the damned weather, then signaled his dog to return to his side.

  The manager peered out the back door and Carlton went over to reassure him.

  “There’s something you should know,” Alex said to her softly. “They spoke, and cursed, in Russian.”

  Tanya knew what that meant. “Der’mo.”

  “That’s exactly what they said,” he nodded after the car. “Like your new scarf, by the way. Really catches the blue of your eyes.”

  “Timoshenko’s portrait had dark eyes.” Though she had no idea why she w
as turning him back to that topic.

  “True. But Liv Tyler in the movie has blue eyes. Your hair matches hers and the portrait’s.”

  “The movie. I didn’t even think of the movie.” She groaned. But being compared to a movie actress who had modeled for Givenchy for over a decade made being upset difficult.

  His phone rang.

  “Ohranyai!” Alex told his dog as he pointed at her, then walked over to Carlton as he answered the phone.

  Valentin sifted to full Guard mode, standing between her and the route the attackers had escaped by. He stayed on his feet and scanned the area. Ripper had returned to his master.

  She rubbed Valentin’s head for comfort. He sighed happily, but was no less vigilant.

  Damn Father for being right. He’d said it was unsafe for her to come to Washington, DC a full week before the treaty signing. But she was not going to be some gilded bird in a cage!

  Any alliance of Ukraine with the Americans was going to be bad for the Russians. Even worse for them, it was a trade alliance with the Turks as well. It was only a first step. If Ukraine could slowly work with the Turks, at first through the Americans before starting a more direct relationship, they could slowly tighten passage of the Bosporus Strait through Istanbul. If they did, it just might be possible to eventually have the Turks cut off the Russian’s access from the Black Sea to the entire Mediterranean. Once that was achieved, then maybe the Russians would lose interest in the Crimea and it could once more be their own homeland. Then the Russians could be made to choke on the Don River and be restricted to their long, icy path to the Baltic.

  It was just the first step in a very long endgame. But it was one she was glad to play. She would make them pay for the loss of so many of her comrades in the 95th Air Assault, of her hearing, and of the Crimea…pretty much in that order.

  She must have worried the Russians more than she’d expected.

  Good!

  Worried enough to try and kill her?

  Maybe not so good. It was something Russians tended to be very good at.

  Carlton had clearly thought this was going to be some routine guard duty. Luckily for her, Alex had not.

  But she’d be damned if she’d turn into some tremulous country maid afraid of her own shadow.

  In all honesty, they didn’t have reason to be that afraid of her. The chances of this actually working were very slim even if she had to try.

  And how had the Russians known she’d chosen to walk? Because she often did, even in Kyiv winters…or because someone had told them.

  A lookout on the street?

  A Russian sympathizer at the embassy? She’d alert Tomas and he’d get to the bottom of it, if that was the problem.

  Carlton had been with her.

  But why had Alex been so far behind them?

  She’d taken over half an hour with her walking and window shopping to come this single kilometer from the embassy. Her goal today had been to get the lay of the land and see the American capital. She’d go to work tomorrow.

  Had Alex perhaps taken time to call in a couple of his buddies to lurk and then be chased off? Some arrogant male showoff trick to put his partner down? Did their escape from a Russian bear dog seem that likely? They’d only been a few steps away from Alex when they dashed into the storefront. Carlton had dragged her around the corner before she could see how quickly—or slowly—Alex followed.

  Maybe Carlton was right and Sergeant Alex Warren lived to a different standard.

  When he and Carlton returned from their phone call, she ignored Alex.

  “Well? What did they learn?”

  Carlton answered. “The car went missing from the Embassy of New Zealand this morning. They dumped it six blocks from here and disappeared. These guys were pros and knew right where the traffic cams were. All we ever got were the backs of their heads. One went into Trader Joe’s, a grocery store, another strolled into the Westin hotel lobby and disappeared, the last one may have taken the subway.”

  Okay, perhaps it wasn’t something that Sergeant Alex Warren had arranged on a whim. But he still had to answer for calling her Pushkin’s tragic heroine.

  7

  “Well, I found a hell of a lot of ways to piss off our fearless leader on my first day.”

  Bethany had called him up and offered to drag him out for a welcome-to-DC beer. To offset today, Alex probably needed five or six.

  They met at seven at a packed bar called the Wet Dog Tavern a mile or so north of the White House. She’d said to bring his dog. The owners had been charmed…and Valentin’s sheer size had won them a corner table.

  The instant Alex saw Flying Dog’s UnderDog gold lager, he’d ordered it. A beer named to fit his foul mood. It would be perfect, except he actually liked the beer.

  Valentin was now sprawled at his feet, fast asleep. To finish off the afternoon, they’d gone for a long run around the Mall and through the first layer of back streets for familiarization.

  On their arrival here at the tavern, his dog hadn’t cared about Bethany or her dog at all. Even after two weeks working together in San Francisco, Valentin had grown no closer to either one. Not a threat? Not a problem. That was his apparent assessment. Very different from his reaction to Tatyana Larina.

  Trixie curled up in a neat ball, carefully not too close to Valentin, and watched him intently rather than sleeping. She clearly remembered the bear dog’s hard growl from this morning.

  “Yeah, you two did a number on poor old Ripper this morning out at JJRTC. Carlton was so stirred up; he gave that poor dog half the signals wrong.” And had earned their team the lowest course score of the day. Bethany was very amused, even if her dog still looked worried.

  “Then we missed the perps,” Alex just couldn’t seem to stop grinding over each misstep in his head. “Really not a good day. Captain Baxter was not pleased.” He’d spent a long hour in the White House Secret Service room in the West Wing. He’d never been to the White House, but all he saw was the guarded door to the Situation Room and the tight-packed cubie-land occupied by the USSS. Baxter had grilled him on every detail and every second of the encounter, right down to having Valentin “speak” at Lieutenant Carlton Tibbets.

  “He’s never pleased, by anything.” Bethany had not ordered an UnderDog. She’d gotten a Kona’s Big Wave lager as if she was riding high. Really easy to picture her as an ultra-fit blonde surfer gal—she had the look down even in DC-winter gear. Of course, being from West Virginia made that assessment unlikely.

  “Certainly not by me.” When she offered, they tasted each other’s beer. Hers was all bright with life and hope. She’d merely said, “Nice” about his rather than some deserved remark on UnderDog’s total appropriateness.

  “One of the other pointy-ears…”

  Handlers were identified by their dogs.

  “…thinks that they found Baxter when they originally dug out the West Wing Basement. He says that they must have built the USSS offices right around him. Baxter takes his White House dogs very seriously.”

  “But I’m not a White House dog. I’m Uniformed Division.”

  “Baxter doesn’t care. He’s technically head of White House UD, not for all of DC, but he doesn’t care. You’re in DC, you handle a dog, you’re his.”

  Alex stayed with the dogs and studied his beer while Bethany went and fetched their burgers. The bar didn’t have a kitchen, but instead had a tiny independent burger stand in the corner. The guy offered just three different burgers, and all they came with was potato chips. Didn’t matter.

  Carlton hadn’t been happy about him making the play on his own. But if he’d called to Carlton, what would he have done? Exposed his protectee even more?

  Baxter hadn’t been happy that he hadn’t called for backup. As if there’d been time.

  And Tatyana Larina appeared to just be pissed at him in general…somehow blaming him for the bad scrape he’d pointed out on her brand-new purse.

  “Hell of a first day,” Bethany said
as she dropped their plates on the table. Four of them, two with fully dressed burgers and chips and two with just patties. “Maybe these will cure that sour look.”

  “They’re all mine?” Because they did smell damn good.

  “Dream on, West Coast.” Then she shoved over one of two plates with just a patty on it. She set hers in on the floor for Trixie and he did the same for Valentin.

  Valentin woke up long enough to swallow his—he didn’t appear to even bite it. Trixie at least took two or three bites before licking her lips and looking around to see if more burgers were falling from heaven.

  “You’re a good person, Bethany Wilson.”

  “That’s Sergeant Wilson to the likes of you.” She smiled as she bit into her burger.

  He matched her.

  Damn. Seriously good. A beer and a good burger with a knock-out blonde dog handler. His mood was getting better already.

  “And don’t get that look.”

  “What look?” Did he have a look?

  “You might be ever so purdy, but you’re not my type,” Bethany mumbled around a mouthful of burger.

  “What is your type?” Because she was hella cute. Even if he was thinking of a certain Ukrainian… No! He so was not doing that.

  “You got a mirror?”

  “Not with me.”

  “Next time you find one, look in it.”

  “And…” he prompted when she didn’t continue.

  This time her smile was evil. “Then you’ll see what’s not my type.”

  Dogs. He understood dogs. He’d stick with that.

  Then he looked down at Valentin and recalled how his notoriously standoffish companion, even by Russian bear dog standards, had looked at him reproachfully this afternoon when he’d called him off guard duty and returned to his truck without Ms. Larina.

  Nope. He didn’t understand dogs either.

  At least the burger was good and the beer seemed to fit. UnderDog—just bloody perfect.

  8

  Tanya scowled out through the peephole of her hotel room door.